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ladynestaarcheron · 3 years

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“Fae fertility cycles had never been something I’d considered, and explaining them to Nesta and Elain had been uncomfortable, to say the least.

Nesta had only stared at me in that unblinking, cold way. Elain had blushed, muttering about the impropriety of such things.” A Court of Frost and Starlight, page 45.

So…Elain doesn’t want to talk about periods. Where ever did Feyre, a girl who lost her mother when she was eight, learn about hers? I wonder...and thus this was born.

---

Nesta's loved stories all her life, but she doesn't think she'll ever be able to write one, because whenever she tries to in her head, this is what she comes up with: Once upon a time there were three beautiful princesses who lived in a beautiful castle. Then their mother died and their father lost all their money and they had to move into a rundown little cottage on the edge of town. The end.

Sometimes, when the night is quiet and she has time to think, she puts a bit more effort into it. Swaps the beautiful for different adjectives that fit each of the three of them in turn (clever, kind, creative, when she is feeling generous, cold, silly, and hopeless when she is less so), and describes the castle in more detail. Carved from the earth itself is a phrase she rather likes, although she's not sure it would make for a pretty home and it definitely isn't true, anyway.

Tonight is particularly quiet, because Elain has been asleep for hours and Feyre still has not come to bed, so Nesta takes her time in her mind to write something that might be worthy of putting to paper one day. Perhaps it's time she comes up with a different beginning than once upon a time...

Nesta's internal narration, however, is sharply cut off with a crash and a stumble. Elain stirs slightly next to her, but does not wake.

"For goodness' sake," she hisses, sitting upright. "What on earth are you making all that racket--"

Her castigating falters when she catches sight of her youngest sister's face. The moonlight spilling in the room catches on the silver in Feyre's eyes, the tears streaming down her face. She's shaking.

Nesta pushes the blanket off of her and crawls out of bed to meet her. "What is it?" she asks, tightening the tie of Feyre's nightgown. She's not quite sure what to do. If Feyre cries about their mother or their, well, life, she does it to Elain or Father, and only when Nesta cannot see. And Elain always goes to Father, so it's been quite some time since Nesta's had to comfort anyone but herself.

"I think I'm dying," Feyre whispers, voice cracking, and Nesta's heart lurches. Typhus? Like their mother? Oh, and they do not have nearly the same amount they had when Mother was sick; what medicines will they be able to afford? Because so much of it was spent on Father's leg--not that he's ever attempted to earn any of it back, of course, and now it's twelve-year-old Feyre who'll have to suffer for it.

Still. Best not to scare the child any further.

"What do you mean?" Nesta says, making her voice calm.

"I have a terrible headache," Feyre says, wrapping her arms tightly around herself, "and the worst stomach pains of my life and my back, too--"

Nesta's breath stops in her lungs. All the symptoms of typhus Mother had, except for the rash. All the forgotten gods. What are they going to do? Should she wake Elain and Father for this? She should, shouldn't she? But what good will that do? Are they all to sit by Feyre's side and wait for her to die?

"--and I'm bleeding."

Nesta blinks at that. Mother had had a cough, sometimes, but very dry; no blood at all. "You're bleeding?"

Feyre can't answer vocally. She only nods.

Nesta gives her a once over. She doesn't see any blood. "Did you fall?" she asks, puzzled. "Where is the blood?"

The room is too dark to tell, but Nesta thinks Feyre's cheeks flush. "I didn't fall...it's--I'm--it's under my nightgown."

"Well, sit down and lift it up, so I may have a look."

"No," Feyre says, clutching herself tighter still. "It's...you won't know what to do. You cannot...it's between my legs," she blurts out, and clenches her hands into fists as she tries to control her sobs.

Relief crashes over Nesta, as violently as the grief of her mother's death. Along with a bit of guilt--she had not realized she should warn Feyre about cycles. Elain had merely come to her one day, red-faced and squeaking about where Nesta kept the linens, and she had shown her. But she had known about it all--well, Nesta is not quite sure Elain is very well aware of sex, but at any rate...

"You're not going to die, Feyre," she says, awkwardly patting her sister on the shoulder. "Come here. I'll draw you a bath."

"You..." Feyre says, sniffling slightly, "you know what to do?"

"I do," she says, and turns so her sister can undress and slip into the tub. They're not going to be able to afford hot water soon, are they? What'll they do then? Boil it in the fireplace? "All right, stay here and calm down. I'm going to get you something to help you settle."

Nesta makes her way to the kitchen, heating up some tea for Feyre and putting a small bit of brandy in as well. Just a little bit, to help her fall asleep. She supposes they'll need to have more poppy and willow bark on hand for pain now, if Feyre'll be having back aches as well as cramps.

Feyre is submerged underneath the water by the time Nesta returns. She hands her the tea and sits on the floor by the bath. "All right," she says, half wishing this had fallen to Elain, half grateful on Feyre's behalf that it is not their silly sister explaining this. "Well. I suppose you have not heard about cycles."

Feyre thinks. "I...suppose not."

Nesta's lips quirk. She should just say it. "You know how pregnancies start."

It is again too dark to be certain, but Feyre reddens, she thinks. "I--I have not--"

"No, no, I know you haven't," Nesta says, vaguely wondering where Feyre has learned about sex. She decides she does not want to know. "At any rate. Before...that, a girl's body needs to be ready. For pregnancy. So every month, the body goes through a cycle. And at the end of the cycle--" or is it the beginning? Nesta can never remember. "--you bleed. And you can feel cramps or back aches or headaches or any of the life...for a few days."

"How many days?" Feyre asks, fingers tightly holding onto the cup.

"Depends. Elain's is three. Mine is five. Sometimes it can be different...especially in the beginning."

"The beginning?"

"Now. For you. Your first few cycles, I mean."

"How many will there be?" she asks.

Nesta shrugs. "I don't know...once every month until you can't bear children any longer. So around..." Feyre is twelve, this should last till she's around fifty... "four hundred fifty, give or take."

Feyre's eyes widen. "Four hundred and fifty?"

"Well, don't think about it that way," Nesta says hastily, realizing how morbid that sounds. "Just...track your months as they come. You'll barely think of it in a year from now."

Feyre sips her tea. "I never knew you and Elain..."

"Well, it's not something you can really tell. It's not like your skin changes color or anything." She adopts a more timid tone. "It's...all right. Really. I'll bring you some stuff for pain tomorrow. And it should get better. Each day is easier than the last, and by the time your grown, it'll probably hurt less, too." Nesta's only fifteen herself, so she's not entirely sure that's true, but it's what Mother told her. "Anyway. Baths help. And they're good to rid the blood...oh. I'll show you how to put on linens..."

After Nesta has wrapped Feyre's under things and crawled back into bed, her mind wanders once again to her story. What if the ending were different this time? Somehow. The mother not dying, perhaps. How would that go? If they were all in the rundown little cottage together?

Before the words have faded from Nesta's mind and sleep claims her, the bathroom door opens once again. Feyre shuffles out and into bed, taking her place on Elain's other side.

"Thank you, Nesta," she whispers, voice soft and still watery from her scare.

"It's okay," she says back, softly. It's not quite a proper reply, is it? But perhaps it's what she needs to hear, anyway.

She'll wake early and rouse Elain, she decides. Tell her to extend some extra kindness to Feyre...and that should be all right. Not a perfect ending. But maybe a little better then what might've been, too.

#acotar #acotar fanfic #did someone say sisterly love and bonding and healing coming to an acosf near you february 2021????#i am pumped and ready #anyway this is literally canon like if elain can't talk about periods as a 20something #she definitely couldn't when she was a teenager #so feyre got this talk from nesta #awww remember when you were nervous about your first period?#and when it was still embarrassing to talk about?#little teenagers with their self consciousness about their bodily functions<3

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hamliet · 4 years

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Am I My Brother’s Keeper?: Nie Mingjue and Jiang Cheng

Or, how the two most virulent Wen-haters in the story tragically mirror each other in far more ways than just their issues with the Wens.

I’ve written about MDZS’s use of character trios as a narrative structure before (here and here). In this meta I’m going to talk about the main three and the Venerated Triad. I’ve also written before about how Lan Xichen and Jin Guangyao’s relationship (however you interpret it) parallels Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian’s, with Lan Xichen as a strong Lan Wangji foil (fitting, as they are the “Twin Jades”), and Jin Guangyao as a strong Wei Wuxian foil (as Wei Wuxian himself acknowledges in the story’s final chapter). So let’s talk about the third member of these trios: Nie Mingjue and Jiang Cheng, who also closely foil each other... in particular, through their respective relationships with Jin Guangyao and Wei Wuxian.

But wait, you say. Jin Guangyao killed Nie Mingjue, which parallels Jiang Cheng killing Wei Wuxian!

True. There are some parallels between Jiang Cheng and Jin Guangyao (such as JC killing WWX to avenge JYL, even though she wouldn’t have wanted that, and JGY doing it when NMJ hurts NHS, even though NHS adored NMJ), as well as between Chengxian and Xiyao, but this is not a meta about those specifically.

Nie Mingjue tried to kill Jin Guangyao in life (twice), and actually does do so in the end, and Jiang Cheng helped kill Wei Wuxian even if he did not do it directly. The reason both Nie Mingjue and Jiang Cheng were able to treat their brothers like this was because of their immense privilege, the privilege neither acknowledge until it is time to weaponize it. In those moments, both chose not to empathize but to see their brothers as an “other” instead of as someone they loved (and I do think both Nie Mingjue and Jiang Cheng loved Jin Guangyao and Wei Wuxian in a realistic, flawed way). In the otherizing of their brothers, both Nie Mingjue and Jiang Cheng put on robes displaying society’s flaws as blatantly as Sect Leader Yao does, but with a lot more humanity than the flat, static Sect Leader Yao. Thus, MXTX tells us we cannot even “other” society as a whole.

If this sounds like I’m hating on either character, I’m really not intending to. They’re great characters and I enjoy both of them (Jiang Cheng’s one of my very favorites), but they’re flawed, and in fact that’s the whole reason I like them. But I do admit this essay will be scathing to an extent; just know it doesn’t touch on my whole opinion of their characters, and isn’t meant to excuse Wei Wuxian (who had a savior complex) and Jin Guangyao (who sought society’s approval to his own doom); I’ve just previously excoriated those two.

I. Defining Justice as Trauma

Nie Mingjue and Jiang Cheng both lost their fathers to Wen Ruohan (as did the Lan brothers), and both vowed to wipe out the Wens as a result. However, both of them fail to think about the Wens as people, and wind up, well, becoming eerily similar to the worst Wens.

Jiang Cheng has lived through the pain of losing everything (status, family, home) and he not only refuses compassion for the two Wens who saved him so that he could fight to get those things back, but inflicts the same traumas on them. In fact, Jiang Cheng’s reaction to Wen Qing’s predicament post-Sunshot campaign is paralleled explicitly with Nie Mingjue’s:

Jiang Cheng’s brows were knitted. He rubbed the vein that throbbed at his temple and soundlessly took in a deep breath, “… I apologize to all of the Sect Leaders. Everyone, I’m afraid you don’t know that the Wen cultivator whom Wei WuXian wanted to save was called Wen Ning. We owe him and his sister Wen Qing gratitude for what happened during the Sunshot Campaign.”

Nie MingJue, “You owe them gratitude? Isn’t the QishanWen Sect the ones who caused the YunmengJiang Sect’s annihilation?”

...

Lan XiChen responded a moment later, “I have heard of Wen Qing’s name a few of times. I do not remember her having participated in any of the Sunshot Campaign’s crimes.”

Nie MingJue, “But she’s never stopped them either.”

Lan XiChen, “Wen Qing was one of Wen RuoHan’s most trusted people. How could she have stopped them?”

Nie MingJue spoke coldly, “If she responded with only silence and not opposition when the Wen Sect was causing mayhem, it’s the same as indifference. She shouldn’t have been so disillusioned as to hope that she could be treated with respect when the Wen Sect was doing evil and be unwilling to suffer the consequences and pay the price when the Wen Sect was wiped out.”

Lan XiChen knew that because of what happened to his father, Nie MingJue abhorred Wen-dogs more than anything, especially with how intolerable he was toward evil. Lan XiChen didn’t say anything else.

There’s a lot of irony in this. Wen Qing didn’t speak up because she wanted to protect her little brother--something Nie Mingjue should have been able to relate to, considering he sent Huaisang to safety in the Cloud Recesses during the war. Also, I mean, Nie Mingjue, you didn’t exactly rise up against Wen Ruohan until you knew you had the forces to win. He likely spent several years in begrudging deference to him, even sending Nie Huaisang along as tribute when Wen Chao demanded it. Jiang Cheng starts to do the right thing in this scene by speaking honestly about Wen Qing, but then Nie Mingjue reminds him of society and propriety, and Jiang Cheng backs down, crushed under society again. Both of them commit sins of omission, in that they stand back and allow society to belittle and vilify people.

The “sins of omission” is a motif that continues in both Nie Mingjue’s and Jiang Cheng’s arcs. For example, Jiang Cheng stood by to let Mianmian be brutally killed in the cave of the Xuanwu of Slaughter, and even stood by to let Lan Wangji and Jin Zixuan die too as they protected her. He goes on to blame Wei Wuxian for the deaths of his family because of Wei Wuxian saving them. Nie Mingjue keeps the truth about the saber spirit from Nie Huaisang, and additionally, the very same conversation about Wen Qing referenced above, Nie Mingjue is directly stated to know Jin Guangyao is lying to help his father, and he says nothing at all even though Wei Wuxian’s life hung in the balance. (It then karmically backfires on Jin Guangyao).

Jin GuangYao came to save the day, exclaiming, “Really? That day, Young Master Wei busted into Koi Tower with such force. He said too many things, one more shocking than the next. Perhaps he said a few things that were along those lines. I can’t remember them either.”

... As soon as he heard it, Nie MingJue knew that he was fibbing on purpose, frowning slightly.

...

One of the sect leaders added, “...Excuse my bluntness, but he’s the son of a servant. How could the son of a servant be so arrogant?”

With him having brought up the ‘son of a servant’, naturally there’d be some who connected it to the ‘son of a prostitute’ standing in the hall. Jin GuangYao clearly noticed the unkind stares.

While Nie Mingjue is quick to accuse Wen Qing for her inaction but languid with his own, this isn’t exactly unique. He also is quick to accuse Jin Guangyao of standing by as Jin Guangshan manipulates to acquit Xue Yang for his crimes against the Chang Clan. (I’m not defending Jin Guangshan or Jin Guangyao in this.) How dare they stand there and not argue for justice?

In spite of Nie MingJue being a junior to Jin GuangShan, he conducted himself in a strict manner and refused to tolerate Xue Yang no matter what. With an angry lecture, Jin GuangShan was left with no words and a great deal of embarrassment. Nie MingJue, as the irritable person he was, unsheathed his saber on the spot with the intention of killing Xue Yang. Even when his sworn younger brother LianFang-Zun, Jin GuangYao, attempted to ease the situation, he ordered him to leave. After a harsh scolding, Jin GuangYao hid behind Lan XiChen, not daring to say anything else. In the end, the LanlingJin Sect could only give in.

But, Nie Mingjue never offers a critique of Jin Guangshan when Jin Guangshan lied to Nie Mingjue’s face about Meng Yao. He discovered that Jin Guangyao’s stepmother is routinely beating him, and Nie Mingjue does nothing. Even if his hands were tied, if he really cared about doing the right thing, why didn’t he intervene somehow, some way, for his brother? If he really cared about holding people responsible for their actions, about making sure justice was served above everything else, why is it that the only person he consistently holds accountable is Jin Guangyao?

Could it be that, much like society, what Nie Mingjue was angry about was not injustice, but actually his hurting self? His hurt pride, his hurt child self still reeling from the cruel way Wen Ruohan betrayed his father and left him to die an agonizing death?

Likewise, Jiang Cheng knows, when he leads the siege at the Burial Mounds against the Wens, that no Wen there is dangerous. They are all elderly or children, not soldiers. He knows even that his sister died saving Wei Wuxian’s life, but chooses to ignore her wishes to satiate his own anger and the inner child inside of him still crying in loneliness. No one had ever chosen Jiang Cheng: his mother viewed him as a disappointment, and his father preferred Wei Wuxian, but Wei Wuxian promised to stick by Jiang Cheng no matter what. When Wei Wuxian breaks this promise, Jiang Cheng never gets over this, and carries out revenge on him for choosing actual justice over staying close to Jiang Cheng (looking back, this adds a symbolic irony to Jiang Cheng refusing to intervene and save Lan Wangji and Jin Zixuan in the cave: they are both the people who will be his siblings’ spouses).

But the sad reality is, it’s a false dichotomy. Wei Wuxian did not choose the Wens over Jiang Cheng. Jiang Cheng, like society, chose society and conformity over Wei Wuxian.

I’ve said it before, but while Jin Guangyao isn’t correct that the siege on the Burial Mounds is “all” Jiang Cheng’s fault, he’s not wrong when he makes this point:

“But what you have to understand is that, for what happened to Young Master Wei in the end, you are responsible too and in fact, you are very much so. Why did so many people crusade against the YiLing Patriarch? Why did they shout their support, no matter if they were involved or not? Why was he one-sidedly condemned by so many? Was it really their sense of justice? Of course not. A part of the reason is you.”

...

“… Back then, the LanlingJin Sect, the QingheNie Sect, and the GusuLan Sect had already finished fighting over the biggest share. The rest could only get some small shrimps. You, on the other hand, had just rebuilt Lotus Pier and behind you was the YiLing Patriarch, Wei WuXian, the danger of whom was immeasurable. Do you think the other sects would like to see a young sect leader who was so advantaged? Luckily, you didn’t seem to be on good terms with your shixiong, and since everyone thought there was an opportunity, of course they’d add fuels to your fire if they could. No matter what, to weaken the YunmengJiang Sect was to strengthen themselves. Sect Leader Jiang, if only your attitude towards your shixiong was just a bit better, showing everyone that your bond was too strong to be broken for them to have a chance, or if you exhibited just a bit more tolerance after what happened, things wouldn’t have become what they were. Oh, speaking of it, you were also a main force of the siege at Burial Mound…”

II. Privilege

The main villain of all of MXTX’s novels is privilege (I’ve touched on this here and here and here). Unfortunately, both Jiang Cheng and Nie Mingjue are heavily infected with it, and it’s partially why they treat others as they do.

Jiang Cheng speaks negatively of Mianmian in chapter 56, noting that she’s probably just the daughter of a servant. When Wei Wuxian challenges this by pointing out he is also the son of a servant, Jiang Cheng expresses that Wei Wuxian is somehow different (and to be fair, he is indeed treated with more respect because of Jiang Fengmian’s background with Wei Wuxian’s mother), but the implication is also classist. Ironically, again, when Jiang Cheng will not speak up for Wei Wuxian or Wen Qing during that same conversation referenced earlier, Mianmian does; though Nie Mingjue expresses admiration of her for doing so, he does not do the same.

Additionally, Jiang Cheng says the following about Jin Guangyao:

Wei WuXian, “Isn’t Jin GuangYao here now? Jin GuangYao seems so much better than him.”

Jiang Cheng... “So what, if he’s better? No matter how much better he is, no matter how clever, he could only be a servant who greets the guests. That’s all there is to his life. He can’t compare with Jin ZiXuan.”

This pretty much sums up how society treats Jin Guangyao, and Jiang Cheng doesn’t think to question it. Wei Wuxian, on the other hand, points to Jin Guangyao’s character, which at that point looked decent (even if... later... sigh). Additionally, it’s hard not to see this as a commentary on how people think Wei Wuxian should be acting. Even though Jiang Cheng is, er, wrong about how far Jin Guangyao can rise, he contrasts with Jin Guangyao in how Jin Guangyao builds the lookout towers to provide justice for the common people, while Jiang Cheng encourages Jin Ling’s initially snobbish behavior (leaving common people in traps).

Not only that, but Jiang Cheng routinely commits atrocities under his protection as a sect leader. He’s described as having whipped the flesh off the backs of people accused of demonic cultivation, and supposedly no one arrested for that survived his tortures (ironically, Wen Ruohan is also known for torture). As someone pointed out once, the people who would turn to demonic cultivation are likely those unable to form golden cores (Wei Wuxian), or those taken in as disciples too late/too untalented to do so (Mo Xuanyu); Xue Yang was also taken in late as a disciple, but is noted to be unusually talented. The interesting thing is that all three of these people are from impoverished, humble origins. Thus it’s very likely the people Jiang Cheng was arresting and torturing to death were not wealthy cultivators (not to mention other sects would complain if so), but common folk.

As for Nie Mingjue, Jin Guangyao goes further than Wei Wuxian and directly attempts to challenge Nie Mingjue to acknowledge his privilege with brutal honesty on his own part, only for it to go... poorly.

Nie MingJue, “There’s no need for explanations. Come back to me with Xue Yang’s head in your hand.”

Jin GuangYao still wanted to speak, but Nie MingJue had already lost all patience, “Meng Yao, don’t speak such pretentious words in front of me. Your whole thing stopped working on me since a long time ago!”

Within a second, a few degrees of unease flashed over Jin GuangYao’s face, as though someone with an unmentionable illness was suddenly exposed in the public. There was nowhere for him to hide.

He spoke, “My whole thing? Which whole thing? Brother, you’ve always yelled at me for calculating people and being too dishonorable. You say that you’re a proud, righteous person, that you aren’t afraid of anything, that propen men shouldn’t need to play with schemes. That’s fine. Your background is noble and your cultivation is high. But what about me? Am I the same as you? First, my cultivation isn’t as firm as yours. Ever since I was born, has anyone taught me? And second, I have no prominent background. Do you think that I’m in a steady position, here at the LanlingJin Sect? Do you think that I can rise into power the moment Jin ZiXuan dies? Jin GuangShan would rather bring another illegitimate child back than want me to succeed him! You think that I should be afraid of nothing? Well I’m afraid of everything, even other people! He whose stomach is full believes not him who is starving.”

Nie MingJue replied coldly, “In the end, all you mean is that you don’t want to kill Xue Yang, that you don’t want your position at the LanlingJin Sect to waver.”

Jin GuangYao, “Of course I don’t!”

He looked up, unknown fires dancing within his eyes, “But, Brother, I have always wanted to ask you something—the lives under your hands are in any regard more than those under mine, so why is it that I only killed a few cultivators out of desperation and you keep on bringing it up, even until now?”

Nie MingJue was so enraged that he began to laugh, “Good! I’ll give you my answer. Countless souls who have fallen under my saber, but I’ve never killed out of my own desires, much less to climb up the ladder!”

Jin GuangYao, “Brother, I understand what you mean. Are you saying that all of the people you killed deserved their deaths?”

With courage gathered from nowhere, he laughed and walked a few steps closer to Nie MingJue. His voice raised as well, asking in an almost aggressive manner, “Then, may I ask, just how do you decide if someone deserves death? Are your standards absolutely correct? If I kill one but save hundreds, would the good outweigh the bad, or would I still deserve death? To do great things, sacrifices must happen.”

Nie MingJue, “Then why don’t you sacrifice yourself? Are you any nobler than them? Are you any different from them?”

Jin GuangYao stared at him. A moment later, as though he had finally either decided on something or given up on something, he replied calmly, “Yes.”

He looked up. In his expression were some of pride, some of calmness, and some of a faint insanity, “I and they, of course we are different!”

Nie MingJue was infuriated by his words and his expression.

He raised his foot. Yet, Jin GuangYao neither avoided nor took defense. The kick landed right on him, and again he rolled like a pebble down Carp Tower.

Nie Mingjue, here, is being compared to two other people: the man who kicked Meng Yao down the stairs at a brothel as the man dragged Meng Shi outside naked to humiliate her, and with Jin Guangshan--the very person Nie Mingjue’s enraged with--by doing the same thing: kicking someone he views as lower than himself down the stairs. Instead of addressing the actual problem (Jin Guangshan), he finds a scapegoat. It’s not a good look. All three of these instances are linked with society standing by and allowing it to happen, with a few exceptions: Sisi intervenes with Meng Shi, and Lan Xichen intervenes to stop Nie Mingjue from killing Jin Guangyao.

Nie Mingjue never had to kill to climb the ladder within his sect. He did have to kill to climb the ladder in the cultivational world--and he actually did so, through killing the Wens. Yes, I know Nie Mingjue killed the Wens because he wanted revenge for his father and protection for himself and his brother, but the problem is... that’s exactly what motivated Jin Guangyao: protection. Jin Guangyao just had more to fear than Nie Mingjue.

The irony of the above scene that Jin Guangyao knows killing is wrong, but it’s how to survive in this world, so he does it anyways. Nie Mingjue thinks the problem of someone thinking they are entitled to kill can be solved by killing the one who says such a thing, because he’s entitled to kill someone who thinks they’re entitled to kill-- You get the point.

That sad thing is that being shoved down the stairs doesn’t even end that scene. Nie Mingjue directly attempts to murder Jin Guangyao:

Just as Nie MingJue unsheathed his saber, Lan XiChen happened to leave the palace to see what was going on, concerned after having waited for long. Seeing the situation before him, he unsheathed Shuoyue as well, “What happened, this time?”

...

Nie MingJue, “... I know what I’m doing. He’s beyond hope. If these keeps on going, he’ll do the world harm for sure. The earlier he’s killed, the earlier we can relax!”

This does not at all justifying Jin Guangyao’s subsequent murder of him, but again, Jin Guangyao kills to protect himself, and he’s not without cause for fear of his life (this does not justify, because neither is Nie Mingjue entirely without cause, but people have gotta acknowledge that reality).

III. Reasons to Kill

I often see Nie Mingjue held up as someone who judged people based on their actions and was countercultural in that he was willing to stand up to Jin Guangshan when Jin Guangshan wanted to acquit Xue Yang of slaughtering the Chang Clan. However, this is decidedly not the case. Nie Mingjue is very much acting within society’s principals here (calling someone else out is hardly unique or noble: see, Su She, Jin Zixun, etc.) Nie Mingjue stood up to Jin Guangshan then because the crime was so severe he knew he might actually be able to win; otherwise, he let Jin Guangshan do as he wished.

To illustrate this, I’ll share the piping hot tea a commentator spilled on one of my fics recently, because she says it perfectly:

She isn’t wrong. You can hold Xue Yang--and Jin Guangyao and Wei Wuxian, for that matter--responsible for their actions and also point out the hypocrisy of a society that holds to ideals of how people behave, yet is constantly making exceptions for themselves. Nie Mingjue does just this by demanding Xue Yang’s head as a price for not killing his own sworn brother. Jiang Cheng does just this by murdering the older, helpless Wens at the Burial Mounds, and turning his back on the Wens who saved Jiang Cheng’s own life.

Why do these characters kill?

Nie Mingjue and Jiang Cheng killed out of revenge to honor their families and save themselves.

Jin Guangyao killed to get his father to acknowledge him as his son, and then in revenge when he realized he never would, and to save himself.

Wei Wuxian killed out of revenge and then out of despair--really, revenge against the whole cultivational world that had set him up for failure no matter what he did.

Xue Yang killed out of revenge for his little finger.

What do all of these have in common? They reveal what each person prized.

Jiang Cheng and Nie Mingjue prized the honor of their culture and of society.

Wei Wuxian prized his loved ones.

Jin Guangyao prized himself as his father’s son, a sort of combination of JC/NMJ’s status love and WWX’s wanting to be loved.

Xue Yang prized his body.

Xue Yang seems condemnable on paper, but let’s look at this a little deeper: what else did Xue Yang have? Nie Mingjue inherited a sect and had his beloved little brother, men who would die for him, people who admired him. Wei Wuxian had his loved ones, and then they were gone. Jin Guangyao had his dead mother’s wish for him to be approved for by society, and a famous father. What exactly did Xue Yang have besides his own body? He didn’t have parents, as far as we know. What else was he to value? Why is Nie Mingjue venerated, and Xue Yang condemned? Why is Jiang Cheng allowed to torture the poor under him for so many years, just because they reminded him of his brother, and Xue Yang hunted down?

The only answer is privilege. It’s privilege that allows Nie Mingjue and Jiang Cheng to decide when and how they want to enforce justice, and if they do at all. It’s privilege that they had families to avenge. It’s privilege that enables them to commit atrocities and get second, third, fourth chances. It’s privilege of his birthright than enables Jiang Cheng to never once die in the novel (Nie Mingjue not so much). But when Nie Mingjue dies, he seeks revenge on his murderer, not justice. He kills countless others in his quest to kill Jin Guangyao, people who had nothing to do with his death, and he could have killed his own brother. Even when he succeeds he ends up battling Jin Guangyao in a coffin sealed for a hundred years--hardly a victory.

So since we’ve brought him up, let’s talk Xue Yang and the Yi City trio now. The “judgy” member of the Yi City Trio is decidedly not privileged (A-Qing, as @thisworldgodonlyknows wrote about her, foils Nie Huaisang, but also she foils Nie Mingjue), and her character reveals these precise flaws in Nie Mingjue and Jiang Cheng. She is a beggar girl and a thief, but she seeks justice for Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan out of nothing more than love. She herself does not kill, and frankly I’d say she is the moral backbone of the series more than any other character (along with perhaps Mianmian). She was never a part of society, after all.

A-Qing dies young, alone by a river, mutilated. She has no privilege, but her spirit survives as a ghost solely because of her desire to ensure justice for Xiao Xingchen and for Song Lan. Her condemnation of Xue Yang is at first admittedly selfish--she was jealous--but then honestly understandable and easier to swallow, since she came from a similar background. But because of this, and because A-Qing is willing to empathize, she ends up understood and her wishes fulfilled. In the end, Song Lan leaves with the remains of her soul, determined to heal both her and Xiao Xingchen.

As I wrote here, A-Qing is also faced with a dark version of herself in Xue Yang. Similarly, Jiang Cheng is faced with a dark version of himself in both Su She (jealous of Lan Wangji, jealous of Wei Wuxian; he calls out their arrogance) and in Jin Guangyao in the temple, and only then is he able to move forward and grow. Nie Mingjue, unfortunately, did not recognize the dark version of himself in Jin Guangyao, and ends up trapped with him.

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twoidiotwriters1 · 3 years

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Written In The Stars CXXXVII (Harry Potter xF!Oc)

A/N: Book 6 was beyond complicated to write due to some artistic choices I made lmao but again I do hope you guys like it even if I don’t feel it was perfect bc I enjoyed how most of it turned out -Danny

Words: 4,005

Series’ Masterlist

Previous Chapter // Next Chapter

Listen to: ‘The Black and White’ -by The Band CAMINO.

Chapter Thirty-Five: A Prophecy.

Harry walked back to his chair and sat down heavily.

"Five years ago you arrived at Hogwarts, Harry, safe and whole, as I had planned and intended. Well — not quite whole. You had suffered. I knew you would when I left you on your aunt and uncle's doorstep. I knew I was condemning you to ten dark and difficult years. I considered it almost a miracle when Emily agreed to move in next door so she could keep an eye on you..."

Even though Lord Voldemort perished that night in Godric's Hollow, his followers continue to hunt down answers for months, neither Harry nor Mel would've been safe in the wizarding world.

"You would be protected by an ancient magic of which he knows, which he despises, and which he has always, therefore, underestimated — to his cost. I am speaking, of course, of the fact that your mother died —and your father too, Mel— to save you. They gave you a lingering protection he never expected, a protection that flows in your veins to this day. I put my trust, therefore, in your mother's blood, Harry. I delivered you to her sister, her only remaining relative."

"She doesn't love me. She doesn't give a damn —"

"But she took you. She may have taken you grudgingly, furiously, unwillingly, bitterly, yet still she took you, and in doing so, she sealed the charm I placed upon you. Your mother's sacrifice made the bond of blood the strongest shield I could give you. And as for you, Mel, you were just a baby, therefore Voldemort's followers couldn't tell if you were as skilled as your dad. It was only until last year when Voldemort realized you were hiding great power."

"I still don't —"

"While you can still call home the place where your mother's blood dwells, Harry, there you cannot be touched or harmed by Voldemort. He shed her blood, but it lives on in you and her sister. Her blood became your refuge. You need return there only once a year, but as long as you can still call it home, there he cannot hurt you. Your aunt knows this. I explained what I had done in the letter I left, with you, on her doorstep. She knows that allowing you houseroom may well have kept you alive for the past fifteen years."

"My mother isn't a Dumbledore," Mel frowned. "If that's what kept Harry safe, living with his aunt, then why did I only meet you after I turned eleven?"

"You were a direct descendant from my brother and not me, you weren't in danger as much as Harry. Once I found out about your outbursts I talked to him, I knew you'd need his protection... I'm afraid his guilt stopped him. I've been taking his place, having you come into my office for a weekly lesson as a way to make sure you would be both, protected, while also learning to defend yourself."

Harry came into a new realization.

"You sent that Howler. You told my aunt to remember — it was your voice —"

"I thought that she might need reminding of the pact she had sealed by taking you. I suspected the dementor attack might have awoken her to the dangers of having you as a surrogate son."

"It did. Well — my uncle more than her. He wanted to chuck me out, but after the Howler came she — she said I had to stay. But what's this got to do with..."

"Five years ago, then, you arrived at Hogwarts, neither as happy nor as well-nourished as I would have liked, perhaps, yet alive and healthy. You were not a pampered little prince, but as normal a boy as I could have hoped under the circumstances. Thus far, my plan was working well."

The memory of that small boy came to her. He didn't look much different from the Harry sitting beside her, except perhaps, for the way his gaze had darkened.

He'd always known Harry and Mel would eventually be hunted, and he'd made sure they'd be ready. Dumbledore had a plan from the moment they set a foot in the castle. She wondered exactly how much of everything happened accidentally, and how much had been planned.

"I don't understand what you're saying."

"Don't you remember asking me, as you lay in the hospital wing, why Voldemort had tried to kill you when you were a baby? Ought I to have told you then? You do not see the flaw in the plan yet? No... perhaps not. Well, as you know, I decided not to answer you. Eleven, I told myself, was much too young to know. I had never intended to tell you when you were eleven. The knowledge would be too much at such a young age, just like I refused to tell Mel about the rumours surrounding our family."

'The knowledge would be too much at such a young age'. Now, after four years, Mel felt weaker than when she was eleven. Somehow thinner, and far more fragile.

"Do you see? Do you see the flaw in my brilliant plan now? I had fallen into the trap I had foreseen, that I had told myself I could avoid, that I must avoid."

"I don't —"

"I cared about you too much. I cared more for your happiness than your knowing the truth, more for your peace of mind than my plan, more for your life than the lives that might be lost if the plan failed. In other words, I acted exactly as Voldemort expects we fools who love to act."

Mel visibly deflated, a new wave of hurt crashing against her heart.

"So it's true, then?" She asked. "Caring only makes us weak?"

"My dear, I defy anyone who has watched you as I have —and I have watched you more closely than you can have imagined — not to want to save you more pain than you had already suffered. What did I care if numbers of nameless and faceless people and creatures were slaughtered in the vague future, if in the here and now you were alive, and well, and happy? I never dreamed that I would have such a pair of young souls on my hands..."

Mel had held something similar whenever she would reach out to kiss Harry, and nothing else in the world mattered when they were alone together... but after the third task, they were always so alone.

"...You came out of the maze last year, having watched Cedric Diggory die, having escaped death so narrowly yourself... you, Mel, gave away part of your own life, selflessly risking your own well-being just for the frail chance to see Harry again, and I did not tell you, because to tell you after having almost lost each other in such a way would've been beyond cruel, though I knew, now Voldemort had returned, I must do it soon.

And now, tonight, I know you have long been ready for the knowledge I have kept from you for so long, because you have proved that I should have placed the burden upon you before this. My only defence is this: I have watched you struggling under more burdens than any student who has ever passed through this school, and I could not bring myself to add another — the greatest one of all."

"...I still don't understand," Harry responded, though now his voice was a bit more quiet and fearful.

Dumbledore admitted what they already knew: Voldemort tried to kill him because of the prophecy, and he'd tried to stop it before it could be fulfilled. Now, years after and once again in a proper body, Voldemort set his mind on hearing the whole thing, looking for a way to end it.

The sun was fully out now, and as he finished, Mel felt the first glimmer of hope peering through.

"Mel broke the prophecy," Harry said quietly. "She crushed it against the ground..."

She closed her injured hand tightly without caring about the sharp pain that shot up to her elbow.

"I knew we could get rid of it."

"How?" Harry frowned. "How could you know?"

"Because that orb was merely the record of the prophecy kept by the Department of Mysteries. But the prophecy was made to somebody, and that person has the means of recalling it perfectly," Dumbledore explained, looking at her with a strange glint in his eyes.

"Who heard it?" asked Harry, though he already knew the answer.

"I did. On a cold, wet night sixteen years ago, in a room above the bar at the Hog's Head Inn. I had gone there to see an applicant for the post of Divination teacher, though it was against my inclination to allow the subject of Divination to continue at all. The applicant, however, was the great-great-granddaughter of a very famous, very gifted Seer, and I thought it common politeness to meet her. I was disappointed. It seemed to me that she had not a trace of the gift herself. I told her, courteously I hope, that I did not think she would be suitable for the post. I turned to leave."

As Dumbledore stood up to retrieve something from a cabinet, Mel continued her story.

"That was the reason why my uncle knew what Voldemort was looking for," She swallowed harshly. "As soon as that thing broke I recognized the figure. How could I not? We've been seeing her for three years..."

Dumbledore came back holding the Pensieve, he put the tip of his wan on one temple and pulled, Mel stood up abruptly.

"Maybe I shouldn't be here to hear it."

"You've earned your place in this conversation," Dumbledore replied. "Your life is linked to Harry's, is only fair for you to hear it too... that way you'll be able to make an informed decision."

"Only if he agrees."

She was used to Harry keeping her at a proper distance from his doings, nevertheless, Harry grabbed her wrist.

"Sit down... please."

Before she could reply a figure rose from the Pensieve, there stood a small version of Sibyll Trelawney with a voice Mel had only imagined thanks to Harry's tales from two years ago:

"THE ONE WITH THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD APPROACHES... BORN TO THOSE WHO HAVE THRICE DEFIED HIM, BORN AS THE SEVENTH MONTH DIES... AND THE DARK LORD WILL MARK HIM AS HIS EQUAL, BUT HE WILL HAVE POWER THE DARK LORD KNOWS NOT... AND EITHER MUST DIE AT THE HAND OF THE OTHER FOR NEITHER CAN LIVE WHILE THE OTHER SURVIVES..."

Professor Trelawney vanished slowly.

"Professor Dumbledore?" Harry said after a moment. "It... did that mean... What did that mean?"

"It meant... that the person who has the only chance of conquering Lord Voldemort for good was born at the end of July, nearly sixteen years ago. This boy would be born to parents who had already defied Voldemort three times."

"It means — me?"

Dumbledore eyed both teenagers carefully before speaking.

"The odd thing is, Harry, that it may not have meant you at all. Sibyll's prophecy could have applied to three babies, one of them being Mel."

"What?"

"I thought it was meant to be Matthew's baby," He sighed, "an Auror and a Dumbledore... but alas, you were born at the start of the month — and you were a girl. There were still two more babies in line. Both born at the end of July that year, both of whom had parents in the Order of the Phoenix, both sets of parents having narrowly escaped Voldemort three times. One, of course, was you. The other was Neville Longbottom."

"But then... but then, why was it my name on the prophecy and not Neville's?"

"The official record was relabeled after Voldemort's attack on you as a child. It seemed plain to the keeper of the Hall of Prophecy that Voldemort could only have tried to kill you because he knew you to be the one to whom Sibyll was referring."

"Then — it might not be me?"

"I am afraid that there is no doubt that it is you."

"But you said — Neville was born at the end of July too — and his mum and dad —"

"You are forgetting the next part of the prophecy, the final identifying feature of the boy who could vanquish Voldemort... Voldemort himself would 'mark him as his equal.' And so he did, Harry. He chose you, not Neville. He gave you the scar that has proved both blessing and curse."

"But he might have chosen wrong! He might have marked the wrong person!"

"He chose the boy he thought most likely to be a danger to him. And notice this, Harry. He chose, not the pureblood (which, according to his creed, is the only kind of wizard worth being or knowing), but the half-blood, like himself. He saw himself in you before he had ever seen you, and in marking you with that scar, he did not kill you, as he intended, but gave you powers, and a future, which have fitted you to escape him not once, but four times so far — something that neither your parents, nor Neville's parents, ever achieved."

In her mind, an alternate life started to take form: Mel as the orphan, Harry's parents alive and well, it was her the one facing death every time...

Then poor scarred Neville, while Mel and Harry lived surrounded by their families, perhaps even together. The fact that the only reason why Harry was the chosen one was a matter of gender and dates...

"Why did he do it, then? Why did he try and kill me as a baby? He should have waited to see whether Neville or I looked more dangerous when we were older and tried to kill whoever it was then — or even Mel... She's a Dumbledore — She's the strongest!"

"That might, indeed, have been the more practical course, except that Voldemort's information about the prophecy was incomplete. The Hog's Head Inn, which Sibyll chose for its cheapness, has long attracted, shall we say, a more interesting clientele than the Three Broomsticks. As you and your friends found out to your cost, and I to mine that night, it is a place where it is never safe to assume you are not being overheard. Of course, I had not dreamed, when I set out to meet Sibyll Trelawney, that I would hear anything worth overhearing. My — our — one stroke of good fortune was that the eavesdropper was detected only a short way into the prophecy and thrown from the building."

"So he only heard..?"

"He heard only the first part, the part foretelling the birth of a boy in July to parents who had thrice defied Voldemort. Consequently, he could not warn his master that to attack you would be to risk transferring power to you — again marking you as his equal. So Voldemort never knew that there might be danger in attacking you, that it might be wise to wait or to learn more. And once Mel was born at the start of July as a girl, and you a boy, this only narrowed it down to his apparent advantage. He did not know that you would have 'power the Dark Lord knows not' —"

"But I don't! I haven't any powers he hasn't got, I couldn't fight the way he did tonight, I can't possess people or — or kill them —"

"There is a room in the Department of Mysteries," Dumbledore replied carefully, "that is kept locked at all times. It contains a force that is at once more wonderful and more terrible than death, than human intelligence, than forces of nature. It is also, perhaps, the most mysterious of the many subjects for study that reside there. It is the power held within that room that you possess in such quantities and which Voldemort has not at all.

That power is what has aided Mel to know if you're in danger and allowed her to help, that power took you to save Sirius tonight. That power also saved you from possession by Voldemort, because he could not bear to reside in a body so full of the force he detests. In the end, it mattered not that you could not close your mind. It was your heart that saved you. So you see, Mel," He added, "caring it's never useless."

"The end of the prophecy... it was something about... 'neither can live...' "

"'... while the other survives,' " Dumbledore concluded.

"So... so does that mean that... that one of us has got to kill the other one... in the end?"

"Yes."

They stayed silent for the longest time, Mel found her voice at the same time as her courage.

"Okay," She spoke. "We just have to make sure you're the one that lives."

Dumbledore's face hinted at a smile, but it did not form fully. Harry stared at her like the thought of surviving was next to impossible.

"I feel I owe you two other explanations," said Dumbledore carefully. "You may, perhaps, have wondered why I never chose you as prefects? I must confess that I rather thought both of you had enough responsibility to be going on with..."

Mel let out a dry chuckle, Harry just sighed.

"The second and final... is about the decision you ought to take."

"What decision?"

"Your lifeline," He started, "I've been reading about it since the third task... It's called Unio Azoth — A universal cure for any kind of injury, you heal with life itself, and it's always effective. However, not many people dare use it because it demands great sacrifice from both sides of the connection. It's created through highly complex magic, or it can happen, as it was your case, after multiple shared near-death experiences," He paused. "It can also be removed."

There was a split second in which the students didn't know how to react.

"You're saying," Mel started. "We've been hurting each other for a whole year — and you hid this from us?"

"You were on bad terms after the tournament, the removal can only happen if both sides consent, and you were holding onto it tightly, Mel."

"Is it dark magic?" Harry asked abruptly. "Our connection?"

Dumbledore took another long look at him.

"I believe that what you're trying to ask is if it's damaging for any of you," He replied. "Which is something that depends on the circumstances. There have been moments your connection has improved your lives, but it's also damaged you physically to a great extent. You're asking a question only you can answer, Harry."

"This could've fixed everything between us," Mel felt her anger increasing. "And you just let us argue instead? Why?"

"It was your impulsive actions that kept me from speaking, I couldn't risk one of you trying to cut it without the other knowing, it would've resulted in tragedy."

"We would've acted differently if only we’d known! The reason why we fought was because of how guilty Harry felt about putting me through extra pain — We could've just cut the damn thing — You thought I would've just decided to abandon him?"

"Isn't that what you were attempting this year?" Dumbledore asked pointedly.

"Harry and I couldn't stop fighting, I was tired — I had to keep my distance," Mel stood up. "He spent a whole year drowning in guilt thinking we couldn't change things —"

"When I found out it could be removed," Dumbledore's voice came out just as firm as hers. "You were already far too traumatized. Losing this would've felt like losing a limb. You weren't ready to make a choice then, but I can't keep you in the dark any longer, you have the whole picture now, so you can make an informed decision, but I must ask you to think —"

"I don't need to think it over," Mel said, but Harry spoke at the same time.

"I want to keep it."

"What?" She looked at him in disbelief.

Harry stared at her.

"It's thanks to this that I knew you were having panic attacks, you've saved my life many times now, I owe you — and it doesn't have to hurt, you can control it, I just need to learn how to do it too!"

"You've been nagging me about how much of a burden this was and suddenly you cling to it as if it were a blessing?" She narrowed her eyes.

"It's just..." His jaw tensed. "It works both ways — if I give it up and Voldemort takes you... I can't leave you to deal with it alone, you'd do the same for me. You've already done it."

Mel shook her head, speechless.

"The decision is yours to make..." Dumbledore concluded. "You have until next term to tell me, and then we'll do whatever you please."

They were walking side by side without speaking. She did not wish to fight, and she felt like it would happen if they were to bring up... well, everything.

"I'm sorry," He muttered.

"I don't want to hear it. I'm to blame as much as you are. I ignored you — Dumbledore's right, knowing would've tricked us into thinking we could deal with it on our own, it would've killed us... I've been selfish enough this year to know I would've felt tempted to try and cut it on my own. I won't admit it in front of him, though..."

"You weren't —"

"I don't want to have this conversation," She stopped walking. "Everyone thinks I'm like my father or my uncle... and I'm not. When I was with you I was just Mel... whoever that's supposed to be. When we fought I got lost — you said awful things to me, but you were the only one who wasn't treating me like some overpowered freak..."

"I can't promise we won't fight in the future, but there are worse things than disagreeing and the thought of dying without telling you that I..." He came to a halt, voice breaking.

They wanted to talk about so many things, and yet Mel felt like they would never get to say anything at all.

"You know," She said softly. "We've gone through so much already... and it's hard, looking at you and having to pretend I can continue like this."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm feeling so alone, Harry," She forced the words out of her. "I miss you."

She'd almost been murdered that night, treated like a ragdoll, and traumatized until there was no safe place in her world. Still, nothing made her feel quite as vulnerable and tiny as Harry's understanding of her, the way he knew every single corner of her mind as if it were his own.

Harry gazed at her with hurt, he clenched his jaw and shook his head lightly. She was ready to watch him leave when suddenly, he hugged her.

Mel was having trouble breathing against his shoulder but her arms kept him close, one hand made its way up to the back of his head while the other went to the middle of his back. He was a few inches taller than her, but she still felt like they were a perfect fit.

"I'm sorry," Harry mumbled against her hair, and Mel knew he wasn't just talking about Sirius.

"Me too," She closed her eyes tightly. "We'll find a way through this... together."

Next Chapter —>

Taglist.

@dee123ksha @vampiregirl1797 @siriuslysirius1107 @stardusthigh @mikariell95 @vernon-dursley @thesuitelifeofafangirl @tomshollandz @kylosleftbuttcheek @reverse-hxlland @bloodorangemoonlight @omiwashere @t-rexs-world @just-here-to-escape-from-reality @21bruhs @i-am-scared-and-useless-bisexual @dielgonacoffee @thelastpyle

#twoidiots writing #hp fanfic #Harry Potter #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter xoc #WITT fic

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michael-drummey · 4 years

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Achilles x Patroclus: Part 2, Harmful Stereotypes in Modern Media

**Since my last post on this blew up! Here is just a little more on the subject & some of the nonsense I have seen & experienced on said topic online & in other forms of media**

For anyone who needs proof that Achilles & Patroclus were always and originally presented as a gay couple in a committed relationship mapped out in The Iliad (see my original post here) SOME in our society (not those who are properly educated) like to project harmful & stereotypical LGBTQ+ tropes on Homer’s material & their representation in other forms of media that are still prevalent today such as:

“Gay as not the Main Character” - The Iliad starts with the lines “RAGE: Sing, Goddess, Achilles’ rage,” so right at the start this Story we meet Achilles; obviously he is crucial in the story’s plot, yet even for his importance in this story it is not named for him, the focus is on Troy. Achilles is “Greatest of all the Greeks” but is remembered for all his bad qualities, while others like Agamemnon who is also deeply flawed or Odysseus, get the recognition of trying to reason with Achilles, and are seen as the more reasonable leaders set on winning the war. Achilles and Patroclus get reduced to just once aspect of the story, then once they are dead, we get The Odyssey and our new main boy Odysseus. The wily & super straight war hero trying to get home to his darling wife and son, which leads us to our next trope...

“Bury your Gays” - Achilles and Patroclus are obviously coded as homosexual even though the Ancient Greeks did not have a word to use for gay, but it is none the less glaringly obvious. Patroclus is killed by Hector when he rides into battle to help his fellow Greeks and retain Achilles’ Honor, thus setting in motion the events that will unleash Achilles’ Rage upon Hector and the Trojans. We also find out later in The Odyssey Achilles died when Odysseus meets him in The Underworld where he stands off with Patroclus so check check for both stories. This is a huge piece of Homer’s story, but so many times Patroclus is forsaken and treated as a plot point not as a character who’s fate changes the course of the story, they view him as a “gotta go” kind of sidekick to Achilles.

“Depraved Homosexual & Loose Bisexual” - Either perverse and/or murderous the “depraved homosexual” trope portrays the gay character as possessing all quirks and qualities one/society considers undesirable. Achilles is vengeful and refuses to fight when Agamemnon tarnishes his honor, then when Patroclus is killed Achilles is completely inconsolable, wishing to end his life, he weeps for days on end in bed with the body of Patroclus. When he unleashes that grief (The Rage of Achilles) he is reduced to a killing machine hellbent on nothing but avenging his beloved’s death, which eventually will lead to his own demise. He is rarely referred to as a 3-dimensional character with complex emotions from this point on. As one who has suffered in this war, lost his honor & lost the love of his life, which has caused all that is human in him to die as well; he succumbs to his pain. His wrath is what so many know him for even if they haven’t read the story, They just see him as a ferocious warrior, but so few know the full context behind his actions, or love to claim he did what he did because his “best friend” was killed. Some forms of media love to also portray them as bisexual, where we are given over the top sex scenes, and shown two men who are meant to be “less than” for their sexual freedom/lack of sexual morals. While it really has nothing to do with that and just creates more biphobia and erasure. We are never are shown them happily and honestly committed to each other, which leads us to our next stereotype.

“Everyone is Straight” - SOME Historians, Scholars, Writers, Movies love to predominately present characters as “all straight or only straight”. Since The Iliad was recorded people have been debating if Achilles & Patroclus were an item or not. Personally I think the evidence is overwhelming and plain as day, (you do not share a tent & bed with just your homie, Rage as Achilles did at Patroclus’ death, then keep his body in your bed yearning for his “μένος” (menos) aka manly vigor and semen, then get your ashes buried together in the same urn, just for someone to say “They were Best Friends Forever!” There is more than enough evidence to say Homer wrote them as gay, but some love to throw the “Briseis Argument” out there saying he intended to marry her, and she was his girl, ie. lots of gratuitous sex scenes to follow. If that were so, why does he only take her into his bed once at the end of Book 24? He had 10 years what was stopping him? And why did he wish her dead when he receives the body of Patroclus? Truthfully you would be sad your friend died, but at least its not your lover, right? Unless, wait what happened to Achilles when Patroclus died?... oh right, that’s the reaction of a man who has lost his best friend, lover, basically entire world, so “Bye Briseis!” you were a broken man’s booty call, time to move along. (Not that there is anything wrong with being a booty call, but in The Iliad that’s what Homer gave us to work with and this ones more directed at Hollywood and Straights™ who like to ignore all historical context.)

Now we know that these tropes did not exist when The Iliad was recorded, and Homer did not set out with the mind set “gotta kill these gays!” the word homosexual did not exist until 1869, it is not like being LGBTQ+ people just popped up then too. But viewing the story with some of these lens we can more clearly see these modern tropes and stereotypes 1. Can exist in pieces of art and literature despite the time the story was told. 2. Hurtful stereotypes affect the way people translate & view stories, peoples, cultures, etc. A prime example I still find it shocking when people say “weren’t they just cousins!?” (NO) 3. Not thinking critically and thoughtfully about such a piece, prevents others from truthful experiences, and devalues the meaning and emotion one gets from reading or telling such a story. 4. It is modern weaponizing & blatant erasure of those LGBTQ+ (fictional and non-fictional characters) that came before us to present a false narrative of heteronormativity.

In the end, as I stated, Homer did not use these stereotypes, these stories would have been sung and told in a way that captivated its audience, which they obviously are still doing today. Homer is a phenomenal storyteller, truly a classic and one of the best, but some still feel the need to straightwash these characters. So next time someone tries to say Homer never wrote Achilles and Patroclus as gay lovers, there is no evidence in The Iliad to support it, and that we cannot look at them through a modern lens. Or call out others who choose to ignore history, facts, and context, you can say “You Can! and Yes, Achilles x Patroclus are 100% in a committed gay relationship!”

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eggytranslations · 3 years

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Volume 1, Chapter 9-Family

Quick notes: I'm switching to one update every two weeks for now (sorry my schedule is really busy with new job) and will update on my twitter if I cannot make the biweekly Friday updates...o-(-( trying to rope another translator in, so we shall see how that goes! Chapter 10 and 11 are both pretty short so I think we should be good for those chapters. Okay on to the main course: enjoy!

Content warnings: n/a

For three straight days, the mountain villa became unusually lively yet again; it was all because the elder Young Master Shen had come back from the gates of death.

In the midst of this clamoring noise, Shen Qingxuan was as calm as usual. Dressed in a crescent white robe, he sat on the chair with a smile and easily accepted the concern that came from all directions. He nodded and listened attentively in a modest and well-mannered way while maintaining a cultured and refined manner.

This stirred another wave of pitying voices that all said, Such a good kid, and yet fate would tease in such a way.

Shen Qingxuan had already perfected an entire body of copper skin and iron bones towards these pitying words, so when he heard them, naturally, they did not hurt or itch. Yet these words stirred the thoughts of Mother Shen who was next to him. She shed tears several times, and yet she feared that Shen Qingxuan would be even more upset once he saw her, so she swiftly hid her face by turning away to wipe her tears.

How could these actions of hers hide from Shen Qingxuan’s sharp eyes. With the affinity between a mother and a child, Shen Qingxuan knew what she was thinking, so he also pretended that he did not see her and shifted his gaze onto other people.

When the banquet opened, Shen Qingxuan had the servant girl push him from the table to leave. Everyone knew that Shen Qingxuan’s body was frail and could not drink wine, simultaneously, he was still recovering from a serious illness so he could not accompany the guests and tax his mind. Thus, one after another, they urged him to rest well and waited for Shen Qingxuan to leave before they started toasting and drinking wine to their fill.

Shen Qingxuan returned to his room and listened briefly to the outside noise through his window lattice before he laughed bitterly to himself. Who knows how many times these kinds of banquets had been held, and who knows how many more times they will be held in the future. Who knows?

Even if Yi Mo helped him, and allowed him to be no different from any other person after this year, he, however, still did not know what hardships he would suffer in the future.

Feng shui fluctuated and worldly affairs were fickle.

Ever since he was resuscitated from the ice cave, Shen Qingxuan finally understood the meaning of these eight words that his father constantly uttered from his mouth.

Who could have expected that the gentle and mild beauty from a humble family, who had bashfully and timidly married into the Shen family for three years—his second mother, who previously cared for him extremely well, would employ someone to almost take his life?

He had never even considered it.

Even remembering it now, after so many years coolly observing as a bystander, the pain was just as fresh.

Right as he was lost in thought, there came the sound of a set of hurried footsteps from the courtyard. The footsteps were quite brisk and carried impatience as well as the unique heavy sound of an official’s boots. Shen Qingxuan’s gloomy eyes lit up slightly, the smile he always wore on his face also showed some sincerity.

“Gege!” The doors were suddenly pushed open, stirring up bits of dust. The sun shone in from the outside and revealed a clean-cut face in between the dancing dust particles. Because it was a meeting with family, that heroic and spirited face carried some of the rashness of a child.

When he saw his elder brother sitting on the chair and looking at him with an expression full of smiles, the young man was embarrassed all of a sudden. He quickly drew back his hand, and recovered a degree of steadiness before he said in greeting, “Gege.”

Shen Qingxuan beckoned with his hand, calling the man over to his side. Then he grabbed the man’s hand to pull down that tall body, flicked the man’s forehead with his finger out of habit, and said silently, I thought you had made some progress, how are you still this reckless.

Ever since childhood, Shen Zhen has been able to read his elder brother’s lips. He hastily used a hand to massage his unscathed forehead and harrumphed, “I wanted to be more reserved, but I was worried I would scare you into not recognizing me as your very own didi.”

Hearing this, Shen Qingxuan smiled while he stroked his brother’s neatly bound hair piece

, and asked, How did you have time to come see me today?

“Gege just recovered from a serious illness, how could I not come?” Shen Zhen squatted down with one hand propped on his elder brother’s leg and moved in front of him to act like a spoiled child, just like when they were children. His eyes were full of faith and dependence only possible between one’s flesh and blood, a bond thicker than water. Shen Qingxuan looked at this face that was remarkably similar to his second mother’s face, and could only feel tranquility in his heart. Towards this face that had stuck to his side from childhood, he really could not summon any hatred.

Even if he knew full well that he was reduced to this sorry state today all because of this person.

The second son of the Shen family, who had just turned one year old that year.

Master Shen had once held his eldest son with one arm and with his other arm, he cradled his second son who was still in his swaddling clothes, sucking on his thumb and quietly sleeping. Then he turned to his two wives and said, full of pride, “In the future, this eldest son of mine will bring honor to our Shen family and receive noble titles. When we get old in the future, the matters of our support and burials will depend on this little guy. In this way, the Shen family is basically perfect."

All the expectations in his words fell on Shen Qingxuan who was merely seven years old.

He only saw his eldest son’s intelligence and considered the Shen family status, but he never saw the smiles of his two wives who were standing in front of him, and how much reluctance and grievance was hidden in the smile on one of the two faces.

Why? Just because he was the second son, so he could only end up with a captive-at-home, mediocre, and nameless future for the rest of his life?

The woman was narrow-minded, and at the time, did not consider that each person had their own fate. If indeed her son worked hard, how could Master Shen disregard his son’s future? It was nothing more than careless words said in a moment of joy. Yet she took it seriously. She developed malicious intentions and harmed Shen Qingxuan for the rest of his life.

When she finally understood this, the transgression had already been committed.

With a pat on the back of the youth who laid on his knees, Shen Qingxuan looked at him as he said, After becoming an official, you have probably fallen behind on the sword and spear, no?

Shen Zhen shook his head at once. “There is no such thing. If gege does not believe it, we can go to the courtyard and I will perform for you.”

Shen Qingxuan laughed as he nodded, and Shen Zhen promptly got up to push him. The two brothers went out the doors of the room, stopping in the spacious area in the middle of the courtyard.

Shen Zhen retrieved a long staff, flashed a showy move, and said while holding the staff, “Gege look closely, didi is showing off the staff for you.”

Shen Qingxuan was still smiling a smile without restraint.

Seeing this, Shen Zhen also grinned. The wooden staff in his hand started to move around like a nimble snake. As he brandished the staff, it swept up a whistling wind, stirring dust in every which way and blurring light and shadow. When he struck the ground, it reverberated with a heavy sound, and with a great force, trenches appeared in the sandy yellow soil.

Shen Qingxuan watched closely, enthralled until a set of staff exercises were completed and he promptly clapped his hands, not at all hiding his desire to praise him.

After receiving his eldest brother’s praise, Shen Zhen became even more pleased with himself. He tossed aside the staff, picked up a spear, and flaunted another set of spear exercises for Shen Qingxuan to watch. It was slightly inferior to his staff technique, yet it still gave a vigorous feeling of strength.

The two brothers were in the courtyard, one person performing for the other to watch. They played until the red sun set into the evening, then Shen Qingxuan indicated for him to stop and called for a servant to bring over a wet cloth and hot tea.

Shen Zhen noisily downed a cup of tea, wiped the sweat from his face, then moved closer towards Shen Qingxuan again, and said, “Gege, do you have any advice?”

Shen Qingxuan cast a sidelong glance at him, What advice do I have for you?

Shen Zhen laughed mischievously, “Gege come on, dad said when you were little you liked to brandish spears and play with sticks. You even secretly took the martial arts teacher’s polearm to poke a bird’s nest and made the master really angry, do you dare deny this?”

Hearing this, Shen Qingxuan thought back and vaguely recalled some pieces, but could not remember more concrete details.

These old affairs from years ago, if Shen Zhen had not mentioned them, Shen Qingxuan could not have thought of them. Even though Shen Zhen mentioned them now, he still could not remember.

Occasionally, there were fragments that floated and flashed across his mind, but he did not think those things had happened to him.

Those past events felt faintly like a previous life, or perhaps an even more distant time ago, that was soaked by the yellowing of time into a sheet of brittle and thin paper, breaking with just one touch.

Fragmented and incomplete.

Shen Qingxuan’s expression slightly dimmed into gloominess.

Shen Zhen realized he misspoke and changed the topic at once. He tugged the hand Shen Qingxuan was resting on his knee, and said eagerly, “Gege, I get to visit the mountains for once, and you made me work this half-day. How about you play a board of chess with me?”

Shen Qingxuan roused his spirits and asked, What happens if you lose?

Shen Zhen rubbed his temples, then whispered near his elder brother’s ear, “Like old times?”

Shen Qingxuan became happier too and nodded in agreement as the two men went back inside.

They let the serving boys send the tea and pastries into the room. After everything was prepared in order, Shen Zhen fastened the doors and windows tightly and checked again if they were secure or not. It was like he was deeply afraid of someone discovering something and had the guilty expression of an uneasy thief. Watching this, Shen Qingxuan could not stop his muffled laughter.

The cushioned mat was spread out on the daybed and the two of them sat opposite each other. Shen Qingxuan wiped the chessboard again then took out the black and white pieces and asked, Like old times?

Shen Zhen nodded his head immediately, as if he was afraid that he would back out, and snatched the black pieces, putting down a piece first, then another piece, and then another piece again.

As soon as the chess game started, he snatched the black pieces and put down three of them.

Shen Qingxuan raised his brow and looked at him for a long moment, soundlessly chiding, You really have not grown at all.

Shen Zhen quickly countered, “You are the elder brother and older than me by seven years so you should actually have let me by seven pieces. Now it is only three pieces, my progress is already not small at all.”

Shen Qingxuan held the white piece as he put one down and ignored him.

Shen Zhen quieted down as well, observing the match and beginning to play seriously.

Shen Zhen took the advantage at the beginning, and in the time of one stick of incense, he had killed the game into a treacherous and hard to predict match. With sharp moves, he encircled a portion of Shen Qingxuan’s white pieces, feeling rather pleased with himself.

However, Shen Qingxuan did not even lift his head, and solely focused on placing his pieces. When the match had gone on for a period of two sticks of incense, Shen Zhen’s sharp peaks and edges were all chopped off to nothingness, not one was spared. Furthermore, White was like a dragon entrenched in a mountain range, biding its time to act, just waiting for a command so that it could seize the land in this game within an instant.

“Gege.” Shen Zhen wiped the cold sweat that did not actually exist from his forehead and said hastily, “Gege’s opening and closing were well considered with an impressive performance this match……” how about you spare didi this time?

He had not finished speaking before Shen Qingxuan, with a smile in his eyes, had already turned around to take the pen that was placed to the side. He filled the pen with ink and unhurriedly wrote: Do not flatter me. Lift your face up.

Shen Zhen instantly shut his mouth and handed over his face with misery.

A moment later, a big, crawling tortoise had been added to that handsome face.

Shen Zhen jumped down from the daybed and grabbed a mirror to look at his face. He moaned and groaned, “The more I flatter, the more lifelike this tortoise gets. So it is clear that this flattery still needs to be flattered, especially gege’s flattery.”

Shen Qingxuan impatiently patted the chessboard, saying, Again.

Shen Zhen had no choice but to return to his seat. He also carefully checked the windows to see if there were cracks so as to prevent any other people from seeing him. That would be so embarrassing.

Up until dinner time, the two of them still had the doors and windows tightly shut, unwilling to come out. All the servants waited outside because the people inside still had not allowed them to set up the dinner. This finally alarmed Master Shen.

When Master Shen heard that his sons refused to take their meals, he rushed over at once and stood outside the doors as he asked, “What kind of mishap have you two gotten into?”

Only after a moment did Shen Zhen’s voice come from the room, “Dad, I am playing chess with xiong zhang.”

At first, Master Shen was baffled, and then his face held back a strange expression. He stood for a minute before he waved away the crowd of servants. “You all go on first, keep the dishes warm, and bring them again in a double-hour.”

After he sent them all away, Master Shen leaned on the door as he said in a low voice, “Xuan’er, let dad come in and take a look.”

Immediately, sounds of frantic commotion came from behind the doors. Master Shen waited without a worry, and sure enough, his youngest son was no match for his eldest son. Shen Qingxuan pushed his wheelchair over and opened the door.

After he came inside and looked around, Master Shen headed towards the screen

, still using a benevolent voice, “Come out and let dad have a look.”

There was absolute silence from behind the screen.

“Do not be like a girl, come out and let dad see.” Master Shen continued to coax him.

Shen Zhen refused to come out.

Shen Qingxuan closed the door once again, wheeled over, and pushed down the screen. Shen Zhen did not expect his brother to do this, and had no chance to hide. On instinct, he held up the screen that almost fell and ducked out of the way.

In this split second, Master Shen had already seen the scene he wanted to see. He let out a “pft,” then immediately held it in again until his beard was shaking.

Shen Qingxuan also lowered his face while his shoulders could not stop quaking. Clearly, he was holding back quite desperately.

Shen Zhen stood there with his whole face covered in tortoises that either crawled or stood or rolled, not even his ears were spared. Each of his earlobes had their own tiny tortoise that stretched out their necks and kicked their legs.

Master Shen held his stomach as he pointed at Shen Qingxuan with a shaking finger and said breathlessly, “Y-you……your elder brother, is truly, i-im-im……proper.”

Shen Qingxuan raised his head immediately, and with his bright, black eyes, he stared unblinking at his diedie.

Father and son looked at each other for a minute, and then suddenly turned away from each other without warning. One of them gaped his mouth as he roared with laughter silently while the other man laughed until he nearly lost his breath.

At first, Shen Zhen was indignant and yelled at the two of them to stop laughing. Then he saw that neither of them could stop. They were bent down and clutching their chest as they laughed until they could not breathe, which frightened him into ignoring his own mortification. He quickly ran over to pat their backs with one hand each, and helped them catch their breath. He was deeply afraid that these two would laugh until they were sick.

But he did not realize that his elder brother and father, as soon as they turned their heads and saw that painted face with anxiety written all over it, were unable to stop even if they wanted to stop.

Furthermore, Shen Qingxuan almost laughed out loud several times, and could only bite his tongue as he swallowed down the sound that had risen to his larynx yet again.

His joy was also a joy of extreme difficulty.

In these twenty years, there has never been a time that was not burdensome.

#a snake encounter #yu she #su he #danmei #tl #eggytranslations

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notapaladin · 3 years

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with my heart in my lap

Acatl’s snarky narration: “Or I could grow fangs and turn into a coyote.”

Me: WELL NOW

...yeah, so I wrote were-coyote Acatl smut. I’ve been battling pretty bad physical anxiety symptoms lately (brain: “clearly if someone passes a value judgement on anything related to your new fave thing they are also passing judgement on YOU” me: “that makes...no sense...” brain: “too late, open the gates and release the Fear Juice”) so this maybe isn’t the BEST writing I’ve put out but hey, I managed it!

Also on AO3

There were nights Acatl loved. Nights where he could relax with a full belly and a reasonably peaceful heart, where his only major concerns were the day-to-day problems of his temple and any outstanding cases at least didn’t require his personal attention. Nights where he could rest and dream of anything other than blood and death. (And if some of those dreams were of Teomitl’s bright eyes and the curve of his mouth, that was a strictly private matter.)

And then there were nights like this.

He’d been able to sense the change in the air at dawn; as the day wore on, the tension prickling across his scalp and over his skin only worsened. He’d found himself snappish and ill-tempered even with Ichtaca, and had only barely remembered to send a messenger to the palace to let Teomitl know there would be no lessons today. There couldn’t be, with the full moon coming on. At least his order had learned to work around his...condition. Though their High Priest would be indisposed, they could care for the dead just as well without him. Ichtaca had been very firm in making sure he knew that when he’d first been appointed.

(It hadn’t been the most embarrassing conversation of his life, but it was absolutely up there. There just wasn’t a dignified way to discuss an unbreakable curse that put him out of commission every full moon.)

He knew he shouldn’t worry. His priests had matters well in hand, and he’d always maintained enough control over his own mind to ensure he wouldn’t be a physical danger to those around him. Politically...well, that was another matter. He didn’t even want to think about the repercussions for his order if word got out; Acamapichtli would surely love nothing more than to destroy him after what he’d done to Tlaloc. But it would be well. All would be well. All he had to do was stay inside and out of sight until dawn.

As the sun set, he made his preparations. Ichtaca had been by earlier to stockpile plenty of food—duck and rabbit and turkey, venison and the tough flesh of peccaries—so he wouldn’t be half-starved by the time he was done. There was fresh, cold water waiting by his mat, along with thick blankets that he really didn’t need (indeed, the curse always made him run almost painfully hot), but he appreciated the gesture anyway. He’d just lifted his worship-thorns to his ear for his nightly offering to Mictlantecuhtli when he heard something that did not belong in the routine of his cursed full-moon nights.

Someone was coming. For a moment it was almost reassuring—just one of my priests checking on me, I’ll send them away—and then he recognized the footsteps. There was only one person in Tenochtitlan who walked like that, like he was angry at the distance he crossed for separating him from his goal.

He almost couldn’t breathe.

Teomitl.

It was all the warning he had before the entrance curtain jingled with the weight of a hand on it, not yet pushing it aside, and his student’s voice called softly, “Acatl-tzin?”

I have to get him away from here. I can’t let him— “What are you doing here?!” It came out as far more of a snarl than he intended, and if the circumstances hadn’t been so dire he would have felt bad. But his teeth were starting to itch, and that was the first sign.

“One of your priests said you would be indisposed for the next three days. I came to see if there was anything I could do.”

He wasn’t sure which priest he’d sent to the palace; the closer it was to sunset, the harder it was to focus on anything outside of his own body. Suddenly that seemed like a dreadful oversight on his part. Duality, hadn’t they all been warned not to go into details? Or had Teomitl asked, in his usual terribly persuasive way, and had the priest folded like wet paper? He took a deep breath, feeling it rumble through his lungs. His skin felt hot and tight across his back. “No. I am fine—“ A sudden lance of pain scorched through his chest, and he broke off with a cry. “Ah!”

“Acatl-tzin?!”

And then Teomitl was there, in his house, and Acatl couldn’t do anything about it. He was grateful that he was already sitting down; it was easier to breathe as the pain ebbed. When he could think again, he registered that Teomitl was kneeling by his side with warm hands resting on his arms, and his deep brown eyes were very close. “I’m…” He couldn’t even finish the sentence. Like this, it was impossible to lie.

Teomitl’s gaze flickered around the room for a moment before returning to Acatl’s face, eyes dark and serious. “What happened? Should I fetch you a healing priest?”

He closed his eyes. Duality, you won’t leave me alone until I tell you, won’t you? Even though...even though I… Even though he couldn’t bear the thought of Teomitl looking at him with horror and disgust, even though he couldn’t bear the idea of burdening another person—a warrior of imperial blood, no less—with his secret. (Even though a part of him whispered warm and bright in his chest, Maybe it will help. Maybe he will help.)

“Five years ago,” he began, “I fought a shapeshifting sorcerer.” Saying the words brought the events of that night flooding back in a tide of sensation—the brisk night air, the stitch in his side, the blood on his hands and cloak, the savage snapping of teeth in his face. “He was—“ Duality, there had been so much blood. His breath came harsh in his throat, and he knew it wasn’t only due to his own memories. All of a sudden, he hungered. “He took coyote form. To—to hunt. To slay innocents for his own lusts. I slew him, but in his final breath he—cursed—“

Pain stole the words from his throat, and he nearly gagged. Gods, not now. Not now! But there was no stopping it; he barely managed to shove Teomitl away as he collapsed onto his side in the patch of moonlight on his floor, breathing hard. Dimly he heard Teomitl’s shocked cry, but he could find no reassurance to give him. I’m so sorry.

In his more lucid moments, he’d briefly wondered if the sorcerer had suffered through as much pain in his transformations; it wasn’t something Acatl could imagine any sane man choosing. His chest felt as though it’d been hollowed out and filled with fire, the long bones in his legs and feet screaming as they stretched. He could barely feel his face, the pain of a shifting skull and growing jaw simply too much to register. If he’d had any breath, he would have screamed. Next to that, the burning itch of erupting fur was almost pleasant. He clawed off his loincloth frantically, unable to think of modesty past the oversensitivity of his skin. If Teomitl was horrified, he could damn well deal with it.

The agony faded slowly. After long moments during which he counted each heartbeat, he became aware of his own body again. Or rather—his own body, for the duration of each night of the full moon. A man’s torso and arms covered in reddish-gray fur, the head and hindquarters of a giant coyote, hands ending in razor-sharp claws. He licked his lips, tasted blood, and heard his stomach growl.

“...Acatl.” Teomitl’s shaking voice was coming from a spot just within arms’ reach. “Gods. Gods. Is that—are you…?” Words seemed to have failed him.

A sensible man would have run. Acatl, not for the first time, came to the conclusion that Teomitl was anything but. With effort, he nodded. This close, he could smell Teomitl’s skin; if he listened, he could hear his pulse racing hard through his veins.

“Oh, Acatl-tzin.” He didn’t sound terrified. Dismayed, certainly, and perhaps a bit concerned, but not terrified. “Does it hurt?”

He shook his head, taking a deep breath. It was possible to talk in this form, though only with some difficulty. Long words made his tongue hurt. “Not anymore.” After a small eternity, he managed to open his eyes and focus his gaze on Teomitl’s face. He looked smaller like this, more vulnerable. Like prey, whispered his instincts, but he shook the thought away. I am not so much of a beast. And he is strong. It was several more long moments before he could arrange himself into a more or less upright seated position, grabbing at the remains of his loincloth to drape over his lap as his sense of shame reasserted itself.

Someone had to be embarrassed, because Teomitl clearly wasn’t. He was studying him with open curiosity as he moved, head cocked to the side like a bird. Still, he swallowed hard when they made eye contact, and Acatl saw his eyes widen. One hand hovered half-curled in the air, frozen in the middle of reaching for him as he clearly thought better of it. “...Can I...touch you?”

What. But Teomitl was still watching him, and Acatl felt his heart skip a beat. Gods, yes, please. He closed his eyes, barely daring to move, and nodded.

A gentle hand landed on his jaw first, tracing through the thick fur. If it hadn’t been so warm, it might have tickled; as it was, he found himself shivering for an entirely different reason. Teomitl murmured, “Remarkable. Sorcerers don’t usually...leave themselves in this in-between form, do they?” At the minute shake of his head, Teomitl’s fingers tensed. “Thus the curse. Still...Acatl-tzin, I cannot imagine anyone being scared of you like this.”

“...I am a monster.” It slipped out before he could take it back.

“You are not.” Both hands came up on either side of his jaw, cradling his face; he opened his eyes instinctively and found himself meeting Teomitl’s narrowed, serious gaze. “You are Acatl, no matter what form you take.”

He was absurdly grateful to be covered in thick fur. It meant Teomitl couldn’t see how hard he would surely have been blushing if he was in his human skin. “Teomitl…”

Teomitl took a slow breath and dropped his hands. “...I’m sorry. I overstepped.”

Overstepped? It took him a moment to figure out what Teomitl meant, but then he realized. He’s never addressed me like that before. The thought made his heart flop like a landed fish in his chest. Hastily, he shook his head. “No. I—you can say my name. Like that. I don’t...I don’t mind.”

Teomitl’s smile was as slow and radiant as the dawn. “Acatl.” He only hesitated a heartbeat this time before reaching for him again. “Can I…”

His claws dug into his knees, drawing pinpricks of blood, but he nodded. Whatever was between them felt too fragile to disturb with words, but he burned for more—had been burning for more ever since that first proper lesson with Teomitl, where his student had looked up at him and smiled and he’d felt it like lightning in his bones. Duality, let me have this. Even if it kills me, let me have this.

This time, Teomitl’s hands fell to his shoulders. The fur was thinner here and over his torso, no impediment at all to the careful touch tracing wiry muscles and old scars. (He was being so careful—so careful, like Acatl was something rare and precious instead of a beast—but each touch made Acatl’s blood burn anyway.) His voice was warm and assessing, with a smile curving his lips that Acatl was afraid to look too closely at. “Mm...you’re built the same. Larger overall, I think, but the same.”

He huffed out a breath. “Not very...impressive, I know.” Not like Teomitl, whose bare skin was distracting whether it was gilded by sunlight or edged in the glow of the silvery moon. The boy moved like a jaguar, all coiled power and sinuous grace. Even when he was fully human, when a good half of his mind wasn’t taken over by the instincts of the coyote, it was a sight that made him hunger. Xochiquetzal said I’d forgotten what made me alive. Maybe I had. But then, I hadn’t met him yet. Now, it was all he could do to keep his gaze trained on a point just over Teomitl’s left shoulder and his mind on anything but the profound urge to feel hot flesh against his. His pulse thundered under his skin. Though it be jade, it is crushed, as soon as the flowers open they fall...

Then Teomitl slid his hands down over his chest, thumb finding the edge of one nipple hidden under the fur, and all thoughts of hymns and Mictlan flew out of his head. He gasped out loud, snapping his eyes back to Teomitl’s face to find him grinning. “Very impressive to me.”

“Teomitl!” For a small mercy, Teomitl’s hand stilled. Acatl’s heart did not. It was racing, hammering against his ribs so hard it was a wonder they held. He swallowed convulsively past the sudden lump in his throat. He’s so close. So trusting, so...so tender with me. I could—

“It’s true.” Teomitl’s smile turned wicked. “You’re beautiful as a man, you know, but in this form...it’s new. I like new things.”

He thinks I’m beautiful. And he...even in this form he’s...interested. In me, in this most monstrous part of me. His mouth suddenly felt very dry. “Do you, now.”

“Mmm.” Teomitl’s hands slid down lower; it felt natural this time to lean back, shivering, as fingers slid over his flat stomach. The loincloth bunched in his lap was suddenly not nearly enough fabric, not when Teomitl was right there and eyeing him like a feast. “I think I like it a lot.”

He was half hard already; it would take no effort to get the rest of the way there. He’d never looked at himself in this form, but he knew it hadn’t escaped his transformation unscathed—bulbous in some parts, tapered in others, wholly inhuman. And, judging by the hot gleam in his curious eyes, much to Teomitl’s taste. “Ngh. You, uh. You do?”

This time it was Teomitl’s turn to swallow, finally averting his gaze. “Yes.” It was hushed, heated. “Can I—“

“Yes.” He didn’t need to think about it. Anything you want to do. Everything. It’s yours. I’m yours.

Another visible gulp, but then Teomitl’s focus was back on him and he felt heat suffuse his face again. That smile—soft, hopeful, hungry—was entirely too much. “Lay down for me?”

He laid down. It felt strange, honestly; he typically spent his full-moon nights hunched over awkwardly and trying to shrink back into his skin, every moment a prayer for the sun to rise quickly. Being sprawled on his back should have felt vulnerable, and it did, but with Teomitl shifting to kneel between his thighs—gods, there was not enough fabric—it was also making his blood pound. He was powerless to repress the rumble in his throat or the shaky, indrawn breath when Teomitl’s fingers brushed the inside of his hip. “What are you—oh.”

He was bared to the open air, and Teomitl breathed out slowly as he took in the sight. “Oh, very interesting.”

Acatl steeled himself to say something—it’s the mark of a beast, you see the curse couldn’t even leave that alone—but then one calloused hand wrapped stroked around his length from base to tip, and what came out was a shocked, wordless moan.

Teomitl looked distinctly smug. “Hmmm. You are larger in this shape than you are normally. Everywhere. Do you like this?”

“Teomitl—“ He cut off with an embarrassingly needy whine as Teomitl’s grip tightened. “Oh gods…” That wicked hand just wouldn’t stop. His clawed feet dug into the floor under him as he wriggled, seeking more of that friction.

Teomitl stilled his hand. His breath caught in his throat as he shifted, spreading his knees apart, and Acatl only needed to take a breath to smell his arousal. “You do. Duality, you really do.”

I do. I want more. All thoughts of consequences had flown out the window; there was only Teomitl’s hand on his cock, Teomitl’s eyes bright in the darkness. He needed to be closer. Before he could think better of it, he reached out and snagged Teomitl’s cloak to pull him down on top of him; the roughness of his own voice surprised him as he snarled, “I want to touch you.”

Teomitl went willingly, propping himself up on one elbow. In this position they were close enough to kiss if Teomitl felt like braving the fangs; instead of fear or trepidation, his eyes held only the vivid light of desire. He swallowed roughly, rocking his hips forward. If Acatl had had any doubts as to the state of his arousal, they were promptly erased. “You can.”

He shuddered down to his bones. The change in position had left Teomitl’s hand still for the moment, but it was more than pleasure that was coiling through his veins. He wants me. Gods, I still cannot believe… “Even when I’m...like this?” But Teomitl had said he could, and it was impossible to resist; he let his hand drift down over Teomitl’s side to his hip, marveling at how soft the skin felt over such hard muscles.

Teomitl drew back, and for a moment Acatl was afraid he’d misjudged—but then he tilted his head and nuzzled up against his cheek in what was almost a kiss, and Acatl’s heart skipped a beat. “Please.”

Well. Since he’d asked so nicely. He’d never even tried to touch himself in this form—monster hissed the voice in his head whenever he so much as felt a flicker of desire—but now Teomitl was in his arms, warm and solid and alive, and any lingering hints of revulsion were washed away in a tide of desire. It was the work of a moment to tear the loincloth away, fine cotton giving way like paper to his claws and making Teomitl jolt with an eager gasp. Teomitl’s cock was hot and thick in his hand; when he gave it a slow upwards stroke, Teomitl bucked against him with a growl that sent his blood racing again.

“Harder.” Teomitl was working him again, steady though his own hips were rocking roughly into Acatl’s hand; when he shuddered and met his gaze, hazy-eyed, he found himself grabbing for his hip to hold him in place. He’d said harder, after all. And harder was what he got, Acatl stroking him in a rhythm that made him whine. “Nnn...Acatl…”

“Oh,” he breathed out. “You are so good for me.” Teomitl dropped his head against the crook of his neck, burying his face in the thick ruff of fur there; it wasn’t enough to muffle the noise that escaped him, nor the way he arched into Acatl’s grip. He likes that. He—

Then Teomitl was doing something with the angle of his wrist, and his thoughts scattered. There was only the flame heating his blood to an inferno, the pulse of his cock swelling as he approached his release. He wasn’t going to last much longer. “Teomitl—“

The base of his shaft had swelled into a knot; he hadn’t quite realized it at first, but then Teomitl got his hand around it and squeezed and he was coming with a howl. His mind went blank. It was only when the sharp shock of the first peak faded a little and he could think again that he realized Teomitl was still unfulfilled; he pumped his cock faster, and in a few more rough strokes Teomitl was following him over the edge with a hitched gasp.

More. It hit him like a thunderbolt, and his cock pulsed in Teomitl’s hand. Strong fingers rippled around it, and he groaned. It wasn’t enough. It didn’t feel like anything would be enough. He wanted to roll Teomitl over, pin him down, sink in deep. He tried to speak, but only a growl escaped him.

Teomitl’s shaky panting against his neck evened out, and he sucked in a huge breath before letting it out in a sigh. “Gods, you’re still hard. Incredible.”

Words were beyond him. He thrust up into Teomitl’s grip instead, and Teomitl sat up and straddled his thighs so he could put both hands to work. Watching his lover as he pumped one hand over his shaft while the other wrapped nearly all the way around his knot—narrow-eyed, focused, hungry—was almost more than Acatl could bear. Each breath came out in a growl as Teomitl set a pace that left him helpless to do anything but buck into it, half-formed thoughts of more than Teomitl’s hands skittering around the edges of white-hot desire—and then he was coming again, so hard that his vision went white.

For a long moment afterwards, he couldn’t speak. His knot seemed slow to deflate, but it was...enough. For the moment, his desire was sated; he was still twitching, thought he could maybe handle more, but with the edge worn off he could think again. Duality, they’d made a mess. (There might have been less of one if he’d been inside, buried to the hilt, feeling Teomitl hot and tight around him—no. There were limits, surely. Teomitl probably wouldn’t want that.)

Teomitl clearly didn’t care how much of a mess they’d made. He stretched out on top of him, nuzzling at Acatl’s collarbone affectionately. “You feel wonderful.” It came out half-muffled by Acatl’s fur, but he didn’t seem to notice.

He took a deep breath. Hesitantly—even after what they’d just done, it was strange to think he was allowed this intimacy—he slid one arm around Teomitl’s waist and let the other rest at his back, just between his shoulderblades. He could feel each thump of his heart. “...I still cannot believe this appeals to you…”

Teomitl smiled. “Because it’s you.”

He started to respond, unsure of what he was going to say even as he opened his mouth—why or I love you both seemed strong candidates—but the rumbling of his own stomach cut him off, and his ears flattened with shame.

It didn’t help much when Teomitl chuckled. “Hungry, after all that?”

He nodded, feeling his face burn. “It...takes a lot out of me. Changing.” And everything else.

“Hmm.” Slowly, Teomitl pulled away and sat up. There was a clawmark at his hip. “Let’s eat and clean up. And then…” His gaze, drifting around the room, slid back to Acatl with a hopeful gleam. “The night is long, you know. And I’m not especially tired.”

He closed his eyes, letting out a shaky breath. Teomitl was energetic in this, too. “Duality, you are going to kill me.”

“I don’t think so.” He could actually hear Teomitl’s smirk. “You seem to have very impressive stamina in this form.” His voice dropped to a purr. “I’m looking forward to experiencing it later.”

His spent cock gave a hopeful twitch, but then Teomitl was uncovering a tray of roasted venison and he realized he was, in fact, too hungry to give into it just yet. There would be time for such exploration after he’d whetted his appetite.

At least turning back was relatively painless. Of course, he still felt like he’d been flattened under the Great Temple when he woke up, but he always slept through the actual shift. He met the dawn naked, drained, and somewhat sticky, but being in his own skin again was a boon in its own right.

And this time, he wasn’t alone. He felt Teomitl’s presence before he even attained full consciousness; there was a warm arm flung over him, a head tucked into his neck, long legs tangled with his. He blinked awake slowly, unsure of what to do, but Teomitl took choice out of his hands by murmuring, “Good morning,” against his skin.

He shivered in pleasure as the words wafted over him. “Mm. Good morning, Teomitl.”

“I love you.” It was barely audible. “I told you that last night, didn’t I?”

He had. Effusively. Their late dinner had led to careful kisses and thorough, wanton exploration as Teomitl coaxed him into some semblance of comfort with his transformed state; by the time they’d both finally been exhausted, Acatl had been forced to admit that being three-quarters coyote did have some advantages. With his inexperience, he doubted it would have been quite so easy to reduce Teomitl to incoherence in his human skin.

The memory of those sweet moments made Acatl shiver. “I could hear it again.”

Teomitl kissed him. It was better—far better—when they both had human mouths; he could mold to the shape of his lips, tilt his head just so, feel Teomitl sigh and arch slowly against him. One hand slid into his hair, a gentle caress, as Teomitl pulled away to breathe, “I love you. No matter what shape you take.”

“Oh?” Their noses were still brushing, waking a contented glow in his chest and bringing a smile to his face. He suddenly found himself with the urge to tease. “Even when I’m only a very boring priest, and not—hm, how did you put it. Interesting at all?”

“Boring?!”

By the time they finally got around to breaking their fast, he was more than glad his priests didn’t expect much of him while the moon was full. Teomitl was very, very thorough when it came to showing him how much he was loved.

#obsidian and blood #teomitl #acatl #not work safe #teocatl #paladin writes stuff

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mbti-notes · 4 years

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I am privileged AF (young, no debt, STEM degree, white, born male) and yet I don't want to do anything with my life, I can't even get up from my bed to eat. I have so many possibilities but I don't have any passion, any craving, I don't even feel alive anymore. Everything is a pain in the ass, or I just don't give a fuck. How can I care about my life? Care about anything really? I know I do care but somehow really don't? I feel erased from existence, like it's not me at all. What shoud I do?

You don’t get to choose the circumstances that you’re born into, which is why we often use the phrase “accident of birth”. Whether you’re born into poverty or privilege is of little consequence in terms of “identity” because things that you can’t control should not define who you are. However, people run into problems when they start to believe that accidents of birth define their personal identity, e.g., believing that being born into poverty means that one automatically deserves lesser treatment, believing that being born into privilege means that one automatically deserves better treatment, or believing that genetic heritage or arbitrary achievements make you superior to others. You seem to indicate that you don’t subscribe to these problematic beliefs. Yet you still unwittingly link your privilege to your identity, otherwise you wouldn’t mention it as though you feel guilty for it, otherwise you wouldn’t imply that privilege “should” be bringing you a happy existence.

One good thing that has come out of Western culture is the idea of individuality, i.e., that you are more than the sum of your environmental influences. It is a valuable idea because it facilitates human progress by granting people the freedom to discover their gifts and make unique and creative contributions, in other words, it is a way to ensure that everyone has a role to play in society even when accidents of birth hold them back. However, individuality is a relatively new concept in human history, and I would argue that human beings still do not understand it because most of their attempts to express it are immature and rooted in irrational fears. Individuality states that, no matter your circumstances, you get to choose your attitude, you get to choose how to express yourself and respond to situations, and you get to choose how to make the best use of any gifts and resources you’ve been granted. Have you ever read Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning, which includes his reflections on surviving the holocaust? I’d recommend it to anyone who questions the meaning of their life. Why is it that people living in the same circumstances react so differently? E.g. Some choose surrender, some choose death, some choose to fight, some choose brutality, some choose integrity. To make a “choice” means that there is an agent doing the choosing. To possess a sense of agency and express agency requires individuality. You cannot make real choices when there is no real “you” there to deliberate and decide. But when you don’t know how to decide for yourself, others are more than happy to step in and use you.

You mention that you “feel erased from existence”. What this indicates is that you have no sense of individuality. When you say that you “don’t care about anything”, what you’re really saying is that you don’t care about yourself. There is no “you” to care about, is there? To discover who you really are is called the process of self-actualization. Up until now, you haven’t done anything significant to discover who you really are, what you really need in life, and where your individual purpose lies, have you? Or, if you have, you haven’t gotten very far? One of the downsides of privilege (such as being male in a male-dominated society or being heterosexual in a heteronormative society) is low self-awareness, because you are rarely prompted to question your social role, you are rarely urged to reflect on whether you use your privilege wisely, and you are rarely forced into proving that you deserve your position of relative power. In other words, being an “insider” means that you naturally fit into the order of things and never have to think outside that small box. One reason that the privileged fight so hard to maintain the status quo is because allowing “outsiders” to speak is psychologically threatening, as it forces the insiders to reflect on who they are and whether they really deserve to have more than the people they label “outsiders”.

Privilege aside, many people suffer from no individuality because they are only extrinsically motivated, i.e., they have only lived their life by superficial external standards for the sake of garnering superficial external rewards/privileges, without ever reflecting more deeply on their life direction, much like an automaton executing someone else’s program. They are usually stuck at stages 1-2 ego development. I’ll give you an oversimplified example of extrinsic vs intrinsic motivation: Which child do you think continues to clean their room when the parent stops paying out money? The child who only cleans their room to get a monetary reward (blindly following the parent’s programming), or the child who feels strong inner pride in maintaining cleanliness (personal choice)?

Self-actualization is hard work, it is a personal choice, and you choose it because you understand the value of your life, the value of your time, the value of your gifts, and you want to make the most of them. Many people don’t choose self-actualization because they are afraid of failing, they are afraid of taking full responsibility for each and every decision, and ignorance/complacency is the path of least resistance. However, where does rejecting self-actualization lead you other than apathy or indifference, since there is no “you” to care about and, therefore, no “you” to motivate healthy self-care and self-developing behavior? It’s not that you don’t have a self, it’s that you don’t honor it and listen to it. If there were no self, you wouldn’t feel bad about being apathetic. The definition of apathy is “no interest”, yet that’s not really possible, because you are clearly interested enough to know it’s a problem and want to solve it. How long do you have to be stuck in apathy before you can’t bear the emptiness of it anymore, because it slowly morphs into deep-seated existential pain?

Nobody can make you care when you don’t. Humans are built to care. Care emanates from within, from “the heart”, but you speak as though yours is missing. One of the nice things about being human is that we all have a voice within that guides us and informs us about how to live life well - it is the same voice that prompts you to reach out for help when you’re hurt or lost - that voice is the true capital S “Self” that is always there whether you are aware of it or not. Some might prefer to call it “soul” or “spirit” instead. In any case, it cries out to live life, and it despairs when you reject life. Many people are discouraged from listening to that inner voice because they have been punished for it in childhood, or they feel that they don’t deserve a life of their own, or they are afraid of what might happen when they finally stop and listen.

Therefore, you don’t sit around and wait for something to “make you care” because, once again, you’d trap yourself in the cycle of chasing superficial external rewards; rather, you make a personal choice to care because 1) it is the best way to make good use of your life, and 2) you understand that not caring leads you into emptiness and “death” as you reject your own spirit. Whether you choose to care is nobody else’s concern because we should respect your freedom to live as you see fit, but it should be YOUR concern because it is directly related to who you are and the quality of your life. If you choose not caring, then you choose to be a nobody to no one, to have no influence, to make no impact, thus, to have no real existence - you single-handedly erase yourself from existence. You say you “feel erased”, which indicates that you suffer from passivity or even victim mentality, as though someone has cruelly inflicted this state upon you. Nobody can develop your individuality for you. Without it, you won’t realize that you are always free to choose how to be. At any point, you can choose to take full responsibility for how you live every second of your life rather than twiddling your thumbs or living in fear.

One way to look at privilege is that it grants you economic power and social capital that you didn’t earn for yourself. When you don’t properly earn something, you might develop an irrational fear of losing it, you are much less likely to appreciate it, and you are far more likely to take its positive aspects for granted. And when you no longer see the positive, what are you left with if not just the negative (or the “pain in the asses” as you put it)? It’s hard to appreciate privilege when you don’t really understand what it means to live without it or how hard some people work to obtain it (and perhaps still fail to). Many privileged parents actually damage their child’s psychological development by never allowing them to face any real challenges in life (sheltering them), by telling them that privilege is their birthright, by telling them they “should” be happy for an easy life, or that winning the genetic lottery is what makes them “special”. Many people believe that having all of their physical and material desires taken care of is the road to happiness, but it isn’t. There’s a reason we use different words to describe concepts like “body”, “mind”, and “spirit” or “soul”. Feeding the body isn’t the same as nourishing your soul.

Fulfillment comes from the arduous process of learning how to live your best life, which includes taking the initiative to confront your life’s challenges, problems, and obstacles as well as succeeding or failing by your own hand. If you allow privilege to shield you from proper hard work, then you rob yourself of the chance to learn about who you really are and what you’re really made of. When you define yourself with empty markers of success, like accidents of birth or unearned privilege, you don’t develop a personal identity and then “my life” remains a meaningless concept. Have you ever read the story of the Buddha, a man raised as royalty in the lap of luxury but then walked away from privilege because disillusionment prompted him to explore the true meaning of life? He listened to the voice within, found something that worked for him, and that is what each of us needs to do. We each need to set out on our own journey of self-actualization, to find our true individuality, to live to our unique potential. Privilege can be a cage as much as a blessing. Whatever your circumstances, a true individual would never accept a caged life, no matter how gilded the cage, because it means giving up the freedom for self-exploration.

You care about life when your individuality and becoming a person of substance matters to you (intrinsic motivation) a lot more than chasing empty/fleeting rewards (extrinsic motivation). To be an individual means that you are your own savior first, so you don’t sit around waiting for one. Unless you’re brave enough to break free of your “automaton” life, nothing will really change, will it? It’s not your fault that you were born into privilege or granted privilege by society, but it is your fault if you keep choosing to hide behind it to the point that you never connect with anything, never recognize your potential, never grow, and never become anything - think of it as self-violence. It’s not about feeling guilty for squandering what you have, it’s about reflecting seriously on why you would ever choose the self-inflicted pain of living a spiritually dead life.

#self actualization #individuality #intrinsic motivation #extrinsic motivation #meaning of life #apathy #privilege #happiness #fulfillment #self violence #individuation #development #spirituality #ask

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aconstellationofmemories · 5 years

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Of Nightmares and Promises Chapter 1: Juvia

I had a vision of this chapter when I wrote my review for @sweetmemories2606 fic, I Failed. I forgot about it until I started writing Gruvia. Thank you to @unicornbeauty290 for giving her seal that this is good enough to publish.

Word Count: 1.9k

Also on AO3.

Year X792, 6 Months Pre-Avatar

Gray and Juvia had embarked on a mission together in a neighbouring town. Juvia was ecstatic that he had chosen to go only with her. Her ‘love rival’ that was Lucy wasn’t around to interfere with them.

They were walking side-by-side on the streets. It was just the two of them… Juvia was giddy from all the possibilities she imagined with Gray.

“Juvia.”

“Y-yes, Gray-sama?”

“I’ve been meaning to tell you…”

Tell Juvia?

Could this be the moment where he finally confessed his love to Juvia? Is that why he chose to go with her on this mission?

Juvia was hyperventilating in anticipation of his next words.

“…about my father…”

She deflated at the mention of Silver. She still hadn’t reconciled with herself for what she had done.

Maybe Gray realised he couldn’t truly forgive her.

Her gaze dropped in shame.

Because she was looking at the ground, she lost sight of her surroundings and let her guard down.

“Juvia!”

The next thing she knew, Gray abruptly pushed her to the side. She fell to the ground with a thud.

A gunshot rang out in the silent street.

No, that can’t be what Juvia thinks it is…

She turned her head in time to see Gray collapse onto the ground. “Gray-sama!”

Juvia immediately surveyed the buildings and found the sniper – their target – who shot Gray on a rooftop. Enraged, she launched Water Nebula directly at him. Before he had the chance to dodge, her attack struck him and sent him flying in the air.

With the danger wiped out, Juvia hurried to where Gray was lying on the ground. He had been shot in the chest. His eyes were closed, his body unmoving.

There was too much blood…he was losing so much blood… Juvia was quickly losing grip of her sanity.

“No, no, no…this cannot be happening,” her voice broke as she started to sob. His body was a terrifyingly cold and limp in her arms.

Why wouldn’t Gray-sama move?!

Please, just move an inch…

All of a sudden, she felt a presence in the air in front of them. When she lifted her gaze, she was rendered speechless.

“You were supposed to take care of him.”

Silver manifested into being before her very eyes. He spoke the words calmly, his words dripping with disappointment, each one a dagger to her heart.

But they weren’t what shattered her.

It was his next words which sealed her fate.

“And because you failed, he’s gone.”

________________________________________

“Gray-sama!”

Juvia woke up with a start, her chest heaving with her laboured breaths. Her heart pounded against her ribcage. She felt as though there weren’t enough oxygen in the air for her overworked lungs.

“Are you okay, Juvia?!”

Gray burst into the room and rushed to her side instantly. His worried voice pierced through her fog. She regained some of her consciousness.

It is all right, Juvia. It was just a dream.

She forced herself to calm her breathing. In, out. In, out. She mustered a weak smile for him. “Yes, Gray-sama, Juvia is fine,” she assured him, careful not to let her voice break. “Juvia just had a nightmare.”

She didn’t want him to worry over such a small thing. After all, that’s all it was. A nightmare. It wasn’t real. At least, that’s what she repeated to herself. Then why does it feel so real?

Gray frowned, clearly not believing her lie. Juvia snapped out of the leftover emotions from the nightmare as it dawned on her – Gray-sama is worried about Juvia! With hearts in her eyes and a dreamy expression, she clasped her hands together and faced Gray directly.

“Gray-sama,” she said in a flirtatious tone. “Could it be Juvia has a special place in your heart for you check on her this late?”

Flustered by her sudden change in demeanour, Gray immediately withdrew away from her. “You screamed my name in the middle of the night! Who won’t check on you?” he exclaimed, feeling somewhat awkward to be called out on his concern for her.

Returning to his normal self, he straightened and glanced down at her. “Well, seeing how you’re fine now…” he said, his worry still present in his eyes.

Juvia blinked out of her fantasy. She looked down guiltily. “Juvia is sorry to have disturbed you.”

Gray knew she wasn’t completely okay, but he didn’t want to push her. He turned around and raised a hand in a wave. “Good night,” he said nonchalantly.

“Good night.”

With the door shut behind him, Juvia crashed back to earth. She slumped back on her bed with a sigh.

Juvia had another nightmare.

She started having them after she’d killed off Keith the necromancer and thus Silver’s spirit. Initially, they were few and far between, until it gradually progressed to be a common occurrence. Not only did they become frequent, but they also grew more intense. Juvia always woke up feeling drained.

Her nightmares always revolved around the same theme: Juvia wouldn’t make it to Gray in time and Silver would look disappointed at the end.

For all this time, Juvia secretly felt guilty for killing Silver through Keith. She had confessed to Gray to her deed, and was fully prepared to walk of out his life.

Instead, he did the last thing she expected him to – he forgave her and clung to her to stay.

Gray may have forgiven her, but Juvia wasn’t able to forgive herself. Not when she brought sadness to her Gray. If she hadn’t finished off Keith then, Gray wouldn’t have lost his father for the second time.

Gray-sama would have had more time with his father.

Thus, the guilt continued to linger in her heart. It built up to the point where it followed Juvia to her dreams as a constant reminder of the spirit she killed and the promise she made to him. Even in the still of the night, there wasn’t any escape for Juvia from the clutches of her guilt.

It was slowly taking a toll on her, mentally and physically. She began sleeping later in an useless attempt to delay the suffering which awaited her. There was no reprieve.

Juvia had to be careful the next time or Gray would be alerted to her nightmares. The last thing she wanted was to be a cause of worry for Gray and add to his burdens.

When will the nightmares end for Juvia?

As much as she tried to, she couldn’t shake off the ominous feeling in her gut. Juvia feared the nightmares would never stop until they morphed into her reality.

Silver had entrusted Gray to her before he passed. She tearfully promised she would, and she was determined to keep her word. Even if it was the last thing she did, she would protect Gray until her last breath.

With her conviction firmly set, she inhaled deeply and closed her eyes. Be brave, Juvia. She wouldn’t cower and run – she will face her demons for Gray.

Juvia will never let anyone harm Gray-sama.

______________________________________

Year X792, Alvarez Empire

“Well then, I invite you to kill each other at your leisure.”

In the blink of an eye, they were both chained by Invel’s Ice Lock.

Gray tried to break it, but it was a futile attempt. It would only come off once one of them was down.

This is the last thing Juvia wants, but her body is betraying her. Against her will, she initiated her attacks against Gray.

Gray, too, lost control over his body as he countered her attacks. Even Gray couldn’t resist the power of the Ice Lock.

Why is Juvia hurting Gray-sama?! This cannot be happening! It is not possible! Juvia could never hurt Gray-sama…

She secretly willed Gray to finish her off. No, that must not happen either! Gray-sama would certainly blame himself!

Thus, she decided, there was only one acceptable choice.

She lifted her arm and created a swirl of water above her hand before it sharpened into a blade.

It is all right. Juvia must gather her courage.

She cast one final glance at Gray and smiled fondly at him. “Juvia was truly fortunate to have met someone like you, Gray-sama.”

She stabbed herself in the abdomen.

Gray’s shocked expression stared back at her. “Why…did…you…do…it, too?!” he gritted out.

Juvia’s eyes widened in horror. “No, Gray-sama!”

Merely a few moments after her, Gray had also stabbed himself in the abdomen with an ice sword.

Juvia had been right about the nightmares. The very thing she’d been terrified of was being realised in front of her eyes. Even in the real world, she failed to save Gray.

No, it wasn’t supposed to be like this…

“I don’t want to hurt a friend… No… I don’t want…to hurt you!” he said, his voice filled with anguish. “I wanted…to protect…you…but I…”

“No, you have made Juvia very happy, Gray-sama…” she said with a gentle smile, tears in her eyes.

Their bodies unable to hold out any longer, they collapsed to the frozen ground simultaneously. Within seconds, a pool of blood formed underneath them.

Having served its purpose, the Ice Lock which trapped them together melted into the air.

______________________________________

Everything was black.

Besides her body which was mysteriously illuminated, Juvia couldn’t see anything in the complete darkness.

Where is Juvia? What happened?

She felt bewildered. Juvia had the feeling that she was missing out on an important piece to the puzzle. She couldn’t place her finger on what exactly.

Out of nowhere, she was hit by a sharp pain in her midsection. She fell to the ground in excruciating pain. Along with the terrible sensation, Juvia’s memories slowly filtered back to her.

Gray-sama. Invel. The blizzard, Ice Lock…

She gasped.

Juvia and Gray-sama’s double suicide.

Gray-sama’s life is in danger!

With that realisation, Juvia ignored the immense pain and pushed on. She couldn’t afford to fade out now. She wouldn’t fail this time.

Not when Gray-sama needs Juvia.

She mustered what little strength she had left for one last spell.

Water Make: Blood.

Juvia took precautions in case anything happened to you, Gray-sama. This is a blood transfusion magic Juvia learned in secret.

Juvia lives on within your body, Gray-sama. So there is no need to grieve, for Juvia’s life is yours, Gray-sama.

It broke her heart that she wouldn’t be by his side when he woke up. She wouldn’t have the future she’d long desired with him.

So long as Gray-sama lives, Juvia is happy.

But this is enough for Juvia.

“Juvia.”

She froze in apprehension. It was a voice all too familiar. One she had heard many times in her dreams.

She lifted her head to check, slightly afraid of what she would see.

To her relief, Silver stood before her with a warm fatherly smile on his face.

In her dreams, he always appeared disappointed by her.

For this last time, Juvia was glad to have made him proud and seen him smile at her.

“I was right to have left Gray in your care.”

She felt happy to have heard his words. She wouldn’t be alive anymore in a bit, but she was satisfied. She had no regrets.

“Juvia fulfilled her promise, father.” She smiled contentedly, teetering on the edge of her consciousness.

“Thank you.” The warmth and gratitude in his words caressed her battered heart.

And the world was once again engulfed in total darkness.

#gruvia #gruvia fanfic #my fanfic #my fic #gray fullbuster #juvia lockser #silver fullbuster #gray x juvia #fairy tail fanfic #fairy tail #グレジュビ

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unfortunate-stranger-losers · 4 years

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All Those Things They Couldn’t Say - A Runaway Baudelaires AU

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Chapter Forty-Two - The Heimlich Hospital Fire

It was a few hours later when the henchpeople came for their prisoners. When they came Bertrand and Beatrice were still sobbing, and Quigley was as close to them as he could get, though also curled into a ball on the floor and holding himself, trying to block out the rest of the world. When Beatrice realized there were people in the room, she broke away from her husband, whom she’d been holding, and started screaming and hurling herself at them. They were all a bit concerned, but eventually Olaf came in, angrily informing them that Esme was setting up and they’d have to hurry. When he came, Beatrice looked at him with absolute fire, but she also froze over, the pain in her foot shooting towards her, so by the time Olaf had pulled her back and gotten the handcuffs on it was too late to do much other than glare and cry.

Her and Bertrand were handcuffed before removed from the wall, and some kind of gag thrown over their mouths. They heard orders and threats whispered around them- don’t make any noise, we’ll give you something to cry about if you don’t shut up, but they barely processed enough to get moving when Olaf gave a kick to Bertrand’s shins to get him to move. He glanced back, too, just once as they left the room, and saw Fernald and the Henchperson heading for Quigley. Something in him calmed slightly when he saw the Henchperson gently touch the boy’s shoulder, whispering something cautious to him, but that thought was gone when he was pushed through the door, and he lost sight of the child.

Once in the hall, they were moved to another room, where they had some drug or another injected into them- they thought for a while it was the knockout, but after a few minutes their heads got too bleary, and yet their eyes remained open; some kind of opiate, likely. Enough to keep them sedated and unable to do much fighting, but only just enough that they remained awake to see what would happen.

They lost track of what was happening next- they might’ve been moved again, might’ve been pushed, might’ve been hurt. They only remembered a few things- their minds flashed to Violet, wherever she was, trapped and alone, and how they had to find a way to save her, she was their daughter they had to find her. Then they flashed to Quigley- was he still in the cellar? What had they done to him? And Klaus and Sunny, lost and alone and in so much danger. And at one point, Bertrand managed to slide his hand into his wife’s. They noticed that.

Then when they gained their attention back, they were being put somewhere- beneath bleachers, Beatrice guessed, she’d been on a soccer team in her youth and remembered hiding under the bleachers to make out with Lemony, and thus recognized the thin strips of light between each row, the thumps and clangs as people started going up and down the seats. Their handcuffs were chained around a support beam, meaning the two of them were a few feet too far from each other. Beatrice didn’t like that, but even if the drugs and the gag weren’t keeping her from voicing her displeasure, the pain that would jolt across her whole body reminded her to keep her mouth shut and her head low.

When they looked ahead, they could see just enough through the rows to see the room they were in. The hospital’s operating theatre, apparently- large, circular, with crumbling gray walls and a stage just in their viewpoint. They heard a clacking of heels as Esme stepped onstage, waving to the viewers as if they were her delighted fans, and a rolling of wheels as a gurney was pushed onstage. And they both felt their hearts sink as, squinting through the bleachers, they saw their daughter, atop the table. Her hands were strapped to the sides with rope, her legs bound together, and her hair had fallen over her face. Even from the distance, they could tell she looked pale, and was breathing too slowly.

Bertrand started to cry again, and Beatrice held still. She could sense someone behind them- Olaf? Another henchperson to guard? Probably Olaf, he loved to watch them suffer. The rest of the troupe was probably scattered around the theatre, waiting for the trap to begin.

And begin it did, as Esme threw up her arms and said, “Friends and enemies, welcome to the Heimlich Hospital Operating Theatre! I am your Nurse, and once our brilliant doctors arrive, we will begin our cranioectomy! The world’s first cranioectomy, attempted on a teenage girl who was all too happy to volunteer.”

The Baudelaire parents were nearly deafened by cheers from the rows above them. Beatrice wondered if they’d be heard over these people even without the gag. She glanced from side to side, trying to sharpen her mind and knock off the opiate, to figure out a way out. Bertrand, meanwhile, kept his teary eyes locked on Violet.

That was, until the door opened. They heard the slam, and Beatrice jumped with surprise, and Bertrand shut his eyes for a second, trying to stop the flow of panicked tears.

“And right on cue.” Esme said, her voice low and sweet. “Our wonderful doctors, here to do their job.”

Beatrice looked to Bertrand, who still had his eyes shut, and then tuned back towards the stage, trying to peer through. She’d gotten pretty good at looking through bleachers, in case her and Lemony heard something and wanted to make sure they weren’t about to be surprised. Tears sprang to her eyes again as images of Lemony flashed before her, and she struggled to focus.

“These two associates of mine,” Esme was saying, as they heard more nervous footsteps on the stage, “Are Doctor Tocuna and Nurse Flo. Why don’t you give them a big, wonderful welcome?”

How could she enjoy this so much? Beatrice wondered as the crowd thundered with applause above and around them. Why would she enjoy causing innocent children to suffer? She peered through the bleachers again and felt her heart stop as she saw the careful shoes of one of the “doctors” approach- oh, God. Oh, Klaus, run, please…

“Now, as you know,” Esme said, and they heard a paper unrolling- she must be showing a poster, just out of their sight, “A cranioectomy- Nurse Flo, hold this knife and stand over the body. Make sure everyone can see the knife, alright?” A bit of a pause, and then a laugh. “Yes, wouldn’t want that to slip in front of everyone, would you?”

Beatrice lost sight for a moment as someone in the bleachers leaned down to whisper something to the person in front of them. Beatrice strained at the pole, hoping they’d hear the chains clanking, but they did not, and when they sat up, she only had sight of Esme and a figure behind the gurney. A knife was held above Violet’s body, as if floating. Her whole body tensed up and she felt so, so cold.

“So, as I was saying,” Esme continued, “A cranioectomy is a procedure in which the patient’s head is removed. Scientists have discovered that many health problems are rooted in the brain, so that the best thing to do with a sick patient is remove it. However, a cranioectomy is as dangerous as it is necessary. There is a chance that our dear, ugly little Laura V Bleediotie…” Esme’s heels clanked as she stepped in front of the gurney, leaning on it and likely smirking down at Violet’s unconscious face. “Well, she could very well die while the operation is being performed. But sometimes one must risk accidents in order to cure illness. Isn’t that right, Doctor?”

There was a pause, and then a shaky voice. “Of course it’s right, Nurse. A patient’s death would be a terrible accident. One might think we’d want to wait until-”

“No waiting necessary. This is as safe as it will get.” As Esme threw her hand out, Bertrand shot a quick look to Beatrice. She returned it, her heart pounding. “Come along then, Doctor. Once this is done, we can move on to our next location. To perform more cranioectomies for more distinguished hospitals.”

“Yes…”

“To more patients, some of them much bigger than others- wouldn’t you like to meet such patients-”

“Yes, yes!”

“Well, then, why don’t you begin? Slice around her neck- no, Nurse, knife in view. That’s the point of an operating theatre, so everyone can see everything.”

“We know what an operating theatre is. But my associate cannot hold her hand up forever.”

“Well, then, you take the knife from her and cut off her head. We don’t want…” a threatening step forward. “We don’t want any accidents to happen. Someone’s head exploding, for instance. Or too much loss of blood. Or someone to walk in and see who is here, hm?”

“Of course, Nurse.”

“Now, tell your Nurse to give you the knife so you can give these fine people a show, and then you can leave. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Beatrice and Bertrand shared another look as Esme walked a little forwards, spreading her arms for another audience cheer. Though it was hard to see each other in the dark, they could tell they were thinking the same thing. And when they glanced back, they were just in time to see a knife- very, very slowly- cut through the rope between Violet’s legs, before the “nurse” returned to her station behind the gurney.

“Now.” Esme turned, smiling. “Nurse Flo, could you…”

She paused, and Beatrice almost smiled, then. Her face, which had been triumphant, taunting, now just showed confusion.

There was a long silence, as she stepped forwards, her heels clicking again. Then she pointed a shaky finger at the nurse, and said, “Weren’t you… shorter?”

The Nurse looked at her, and then smiled.

“It may not be particularly wise,” she said, her voice rising in the suddenly quiet theatre.

And with that, the Doctor took another knife from his pocket and cut through the bonds trying Violet’s hands.

“But it’s a thrill to be disguised.”

And with that, the girl grabbed the end of the gurney, tossed her knife at Esme, who only barely managed to dodge, and shouted, “Stranger Danger!”

The boy hopped on the edge of the gurney, ripping his surgeon’s mask from his face, and called out, “That’s all, folks!”

And then the boy took off running.

Beatrice tried to let out a muffled cheer, but was unable to even make much noise before another knockout drug was jammed into her arm.

“Hurry it up, we haven’t got all day!” Duncan shouted.

“I’m sorry, do you want to push a gurney with two people on it?” Isadora called as she ran the gurney into a door, throwing the doors open.

“We agreed that I physically could not, which is why you are here.”

“Then don’t judge, and let’s hurry it up!”

Duncan nodded, and then slowly lifted Violet, repositioning her so that he could see her face. “Violet, come on. Wake up. Violet…”

His plan had worked so far, but that didn’t mean it was smooth sailing from here. But it really was their best bet- Olaf’s troupe was expecting a boy and a toddler, not a boy and his triplet sister who could easily get a gurney off a stage. Klaus and Sunny were outside, getting their ride, and as soon as they bust through the front doors…

“Attention!”

Isadora nearly froze, leaping with shock as Olaf’s cold voice rang out across the speakers. But even as she kept running, she and her brother heard the announcement, ringing clear as day.

“The Library of Records has, unfortunately, set on fire. The blaze was believed to have been begun by five midget children, at least three of whom are in the hospital right now. A reward will be given to those who apprehend these arsonists. Oh, also, you’re… probably going to want to evacuate the patients or something.”

“Oh, well, that’s just peachy!” Isadora groaned, and she turned a bend so sharply with the cart that it rattled, nearly falling over.

“Watch the wheels!”

“I’m trying!”

Duncan opened his mouth to retort, until he saw a slight stirring under his eyes. He looked down, beaming. “Violet! Violet, wake up, we’re almost out!”

She was fidgeting slightly, her mouth curled in a look of discomfort. He lifted her and managed to hold her as best he could as the cart rattled through, and Isadora reached the stairwell. “Okay, we’re gonna have to carry her down, there’s no elevator in this place.”

“Also you shouldn’t use elevators in a fire. You could get stuck.”

“Duncan, just help me.”

Duncan nodded and slid from the gurney, flinching as he hit the ground. He managed to pull Violet a little off the table, just enough for Isadora to grab the unconscious teenager and throw her over her shoulders.

“You got her?”

“Yeah. Get the door?”

Duncan held open the door, waited for Isadora to go, and then the two of them charged down, taking the steps three at a time if need be, almost sliding into the walls with how fast they were moving.

Violet blinked open her eyes when they reached the second floor landing, but she didn’t manage to speak until they were halfway down the stairs. “Wh-what the… what?”

“Violet!” Duncan cheered, as jumped down to the first floor. “You’re awake!”

“Wh- what ha- why were you- what?”

“Don’t talk, you are probably still on a lot of drugs.” Isadora said. Duncan ran for the door, and she kept to his heels. “You’re going to be okay, just-”

Duncan opened the door, and they instantly ducked down as a giant plume of smoke burst over their heads.

“Fuck!” Isadora shouted, ducking down just before her or Violet could breathe it in. Duncan threw himself to the ground, shouting as he hit the floor but still instinctively throwing his arms over himself.

“Okay, okay, new plan.” Isadora muttered. She knelt down, struggling to hold Violet’s weight like this, and peering through the smoke. “Vi-girl, can you move?”

Violet blinked. “What’s going on?”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“Wh-where’re- where’re-”

“Klaus and Sunny are outside, we need to crawl just a few feet. We’re close to the entrance.” Isadora promised. “Duncan, we- Duncan!”

Duncan was still curled on the ground, and when he glanced up at her, Isadora saw the panic in his eyes.

“Is- Isa- Isa it’s- it’s the fire again- it’s a fire again it’s so much smoke we have to- we have to run- why did we let Dad go back for Quigley and Mom, why couldn’t we- why-”

Isadora froze, and then her heart broke.

She scooted over, managing to maneuver a hand over her triplet’s shoulder. “We’re not home, Duncan. We have to run.”

“I- I can’t go out there-”

“You can.” Isadora said, her voice breaking. “Duncan Dylan Quagmire, we are not dying here. We have to get to Klaus and Sunny and get Violet out of here.”

Duncan opened his mouth, glancing between Isadora and Violet on her shoulders. “I…” he started to cry, but he nodded. “I just-”

“If I recall correctly- and I’m no Quigley, but I’m pretty good with directions-” Isadora said, “We should just have one turn on the hall before we reach the exit. To the right. Do you think you can grab my foot?”

“What?”

“I’m going to go through with my head low, to avoid the smoke. You can crawl because you’re not carrying a human person, but you could hold on to me so we don’t split. Can you do it?”

Duncan hesitantly nodded, then grabbed Isadora’s ankle.

“Let’s go.” she said. “Violet, hold on.”

Violet mumbled something and fluttered her eyes shut, and Isadora took off. She moved as fast as she dared with her friend on her back and her brother grabbing at her foot, taking several steps forward and ducking as low as she could. She glanced up every now and again, when she thought it was safe, to see where the smoke was blowing. Hopefully she would be able to tell when the hall ended… wait, better idea. She scooted slightly to the side, moving the group until she could see the thin wall beside her. She picked up the pace some more, and moved until she saw the wall turn into a corner.

“We’re gonna turn!” she had to shout, as there were sounds of screaming coming from every other hall, the pounding of the smoke bursting past, and what sounded like an alarm, somewhere in the distance.

She turned, and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the front doors of the hospital were open, letting enough smoke out that she could stand a bit more upright. Duncan carefully got to his feet beside her, and Violet muttered something about being able to stand if they held her arms, though they didn’t have time to move her until someone turned around.

“Hey! Are those the arsonist kids?”

Shit.

Isadora shook her head, wordless terror gripping her, and Duncan grabbed her arm.

Someone started towards them, and then suddenly, there was a burst of smoke before them. Duncan and Isadora jumped, terror hitting them as people starting running and shouting that the fire reached us, keep going!

When the smoke in front of them cleared, however, they saw no fire, but just Klaus, Sunny in one arm and the other hand outstretched.

“Smokebomb!” he called. “Violet!”

Isadora ran to him, and he helped her get Violet down, both of them putting an arm under her while Duncan took Sunny. “What are you doing?” he asked. “We said to wait outside!”

“That was before the hospital caught fire!”

“You could get hurt!”

“And so could you!” Duncan reminded him.

“Eyi!” Sunny groaned. “Argue when we’re not in a burning building, please.”

They nodded, and started rushing out the doors, eventually managing to mingle among a crowd outside. Duncan grabbed Klaus’s free arm, making the children a decent chain, and Klaus managed to direct them to the street, where a white van had parked half-hazardly against the curb.

“I’ll drive, get her and Sunny in the backseat.” he said.

They nodded and Duncan raced to the door, throwing it open. Isadora leapt in, helping Violet up and laying her down on the seat. Duncan passed Sunny to her and then ran to the shotgun seat. Once his door was closed, he said, “What’re we doing now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where are we going?”

“I don’t know.” Klaus turned in his seat, eyes scanning over the girls. “Violet, are you okay? What’s wrong? What did he do?”

Violet blinked and shook her head to clear it. Sunny reached over, putting a tiny hand on her hair, helping to push it back.

“I-” Violet shook slightly. “I- Klaus, we-”

Duncan glanced out the window, and then said, “Duck!”

They all ducked down without question, and when Klaus plucked up the courage to peer up, he saw the Hook-Handed Man, carrying something large in his arms, rush to a black car, parked close to the building.

“We need to go before they see us.” Klaus muttered. “Or before the owner of this car finds it.”

“We could wait til they drive and go in the opposite direction.” Duncan suggested.

Violet shook her head, and sat up a bit more; Isadora threw out an arm to put around her. “N-no…”

“No?” Klaus looked back at her, panic in his eyes.

“No.” she shook her head, and then managed to say, “I- we have to follow him.”

“Are you insane?” Isadora snapped.

“She’s drugged.” Duncan reminded her.

Violet shook her head, grabbing Sunny’s hand. “I- I can think straight for now, I think. I… we have to go after him.”

“Violet, we are not-”

“Klaus.” Violet turned to him, and blinked away tears. “He has our parents.”

“Violet, I know-”

“They’re here.”

Klaus froze.

Sunny was the one who spoke next. “Amop?” “You saw them?”

Violet shuddered and nodded.

“They’re here. And- and someone else, I think- he has them and we need to get them out-”

Klaus shook his head. “He’ll notice us following him.”

“We’ll keep our distance. Or we can slash his tires or something.” Violet said. She pulled her hair back, thinking hard. “Once his car’s stopped, we get our parents and kill him.”

“Violet-”

“I know what he can do, Klaus.” Violet said. Slowly, she held up her hand, and Klaus jumped to see a new, fresh slash across her palm. “I know. He’s a monster.” she shook, and then shut her eyes. “So we have to get our parents out of there. We have to kill him before he can kill anyone else.”

Klaus looked between the Quagmires. After a second, Isadora’s eyes hardened, and she nodded. Duncan sighed, shrugged, and said, “Yeah, let’s go murder the ass.”

Finally, he looked to Sunny, and Sunny gave him a smile and a thumbs-up.

“Sometimes I worry about you.” Klaus said to the toddler, who stuck out her tongue.

As he shifted the car into Drive, watching the window for when the black car would drive off, Sunny reached to the ground and flipped up the top pouch of Klaus’s bag.

“File.” she said.

Violet blinked in confusion, and then realized and smiled.

“We have the file.” she whispered, as Klaus hit the gas. “The Baudelaire file.”

#asoue #asoue netflix #a series of unfortunate events #runaway baudelaires au #asoue fanfiction #the hostile hospital #all those things they couldn't say #mine #my fanfic

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seb-owns-these-tatas · 4 years

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Chapter 6 (Winter’s Gem) (Bucky Barnes AU)

CHAPTER 5

Characters: Bucky Barnes x You (AU)

Summary: Bucky Barnes has been scouted by your boss in Felicity Night, you were just a mere young, cleaner in Felicity night and have been living in the basement of the club for all your life. He's the most wanted Gigolo in the city, and taking him away from eager, thirsty women seemed to be impossible especially if he chose to be a Gigolo as his way of living.

Warning: Profanities. Detailed making out. Inappropriate words. ONE THIRSTY PROTAGONIST IN THE HOUSE. You'll thank me later! *wink wink nudge nudge*

Words: 3,500 words.

A/N: This chapter is long again! Hehehehe! REBLOG, LIKE AND COMMENT AS YOU READ! GO CRAZY!

Disclaimer: PNG's and pictures aren't mine. However, the whole series, one shots and edits are from moi.

Taglists: @damnbuckyishot @yn-the-reader @iwillmakeyoucraveme @willpoch12 @anxiousamandapanda

As you began to walk away from your friend, and his patriotic best friend Steve Rogers. Bucky was patient enough to walk you towards the hall. His metal hand grasping tight on your waist with your heart fluttering every once in a while as you stared up at his breathtaking, side profile.

"You're undeniably beautifuuuuuul," You muttered prolonging the 'u' with a tiny pout included. Your eyes glimmering from the beauty who stood beside you. Bucky had no difficulty in carrying your drunk self up in his room, and you were entirely thanking your drunk self that you were intoxicated because this was the first time that you'll be sneaking in a peep to see Bucky's room.

That is if you're only having a peep.

Your compliment caught his attention, making him glance down at you who kept looking at him like how you stare down at your food, completely hypnotized. He smiled a precious one, staring at your lips. "Not as beautiful as you, Y/N."

"I plan to disappoint, Booki."

He scoffed, shaking his head. "Hop, hop baby." Bucky muttered, his fingers clasping tighter when your foot got caught on one of the stairs leading the way towards his private room. You could only giggle, arm tightening around Bucky's neck in which he didn't mind at all. He was already basically carrying you way up, and you've wanted nothing more than to roll your eyes at him and tell that he should've carried you bridal style instead.

He just made himself suffer.

You blew air on his ear, making him go. "What the hell? Y/N.." Sounding irritated by how you blew on his ear, though the stunned irritation instantly faded from the moment he saw you pouting, eyes seeming to be a little watery from the intoxication, and cheeks slightly blushing. "Please don't hurt me," He stopped his steps, dragging you from his halt. Immediately staring down at you, his breathtaking, Steele blue eyes memorizing each and every part of your face that he didn't want to forget.

He repeatedly prayed to the heavens for that. Every damn day.

"I was just trying to be sweet," You quickly responded, scared that he would hate you too just like how your mother does and basically how other people sees you. A complete utter eyesore. Pain began seering your heart once the memories came crushing down on you like a brick. Your mother. The only woman and family in your life who happens to do nothing but inject pain and frustration in your fucked up life. She was one of a kind. A horrible kind.

Bucky licked his lips that seemed to turn dry when he realized how you took his response, interpretting it very differently. Totally a miscommunication especially when you're drunk and emotional. "Everything's new to me, everything's brand new. I know I'm starting to not make sense but," You paused, swallowing the saliva choking up your throat. "I know I'm one crazy, hopeless, lonely bitch. I'm giving you a heads up and one final chance for you to run the hills because you're in a relationship with an ugly janitress,"

Bucky looked at you incredulously, your words coming at him like a missile. He couldn't believe how low your self-esteem were. Totally opposite to what he sees from his perspective. You were basically the medicine to his sickness. No pun intended. He licked his lips, his mind completely elsewhere, finding the right words on how to respond to your rant.

His powdery steel blue eyes was set on you, adoring that certain glint in your eyes that made him want to keep you on his side at all costs, and dang was he whipped without him knowing. "Doll, you're not a bitch," Bucky muttered, lifting a hand to brush his thumb on your cheekbone like a person touching roses, "and I definitely won't run the hills because I'm dating a one of a kind janitress," He emphasized, his thumb tenderly caressing your face that made you feel electricity coursing through your face.

You instinctively took his hand that was affectionately holding your cheek, and your heart skipped a beat when he leaned in to press a kiss on your slightly pimpled forehead. One of your insecurities besides the fact that you had a high hairline. "Now, let's erase those horrid thoughts of yours, alright Sugar?" Your amazing boyfriend whispered in your ear before tugging you with him as you padded through the stairs, continuing your journey.

"Buckyyyyy," you slurred, drowsily blinking as you were watching your own foot step up the last stair. The world was spinning around you, just like a kaleidoscope world but with Bucky in it and it wasn't entirely horrible. Your gorgeously insane boyfriend hummed a reply, waiting for your response as his hands tightened around your waist, dragging you off and turning another hallway to get to your destination.

"Ppo-Ppo?" your words entertained him. He heard that as 'po-po' and thought you were planning on calling security for practically kidnapping you and planning to let you sleep in his headquarters. Simply to say, his room. "What?" he snickered, lowly cackling from your drunken slurs. "You seriously want to call the police on me, Doll?"

You shook your head hard in disagreement.

Bucky's brows were left in a curious twist that made him pucker his lips in thought, suddenly stopping in your tracks. "Then what, Doll? What do you want?" he cooed, the ends of his tone sounding so tender, so sweet that it could make ants bite you for being so lucky in having him. Despite of his occupation inside the club you were working on, Felicity night.

He had your chin in between his index finger and thumb, gently lifting your head till your droopy eyes met his pale-blue ones that could make your toes curl in enthusiasm. Bucky hummed another soft reply, patiently waiting for your next words. "Kiss me?" you boldly puckered your lips out, tightly closing your eyes as you waited for him to just give you the peck you wanted.

Barnes was left gobsmacked. Staring at your pouted lips angled before him. The more longer he gets to be with you, the more so you surprise him with your characteristics and personality. He couldn't help himself but giggle and chuckle, never hesitating to lean down and give you a loud peck as he puckered his lips back, brushing his dewy, Crimson lips with yours. A satisfying smooch sound leaving his lips once he broke the peck.

"Is that good now?" the latter bluntly asked with a smirk.

You nodded repeatedly, satisfied with the reserved kiss he had just given, giggling in the process of your drunken slurs. "For now, my prince. This frog hasn't turned into a princess yet. Your kiss sucked," emphasis ended on your words.

James couldn't help but raise a brow at that, his smile never ceasing to drop whenever you were in his arms. "You'll get more kisses back in my room," he rasped, the pitch in his voice dropping an octave lower. Sounding utterly sexy for your panties to take.

The loud music faltered and faded as you took the last turn towards his room. Illuminated hallway. Red carpeted floor and dove white painted walls. The floor seemed too familiar for you, thus having a glimpse of a huge double door sat beside Bucky's room distracted your drunken stupor.

It was the boss' room.

Hence, why does your Bucky get to have the same floor as hers? Unlike the others who had their rooms on the second and yours which was unluckily down on the basement, living with the rats and mythical ghosts.

She scrambled onto her feet, giving the big boss' room a double take to verify the images appearing before her if it was true. The gentle, constant pull of her hips from the bewitching metal-armed man who kept on tugging your annoying self towards the the room he unfortunately owned and was given by the person whom must not be named in Winter's point of view.

Straight-grained, reddish brown timber of three tropical hardwood species came into view, your eyes were dreary, pie-eyed prior to your inebriation and also maybe because of a certain gorgeous, handsome motherfucker who managed to keep your mind in a daze despite of how he was doing such simple actions that could get you beguiled.

Bucky inserted the key he had been fumbling around his grey sweatpants; an accustomed measure in which he has been used to back when he was in Maximum Risk. Keeping his sanctuary safe from people whom you cannot trust is just around the corner, especially when he had that particular kind of job where people had the feeling of revenge in the palm of their hands.

He was still aware of people, ever had been since he was a child.

Basically, his mother selling him to different kinds of people when he was an obedient juvenile couldn't tape the trust back together like it was nothing.

To James Buchanan Barnes, trusting people is the least of his worries because he never does. Until you and Steve came along.

He never trusted the hearts of his customers, now that people around him were actually Judas in disguise. His whole life was pure complications and utter betrayals, and when you came along, he could finally see a light deep down the ground he was deeply submerged in. Even just a tiny light that could give him a hope that his life will become better despite of his contingencies.

"How did I ever swayed you, Booki?" you slurred like drunkard, slowly fluttering your eyes close and hearing his bedroom door open. The undeniably well built man swiftly caught you in his arms again, carrying you off your feet as you entered a room which seemed to be too dark for your liking.

Or maybe the lights weren't just still on?

"Mr. Barnes, is this your new way of showing me your red room?" a low, raspy chuckle emerged from the latter's chest which got you whistling like a weak wolf. You felt the cold vinyl tiles brush the bottom of your feet, lately realizing that he had you trapped inside his bathroom when you decided that having your eyes opened was better than keeping them closed.

In which you should have chose to kept them closed as you were faced with a clean, half body mirror.

Expletive profanities came running out of your mouth as you've seen your intoxicated self on the mirror. The homely warmth that your man could give was nowhere to be found, and it was then and there you heard the running water coming from the faucet signaled you that he was doing something you couldn't decipher.

"Is this your new way of inviting me over with a shower session?" you've curiously queried with a naughty smile. It immediately fell because the reflection you were seeing was starting to disappoint you and it was disheartening you big time. Bucky had a fresh damp towel in his flesh hand, he gave you a once over and saw how your smile smell. His initial reaction was to quickly rise from how he squatted inside his shower, swatting his dark shower curtains away before shuffling to his feet.

He didn't want you dancing in your own nightmares. You needed to step away from it, you needed to avoid it so you wouldn't have to become like him.

"Hey doll," The latter softly whispered against your ear, hinting a small accent that could make your toes curl beneath you and so you did. He appeared behind you with a small touch of his fingers on the small of your back, suddenly making you shiver in your own mistake. "Didn't I tell you not to curse when I'm around?"

His dominating stance, and the way his raspy, velvet voice which exerts authority had your heart skipping a thirsty beat and especially down there too.

"But, sir...." An embarrassing purr rolled off the tips of your tongue. You were too intoxicated for your own good, and you'll probably curse the heavens as to why Stan makes the best Martinis in town. You couldn't deny his wonderful offer, especially when it was free and all. Plus, the old goober was smiling in front of you like a Cheshire cat, a plan set on the back of his head which was also sipping its own glass of Margarita.

The old geezer had wicked plans if you've managed to squint your eyes back at him a little longer.

"Jesus Christ," he sternly uttered with a sharp in take of his breath and before you know it, your man had you in his brawny arms, derriere pinned down on his bathroom sink with your legs hastily parting for the latter to slip in between them. The crisp, icy temperature of his metal fingers grasping your jaw, keeping your slanted lips where he wanted as he continued his libidinous ministrations with you. Bucky's flesh hand on your waist, feeling a cool, moist-like cloth perched on your side and it was the towel he was ought to clean your face with.

His voluptuous Crimson red lips that had been in a constant fight of being bitten attacked your unpleasant, chapped lips. A bolt from the blue kept your mind stupefied because as much as you remembered, you were just loathing your very own reflection, yet now you were locking lips with your unofficial boyfriend.

Not that you were complaining because you've had this planned out inside your innocent mind already.

"You need," Bite. "to stop," Nibble. "swearing and," Kiss. "calling me sir," a secretive low moan which caught your ear as you nibbled his bottom lip back, "at the same time,"

Your drunken self couldn't help but feel the day-to-day itch forming in between your legs. It has been a-run-of-the-mill because of your restricted relationship with the highly requested Gigolo in east coast, the sudden impulse when he was around had been bugging you since day 1.

She had Bucky's face in between the palms of her hands, the growing five o-clock shadow tickling the sensitive tips of her fingers as she deepen her kisses. He was giving her the same intensity and probably a lot more than he intended to. There was a soft, involuntary moan which erupted out of you as you felt his probing tongue touch the tips of yours, igniting out a hitch of your breath when you sensed your fingers having its own mind of proceeding towards a place in which you've opted to fondle with.

"Yes," the latter breathlessly huffed in between kisses, feeling your soothing digits tenderly skim beneath his prominent, newly-clean shaven navel in a way that could get his crotch celebrating inside his pantaloons. You continued kissing him with the same ferocity, fondling over the waistband of his sweatpants before you felt cold, metal like fingers tightly grip your wrist to an unsatisfying halt. "N-No, no, not yet," he exasperated with a grump.

"Fuck," The thwarting gigolo muttered a few vulgar swearwords beneath his heaving breaths. You bit your lip with knotted eyebrows, a tight feeling in your chest which you so wanted to scream out loud because of your frustration as well. Didn't he want to continue because you were..you? Or--?

"You seriously leaving me frustrated like this, Booki?"

"Yes--," he automatically responded as he groaned to himself, his metal fingers brushing his tight locks in a disheveling manner. "I mean no! No, Yes?" he asked more so to himself, pulling a step back away from you like you were a fire to his destructive bomb.

The latter had been moving nonstop and it even got to the point of exerting his own push-ups in the middle of his bathroom; white shirt off as he threw it towards you in which you successfully caught in your hands. Bucky's body was built by Michaelangelo himself, he was sculpted to ruin you and probably also the hearts of his customers. Winter was sculpted by the heavens because of the beefy-ness he aspire to feed all the hungry lasses to which could include you in it. You admired the way his body works, how his bionic arm met his flesh body. In fact, it was amazing, though quite depressing because of what backstory it holds.

A backstory that you promise to yourself that you'll know.

He stopped mid-air while executing another set of push-ups, "I can help you--??" you gestured back at him as his Steele blue eyes stared at you with peculiarity before gazing down at your gesticulating hands that formed an 'O'; located in the middle part of you as you shifted it in a up and down manner. James Buchanan Barnes had no words to say at all, especially when you started to motion that certain hand of yours in the fore part of your opened mouth in a push and pull motion, "Or this could suffice? Will a blowjob suffice?" you garbled and continued to show him what you wanted to help him with.

It was as if his body weakened before him once he saw and understood what you meant. Winter didn't know what to do because he so wanted it to happen, he wanted it. Well, every man would. If you were just one of his clients, he would let that happen but it was you right now. You were the one asking for it, and those words coming from your lips seem to sound all too different.

Because James Buchanan Barnes had his heart involved in this one.

You weren't just one of his clients, you were more than that and he was sure of it. Steven Grant Rogers was even sure of it either.

Y/N was a person who was important him, she was as pure as a driven snow just by showing her his doting eyes whenever she sees him holding a bag full of food or those times whether she was being needy and just wanted to share her break time with him.

Though, today was an exception because he didn't expected her to become this much of a wild cat when drunk and Bucky Barnes damn knew well he wasn't complaining.

He so wanted that blowjob from his girl, and waiting for the right time was hurting his crotch and gentlemanly self.

"Or I could just help Steve instead?" you pondered more to yourself when you realized he wouldn't much take up the offer, he fell to the ground, mid air and face planked on the Vinyl tiles of his bathroom. You swayed your feet from above the sink, thoroughly guiltless with doe-like eyes when you saw him cursing the heavens for such a severe punishment for his sins.

"Well, It's not like Steve and I haven't actually done it?"

Hence, it was then and there that James Buchanan Barnes whom goes by the code name 'winter' and is also the highly requested gigolo of Felicity Night, in addition; a best friend of a very patriotic gigolo who could harm nobody started cursing Steven Grant Rogers for lying in front of his face.

What a best friend indeed, he was.

FEEDBACKS ARE VERY MUCH APPRECIATED, TATER TOTS! Please leave feedbacks if you’re loving this fanfic of mine! Follow my blog to see more of my works and we shall fangirl/fanboy about SEBASTIAN STAN!

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perspective-series · 5 years

Text

Exposed Perspective (6)

By: @arc852 and @hiddendreamer67

Warnings: Guilt, fear, panic, being trapped, people being used/treated like test subjects, injury, blood loss, and needles.

THIS IS THE THIRD STORY IN A TRILOGY. READ “A Third Perspective” AND “Switched Perspectives” FOR THIS TO MAKE SENSE!

(Check the reblog for the links to the previous chapters and the TWO prequels!)

———————————————————————————————

Patton was still in Dee’s hand as he continued to speak and answer questions. Glancing at Virgil revealed he hated revealing so much information to Dee just as much as Patton did but Patton knew bad things would happen otherwise. Besides, the more they distracted Dee with talk the longer they went without any physical forms of study.

Suddenly both borrowers jumped and Patton stopped talking as a pounding on the door happened. They both looked at each other, both hoping it was their friends here to save them.

“Looks like we have visitors.” Dee murmured, turning to glance at the door. Though many of the labs had observational windows, Dee had specifically requested he be covered a long time ago so that others could not observe his work.

“Dr. Dee!” Roman yelled, pushing past Logan and banging harder on the door. “We know you’re in there!”

Patton gasped in joy. “Roman!” He called out as loud as he could, hoping his voice would carry and the others would be able to hear him.

Virgil smiled, looking out from the bars of the cage. He knew they would come. He glared at Dee. “Looks like your little study session has come to an end,” Virgil smirked, feeling more confident now that their human friends were here.

“Hardly.” Dee chuckled, though he was amused by subject V’s spunk. He smirked at the locked door, feeling confident that three students would not be able to break it down.

“Patton?” Thomas’ voice carried through the door as he pressed himself against it as well. “Is that you?”

“Thomas!” Patton called out again, smile getting wider. “Yes, we’re in here! Help!”

“We’re working on that, Pat,” Roman grunted, shoving his body weight against the door.

“It’s no use.” Dee called out to them almost gleefully, having fun. “That is a slab of pure reinforced metal, designed to withstand even the harshest of chemicals.”

“He’s right.” Logan murmured, now inspecting the lock.

“Well then what do we do?” Thomas whispered.

“Dee, surrender now,” Roman spoke loudly, trying to convey a confidence he didn’t have, “and your fate shall be merciful.”

“Threatening a professor?” Dee made a tut-tut noise. “What a shame, I always thought there was at least a shred of intelligence in that skull of yours. How unfortunate to be mistaken.”

Virgil was beginning to lose hope that the three humans would actually be able to get in to save them. He glared at Dee again, hating his smug attitude. He also hated that he felt utterly useless right now. Unable to do anything but fight back with words. “Let us go!” He yelled at Dee once again.

Patton started struggling within the grip again.

“Quiet, you.” Dee snarled, annoyed that this situation was turning his cooperative subjects against him again. He reached into the cage, flicking subject V against the bars.

“Ah!” Virgil cried out as he was thrown against the metal bars. He fell to the floor, groaning in pain.

“Virgil!” Patton cried out, stopping his struggles to watch horrified at what Dee had done.

At Virgil’s cry, something snapped in Logan.

“Leave him ALONE!” Logan bellowed, punching at the door as though he could break it down. He let out a gasp of pain, pulling his wrist back to cradle it close to his chest.

Inside, Dee let out a burst of laughter. “Did you really just punch it? I thought you were supposed to be the intelligent one!”

Patton, too, was losing hope as he continued struggling again. “Stop! Please, just let us go!” Patton cried out, a small sob escaping him.

Virgil tried to push himself up looking up at Patton with sad eyes. They were both useless in this situation and by the looks of things, so were the others. The only one who had the power here was Dee and he knew it.

“Are you alright?” Roman asked, coming over to inspect Logan’s wrist.

“I’m fine,” Logan answered, but it came out more as a gasp while he still fought to keep from crying out.

“What are we gonna do?” Thomas asked, looking between the two of them. They were all thinking that same question.

“We can’t just leave them here.” Roman insisted, but he was unsure what else they could do.

“I…” Logan looked at the door, for once unsure. “He certainly has to leave eventually.”

“So we wait him out?” Thomas guessed.

“What, and leave them to suffer for what could be days?” Roman argued.

“Well do you have a better plan?” Thomas pointed out, making Roman go quiet.

“...no.” Logan shook his head. “No, Roman’s right.”

“I am?” Even Roman looked surprised at this.

“We cannot just sit around waiting while a PSYCHOPATH destroys our friends’ lives!” The last part of Logan’s statement was yelled at the door, the biology student already reeling back his other arm to punch the door again.

“My my, you two seem to have really riled everyone up out there.” Dee frowned at subject still in his hand. Though this began as a fun little game, this distraction was beginning to get tedious.

“They’ll-They’ll get us out of here! Just you wait! You’re going to be sorry!” Though his voice was full of confidence, it was more of a hope than anything at this point.

Virgil stood up all the way, leaning against the cage bars to hold him up. “I’m not sure what psychopath means but Logan’s right. You definitely are one.” Virgil practically growled out.

“Men of greatness are fitting of many titles.” The professor responded with a sly grin. He tossed Subject P back in the cage, shutting the door to keep them contained. Dee doubted there would be much progress again until the ruffians left.

“Logan!” It was Roman who grabbed Logan’s arm, stopping the nerd from hurting his other wrist.

Patton yelped as he hit the ground and Virgil, sending the two sprawled out onto the cage floor. Both borrowers groaned but Patton was quicker to recover as he stood up and looked over Virgil. “Are you okay?” He whispered. Virgil just shook his head and glared up at Dee.

“No, I’m not.” He hissed out.

“We need to get in there.” Logan insisted, trying to tug his arm away.

“No, we need a plan.” Roman’s grip held firm. “Is there another way in? A key we could find?”

Logan paused, halting his efforts to think about what Roman had said. Surely a faculty member of a higher rank would have access, and Logan had already been planning on meeting with one such person to discuss Dee’s unlawful treatments.

“Follow me,” Logan instructed, walking back down the hall with a steely gaze. Roman followed, hot on his heels.

“We’ll be back soon, guys!” Thomas called in an encouraging tone through the door, before following as well.

Dee listened to the sound of retreating footsteps, smirking down at his subjects.

“Aww, what a shame.” He fake pouted. “Seems your owners have abandoned you.”

Virgil grit his teeth and stood up using Patton as support. “They aren’t our owners! They’re our friends and they’ll come back for us!”

“I’m sure they will.” Dee took a moment to frown at the door. Though three ordinary students were no threat, he knew better than to underestimate an adversary. It was possible that the students would indeed find a means to get in here, thus interrupting his research. “Perhaps it’s time we speed things along, hmm?”

Both borrowers’ eyes widened. “What...What does that mean?” Patton asked shakily, backing a step away, taking Virgil with him.

Dee didn’t bother answering, instead going over to his drawers and pulling out some more tools. The professor pulled on a pair of rubber gloves, the elastic flicking into place with a snap. He looked back and forth between the subjects, tilting his head and humming to himself as he debated between the two.

“Let’s start with the troublemaker, shall we?” The doctor grinned, reaching in and plucking up subject V.

Virgil struggled but he was weaker than before due to his injuries. Patton could only watch in horror as Virgil was ripped from his arms. “Let him go!” Patton shouted. He didn’t know what Dee had planned but it couldn’t be good.

Dee closed the cage, bringing the borrower over to the sanitized station. He took a pair of medical scissors in his free hand, bringing the sharp points dangerously close to the subject’s head.

Virgil’s eyes widened and he leaned back as far as he could go. “Stop! No!”

Dee looked at subject V’s face, pausing briefly before bursting out laughing.

Virgil’s face turned red and he glared at the human. “Wh-What’s so funny?” He growled out.

“You should have seen your face!” Dee chuckled breathlessly, nearly doubled over in laughter. “What, did you really think I was going to kill such a valuable specimen?” He brought the scissors close again, but his movements were quick as the blunt of the blade grazed the borrower’s head and Dee merely took a small clipping of hair.

Virgil felt tears prick the corners of his eyes at Dee’s cruel joke and yelped when some of his hair was cut off. “Hey!” Virgil shouted but the borrower was thankful it wasn’t his head.

Patton, unable to really see Virgil from where he was, could only sigh in relief when he heard Dee say he wouldn’t kill him.

“No, I can assure you no permanent harm shall befall you at my hand.” Dee gave subject V a stern look. “So long as you remain more useful to me alive, that is.”

Both Virgil and Patton gulped at Dee’s words.

Dee set the subject down, laying the borrower in the familiar starfish position. Once he was satisfied, Dee removed his hands to instead prep some test tubes on the opposite counter. He turned back to the borrower with a small needle in hand, a smirk on his face as he gave the end a slight flick.

Virgil wasn’t being held down and as soon as he saw that needle in Dee’s hands he was up and running across the table. He didn’t know where he was trying to go, he just knew he wanted to get away.

Patton’s eyes widened at the needle and then widened even more as Virgil stood and made a run for it. Oh no… Patton knew this could only end badly.

“No no no~” Dee’s tone was almost melodic, teasing as he approached the lab table and stuck his arm out to block the subject’s path.

Virgil couldn’t stop in time and collided with the hand, falling onto his butt. He groaned. He was getting so many injuries in such a short amount of time. It was starting to get ridiculous. He got up and tried to run around the hand, despite knowing it was useless.

With practiced ease Dee’s fingers snapped around the back of the borrower’s clothing, dragging him back into position.

“No! Let me go!” Virgil tried to get out of the grip but it was no use. He wished he could do more against this human, instead of just his useless shouting.

Patton deflated as Virgil was caught. He looked up at Dee. “Why are you doing this?”

“Data samples last longer than living subjects,” Dee explained over his shoulder. He turned back to his squirming subject, pressing him down into the table. “Relax, it’s only a few ounces. You have plenty of blood to spare for a sample. And if not, well…” Dee chuckled. “It’s certainly fortunate there’s two of you.”

Patton’s eyes widened as Dee revealed what the needle would do. Without much thinking, Patton shouted at the human. “Wait! Take from me instead!”

Virgil’s eyes widened and his head snapped to where Patton was. “Patton, no!”

Dee looked between the two, considering. He had chosen subject V due to the fact he wanted his more willing subject alive should something go awry. However, at the rate subject V was squirming it would be impossible to get the needle in cleanly. A willing participant would certainly raise the chances of success.

Besides, Dee was always a sucker for drama.

“Alright.” The dean agreed, coming over to the cage with subject V in hand. He placed the borrower inside, grabbing subject P instead.

Virgil whirled around, watching as Patton was grabbed in his stead. “No! Don’t listen to him, I’ll be good just don’t take from Patton!” Virgil shouted desperately.

Patton bit his lip and did his best to be still in Dee’s grasp, hoping that would deter him away from Virgil. He hated seeing Virgil like this but he couldn’t risk Virgil’s life. No, he would much rather risk his own if it meant Virgil would be okay.

“You had your chance.” Dee spat, heading back to the table. He laid subject P down in the same position, keeping one hand on the borrower to hold him still while the other brought the needle close. “Stay still or this will hurt.”

“No!” Virgil yelled, banging against the cage bars.

Patton just nodded up at Dee and closed his eyes as he stayed perfectly still.

Dee stuck in the needle, pleased when he hit a vein. The attached tube began to fill up, and as the levels raised to the correct marking, he carefully removed the needle, placing a cotton ball over the wound.

“Good job.” He cooed, grabbing some gauze and wrapping it gently around the borrower’s fragile limb.

Patton felt dizzy and while he struggled before to not move, it came easily to him now. He was suddenly very tired as well...sleep sounded nice.

Virgil’s face paled as he watched the container fill up with a lot of blood. Blood that Patton needed. “N-No…”

“That’s it.” Dee slowly scooped up the subject, looking over the vial with a pleased expression. “What a good subject you are.” He brushed the subject’s hair, bringing him back over to the cage.

Virgil ran over to Patton as soon as he was set down. Patton nearly fell into his arms. “Patton! Pat, are you okay?” Virgil asked, biting his lip in worry. Patton slowly nodded.

“I’m...I’m fine. Just...dizzy’n tired…” Patton said, words slurred and coming out slow. At least Patton wasn’t dead...yet. Virgil glared up at Dee.

“How could you! He-He needs that!” Virgil yelled, pointing at Patton’s blood.

“No he doesn’t, he’ll be fine.” Dee waved off the subject’s concerns. “A creature’s body is meant to be capable of regenerating large amounts of bodily fluids over time. This was by no means a lethal dose if my assumptions about the similarities between a borrower and human anatomy are correct.” Of course, if his assumptions were wrong...well, at least Dee came out one blood vial ahead.

Virgil growled at him before feeling a hand on his arm. He looked down where Patton was laying down with his head in Virgil’s lap. “It’s okay Virgil, I’m gonna be okay.”

Tears pricked the corner of Virgil’s eyes once again and he got Patton close. “Never do that again, please. I-I can’t lose you.” Patton returned the hug but sighed against his shoulder.

“Sorry, no promises. I can’t lose you either.” Virgil let out a watery laugh. He glared back up at Dee again after a moment, watching the human warily as he held Patton close.

“What a touching display,” Dee noted, almost wishing he had caught in on camera. Of course, he had. Dee smirked, looking briefly at the blinking red light up in the corner of his lab. It was a useful tool for gathering observational data the dean might otherwise have missed.

Now bored of the interaction, Dee turned back to his newly collected samples. He began to prepare them in a petri dish, applying a few to a microscope slide to view more closely.

Virgil was just glad Dee’s attention was off of them for now. He hoped the others would be back soon. Patton definitely needed some sort of help. Help that Virgil couldn’t give him. He watched as Patton’s eyes closed and Virgil panicked before seeing the steady breathing. He thought about waking him but decided against it. Maybe sleep was what Patton needed right now.

Virgil continued to keep his eyes on Dee as he ran his hand through Patton’s hair.

#gt #Giant/tiny #thomas sanders #sanders sides #infinitesimal!sides #au #borrowers #borrower!patton #borrower!virgil #human!deceit #human!roman #human!logan #character!thomas #platonic #lamp #exposed perspective #part 6

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chefjarredjarred · 4 years

Text

We, Chef.

I quit drinking on May 21, 2019. I think. Or was it June? It was the day that the executive chef finally admitted what I already knew, that he had given his notice and was leaving the company. As his executive sous, this of course meant that I would be officially running the kitchen. Not after he was gone, but then, from the moment our conversation was finished. His notice was in, so his mind was already in his next life; he would now be, basically, worthless. Good for him.

I wasn't scared to take over. No, hold on, that's not right. I was nervous, but I was glad that he was leaving. There, that's right. In many ways, unofficially, I had been the chef in charge for a long time. I was the buffer between my boss and everyone else because he was so hated and distrusted. Well, I was hated too, maybe more so, but my work ethic brought me the trust. So at some point of the year prior, once my chef had realized my potential to rise ranks, he stopped teaching me. Thus, my nervousness. I didn't know all the stuff I needed to know, but would have to take responsibility for the place—which wasn't exactly a sinking ship, but was taking severe hits to the hull—regardless, and even worse, I would be expected to keep a smiling face through the looming doom of it all. And that was the opposite of the reputation I had had for years. If I cared about the restaurant, and at the time I did, I needed significant change to help me defeat my defeatism and focus on the kitchen's (and my) success. The healthiest change was a no-brainer. Of course I had to ditch the alcohol.

Was it June?

I still don't know which came for me first, drinking or depression. I do know that kitchen work was third, and that thousands or maybe millions of other cooks share this ubiquitous kind of sob story. Drinking, depression, cooking: the sacred fucking mirepoix. It's the stuff that brings on those languid phrases like “inexorably linked” and other, utter shit. The symptoms and thrills of all three cannot even be efficaciously captured with any amount of sincere, thoughtful, long-winded language, although many of us continue to try. Ironically, for disciples of this trinity, more is expressed between us with the pained sigh; the round of drinks signal to the bartender; the clenched jaw. Each can be responded to with a “Heard,” that one word with endless connotations. You just either know, or you don't. But the paltry, effortless phrases like “inexorably linked” or “vicious cycle” are now insultingly euphemistic, or at least lazy. Weightless. Gutless.

The drinking, depression, and cooking devoured me and shit me out every day for years, but I get that I didn't pioneer the condition. The mirepoix eventually melds into symbiosis—one, weighty mass, layered like... You probably think I'm going to say an onion. I'm not, because then the puns of tears come too naturally. And I mean inextricably layered. I'm actually thinking of the old rubber-band ball we kept in the back of the kitchen for years. Every purple rubber-band that came off a bundle of asparagus became part of it, until it was almost the size of a soccer ball and probably heavy enough to give someone a concussion, if you were inclined to pitch it at someone's head, an urge I'm sure you're familiar with fighting if you do work in kitchens. So sure, the onion is layered and commonplace in kitchens and blah blah blah, but the onion is necessary. Was a huge rubber-band ball necessary? No. Did we ever stop to question it? No. It was just there, and we mindlessly kept adding to it.

“Inexorably linked.” I could roll my eyes right out of my head. It's a stupid rubber-band ball and you know it. So let's stick with “inextricably layered.”

Anyway, at that point, I didn't know anymore if I was Sisyphus or the boulder, but I was almost to the top of the hill.

I'm sure it was May...

Alcoholism, self-hatred, and wee-hour hot wings are fine as a sous chef; as exec, be it acting or officially, it means a heart attack, suicide, DUI into a tree, something. But something ending in death. I poured one out for Bourdain, and chose sobriety to be my change.

But it didn't help a damn thing.

I gulped the last bit of my third or fourth bourbon and thought, Now THAT is a dramatic start to this story.

Yeah. Whether it was May or June, my abstinence from alcohol lasted two or three weeks at most. Recently, I went six days.

Six days. Wow, good going, Jarred.

I started the story this way so you see here, early, that this will not be one of success, but of struggling, suffering, searching. (Don't hate me for the alliteration, I'm just a word nerd.) I'm not here telling you that I've overcome my troubles or unraveled all the layers. This is just another of my many different attempts to try.

If you can stand some more nerdy wordplay, let me just tell you the first set of layers I started picking at, and this whole thing will hit you like a big rubber-band ball:

Regret.

Anger.

Guilt.

Envy.

Do you see it? Ha! You see it. I've kept this big ball of rage in the back for years. And just as I described above, I mindlessly added to it for so long, growing it until it was heavy enough to hurt someone. And what do you think I did with it? I hurt people, of course. Mainly myself, but I'm sure you guessed that much. Finally, I stopped to question it. What the hell is this? Why is it here? It serves no purpose, it isn't necessary.

So I don't fucking want it anymore.

#chefstoday #chef #mentalhealth

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elmidol · 4 years

Text

This Will to Live

Three Blind Tooke Part Two Precarious Harmony

Read on AO3

Warnings: none (?)

Three Blind Tooke

Part Two: Precarious Harmony

Chapter Thirty-Eight: This Will to Live

The intrusion of the blade, with its searing heat, was not a new experience; not for either of you, both you and he having suffered lightsaber injuries in the past. He had never been penetrated like this though. In a way, neither had you. Your arms hooked around him, one extended further as you clutched the hilt of the blade that should have ended your life those fateful months before. His hands, one on the small of your back and the other touching your head, drawing you nearer to him. The intensity of the heat grew with each passing second. Your innards liquifying. Fusing together more than they had before. You would die in his arms, and he in yours.

Before now, you would hardly have minded such an experience. He would be dead, your mission fulfilled. At that point, your life’s purpose would have been fulfilled. You could perish in peace.

That was before. This was now. Now you did not want to die.

Thus you lurched forward, gasping for air and choking on a sob as sweat soaked through the shirt you had dressed in. What once would have been a dream was now a nightmare. You curled your knees up towards your chest, your thighs pressing against your belly as you rolled onto your side and laid down once more. There was a distinct absence of tears that caught you off guard. With how the dream had upset you, you had expected to feel a wet trail down your cheeks. It did hurt to breathe all the same. You placed a hand on your throat. A steady pulse beat against your fingertips. Behind you, the very individual your unconscious mind had killed alongside you moved. You could feel his gaze on your back. It was familiar. Not uncomfortable, simply there.

Time had continued to tick onwards even after you had lost consciousness. How much time? How many hours? To distract yourself, you focused on the possibility that General Hux and Captain Phasma were in hearing range. Where was Rey? The Knights? One would be with your mother to ensure her safety until the triumvirate left Naboo.

Kylo slid an arm across your side and settled his hand on your stomach. The limb drifted towards your concealed scar. This indication that he believed your troubles rested elsewhere in regards to your future. You were not mourning the inability to birth a child. That was something you wouldn’t fully address until after the war had ended. Your mortality haunted you. That your body was compromised terrified you.

Toes curled as you inhaled through your nose, held your breath for three seconds, and then exhaled. It aided in lessening the trembling. As for the sweat, it caused the temperature of your flesh to cool more quickly. Thus the shivering began, your body shaking for a new reason. There was a murmur from behind you as Kylo Ren inquired if Urvno’s presence were necessary. Your teeth chattered. Deciding against an attempt at verbal responses, you silently shook your head. The question did answer one of yours; the physician’s attendance meant that Captain Phasma and General Hux were indeed in the vicinity. You would not be able to see your mother again until they departed.

Your stomach churned again, although this time not from your dream but from the fact that the First Order officer was so near. He was in close proximity to your mother, on the same planet as her. As if sensing your thoughts, the Supreme Leader pressed his forehead gently on your shoulder. “He cannot touch her.” A shuddering breath emerged from you. You believed his words, that he would honor them. “Are you sore?” There was no point in lying. The muscle aches were not as severe as they had been in the past, however you were also more aware of how important it was to not allow that pain to grow. A simple nod from you, and Kylo Ren pulled away from you.

The footsteps drew further from the bed. In a way, you were surprised that he had not used the Force to turn on the space heater that he had brought into your room. He exited your room afterwards, returning with a glass of water and an over-the-counter pain medication. Nothing that would alter your perception or state of consciousness. You accepted the pill along with the drink. Last to enter your hand, after you had set the water on the bedside table, was the electronic pet tooke. The man you had married did not rejoin you in bed. You listened to the sounds of him leaving the room again.

And there you were, in bed. How like your captivity this was. Back when you were used by him and locked inside his quarters as he went off to fulfill missions for the Supreme Leader. Just sleep or play with the objects he gifted you.

Not anymore.

While you refused to be foolish in overexerting your body and thus removing yourself from the gameboard, you were not going to sit idly by until the redhead left. The could be days. General Hux was an excellent strategist. Phasma may well be as well, you thought. They would be feeling out each and every one of Ren’s moves. Not to mention they would observe the Knights of Ren. You could play the role of pawn, of distraction. While pretending that your body was worse off than it was, you would ensure that Hux was forced to interact with you. Keep his eyes trained on you.

To accomplish this, there was a necessity to dress in a more appropriate manner. Looser clothes, though, to give the impression that it pained you to wear anything more form fitting. You owned pajama pants that had a loth-cat pattern. Feeling rather cheeky, you smirked to yourself and pulled them on. The shirt you had on would work as well, which meant that you simply had to pull a bra on underneath it. You slid your feet into slippers that made soft noises with every step. Attempting stealth would put Captain Phasma on edge.

You hunched your shoulders, slouching forward to give the impression that it felt as though someone had socked you in the gut. Off and on, when your condition worsened while you were on the Star Destroyer and Starkiller Base, you had not faked this position. Your upper lip curled, memories of Miovtha stirring. Vague and tinged at the edges with mystery. The fog of Kylo Ren’s manipulation over your mind refused to lift.

General Armitage Hux was dressed in the great coat that had, once upon a time, caused you a moment of pause. It did not have the same effect now. You narrowed your eyes from your position on the staircase. The redhead was seated with a datapad and comlink. His voice was low in volume, though this did not prevent you from catching what he was saying. Progress reports on supplies for ship repairs. If he had any plans—of course he was plotting, that was what the maniacal man did—these would be conducted in secret.

Perhaps he had spent your wedding discussing means of overthrowing Kylo Ren with those whose loyalty he possessed.

“You look dreadful, tooka,” he drawled prior to continuing his discussion with the officer on the other side of the comlink. Kylo Ren leaned forward, peering around the corner at you. You hadn’t realized he would be so close to the general; you had assumed that he had met with his Knights and Rey to ensure things were running smoothly.

You slunk into the room and sat on the window seat without responding to the redhead. It would be a waste of breath at any rate. You angled your body against the wall and peered out the window. Rey was there in your front yard, two of the Knights with her. One wielded a spear, the other a saber. Rey had her lightsaber drawn, sparring with them. Two against one, although there was a distinct lack of aggressiveness coupled with several instances of pauses and discussions. They were familiarizing themselves with one another’s styles in a similar fashion to what you had done during your basic training for the Resistance. Hand-to-hand combat had not been your specialty, though this you had improved upon far more easily than when it came to using other close-range weapons.

I will be training with them once General Hux leaves. This excited you as well as gave you a sense of purpose. It fit with your will to live. You would be doing something to improve your odds of surviving the war. You stole a quick glance at Kylo, who was eyeing you in return.

“Did you turn off the space heater?”

“I won’t be down here for very long,” you replied. Doing that would make it obvious to General Hux that you had a need to keep an eye on him. Said man flicked his gaze to you, his eyes wandering up and down your body. “I wanted to ask the general’s opinion of my childhood home.” Though the First Order officer remained involved with his comlink discussion, he took on an unmistakable expression of amusement over your words.

During a pause in his conversation, the man offered you his attention in full. “If it is not deemed inappropriate, I am open to discussing such things in your room while you rest.” Feigned worry creased his brow. “It would be unfortunate for our new Supreme Leader’s wife to perish because I kept her out of bed.”

Back to politics. This was the life your mother had lead, and had thus introduced you to. Your familiarity with it hardly helped when it came to dealing with this man. He was fluent where you struggled. That did not mean you were going to roll over to expose your belly in hopes that he would show mercy.

“I appreciate the gesture,” you murmured, turning to watch out the window once more. There were things you could—that you would—learn from the Knights and Rey. Techniques to strengthen your body; their various styles each offered a different opportunity for you to discover your own strengths and weaknesses. “I plan to grab something small to eat. The room will have more time to warm.”

General Hux may have heard you, or he may have stopped listening. His voice carried through the room as the conversation over the comlink resumed. Kylo Ren, on the other hand, paid you plenty of attention. The Force user crossed the room to assist you with standing. Though you had planned to remain for a couple minutes longer, you obliged. There was no need to make a scene, and putting forth too much resistance would reveal to Hux that you were not as fatigued and in pain as you were making out. You were brought into the kitchen. On your way, you had caught a glimpse of Captain Phasma in one of the hallways. She was investigating, learning more about her enemy, about you. The displeasure you had experienced in regards to the Supreme Leader sending you away from the window seat sooner than you had wished disappeared. You did not want to be in that woman’s presence for fear that she would see through the rouse.

You surveyed the food that was in the pantry and ice box. Nothing struck you as desirable. You were hungry, and that was why you grabbed a nutritional shake.

Kylo Ren did not follow you to the stairs as you returned to your bedroom. Once inside, you opened the nutritional shake after you sat down on top of the blankets on your bed. General Hux joined you by the time you were a quarter of the way through the shake. “Those pants are rather…” His voice trailing off and amused grin told you enough. He had not been able to mock you in full, which meant that a part of him found them endearing. “His marrying you has complicated things. You were ready when Snoke fell… You told me that you should have allowed me to kill him. Now you will again be torn between what may have been had things not been so volatile.”

A truth. You were not going to argue with him on this matter. Still, you did feel a sting of frustration. The internal struggles had returned. You had also allowed your bitterness towards General Hux begin to blind you. He was useful for now. It was Captain Phasma that you needed to keep your eye on. Juggling the smaller and bigger pictures, that was what would lead to success or failure.

The marriage had allowed you to understand that you did not want to die, and due to this you did not regret the event.

“You enjoy watching me suffer,” you said softly. The redhead gave a half-shrug as way of responding. To him, it was irrelevant to the larger picture. In the grand scheme of things, the alliance he offered had always been on a temporary basis. Neither of you had forgotten that. You pinched one of the loth-cats on your pants while using your other hand to raise the shake to your lips. Rey would keep you level-headed, would prevent you from fully submerging yourself in darkness. Yet she believed that Ben Solo could be saved. General Hux was there to remind you that that may not be the case.

If he cannot be brought back to the Light, does that equate to him remaining a destructive force?

There had to be some sort of gray area. In case there wasn’t, you would require Hux’s assistance. He was not opposed to killing Kylo Ren.

“He is leaving the girl to train with his Knights.” A scoff, as though he believed it was foolish. You hoped it was. If Rey could in any way sway the Knights of Ren to betray the First Order, that could potentially turn the tides. Perhaps Master Skywalker offered her advice on the matter via their bond. You still did not know how bonds worked, how they were formed or why some were stronger than others. “And you will be here to recover. Or so he says, yet I wonder if it is to prevent himself from becoming distracted.” A mock pout. “Your begging to spare his mother and the remnants of the loathsome Resistance.”

“Are you trying to talk me out of working with you?” you asked calmly. General Hux blinked a single time before his eyes slid towards the left. You doubted that he was looking at anything in particular. “I know there isn’t much I can do anymore.” A lie. “After I recover, maybe there will be something. If you didn’t believe that, you wouldn’t be here.”

You thought of the games of holochess that the two of you had played. In those, he had often been the victor. That could not happen here. By playing a part in his game, he would not target you immediately. That gave you the valuable resource of time to learn how to keep your mother safe while at the same time not losing your own life.

General Hux approached the bed until he stood directly beside it. “I sometimes wonder what sort of officer you would have been.” A manipulative gesture to play on your sentimentality. Despite knowing this, you still felt heat coursing through your body. It was too intimate, the tone he used and the setting of your bedroom. “So loyal, and your willpower not often displayed by those who do serve under me. The three of us are similar, our fathers dead.”

You flinched as he spoke that final portion.

“You’ve avoided it, haven’t you?” There was no need for him to elaborate; you knew what he was speaking of. That did not stop him from doing so. “The question of how your father perished. We know that Kylo struck down Han Solo with the very blade that sealed your fate. My father… I know precisely how he died.” Also murdered by his child, be it directly or indirectly. This fact caused your stomach to clench. “You are afraid of the answer.”

Maker, yes, you were terrified. You feared more than anything that it was your fault your father was no longer alive. That your running away to join the Resistance had contributed to his demise.

Maybe that was why he had let go of your hand, forcing you to return to the land of the living. Or maybe that was out of love; if he knew that, deep down, you did not want to die, he may have released you to learn that for yourself. It was difficult to say one way or the other. The next sip of the nutritional shake was bitter. You cringed while swallowing it down. Hux stood in silence. Waiting, you figured, for you to ask the question at long last. Fear was a funny thing; sometimes it brought forth screams, and on other occasions it rendered its victim silent.

“You have seen and caused death on the battlefield. It pains you to think of your father in a position where he suffers as he dies.” He leaned forward, his mouth next to your ear. “Tooka, if you never ask the question, you never receive the answer. You will forever remain in limbo. That will present itself on the battlefield, which I assume you wish to return to.”

He was not telling you these things out of the goodness of his heart. It was to ensure that you were useful to him in the future. You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes. You hated these truths. You despised the position you were in. You wanted your father back. General Armitage clearly was pleased with the death of his father. Kylo Ren was torn, but he had made the decision to kill his own father. That was on him. For you, your father was gone and you did not want to be the cause. You were stuck in limbo not knowing. You would be in hell if you learned that you had contributed to his death.

To live was the hardest thing you would ever have to do.

“How did he die?” you asked. Your voice was such a soft whisper that you weren’t positive the man inside the room with you heard.

The destroyer of worlds crossed his arms behind his back and tilted his head so that he was staring up at the ceiling. Maybe he had not intended for you to ask him. Placing Kylo Ren into an awkward position would bring him such delight. You did not want to hear it from the Supreme Leader. Another fear you harbored: that Kylo had killed your father just as he had murdered countless allies. You felt sick to your stomach. A new kind of heat surged through your body. Panic, agitation, desperation.

“Tooka.” It was the first time in quite a while that the man seemed human to you. He had set you up to ask the question, however now he was reeling back. This was was supposed to be merciless, selfish. “My life is war. The Rebels fighting against the Empire, and now the First Order opposing the foolish ideals of the Resistance. Your mother would have ensured you spent your time with politicians away from the battlefield. It was your father who showed you the ropes. Even then, it was limited. Long-distance shooter… Life is not to be viewed through a scope. You see death as a result of war, of battle, and forget that we are all mortal. You forget of accidents and disease. Secrets exist outside of war as well. Your father was destined to die before you left. He trained you because he knew what was coming. To prepare you for the galaxy wherein he no longer remained.”

Why hadn’t your father told you that he was ill? How long had he known, and had he survived for longer than what was expected? Your mother had not told you either. You had felt guilty for lying to your parents when you had gone to join the Resistance. Ironically, they had been lying to you by keeping that information to themselves. General Hux was correct; the world was more complex than the battlefield. On the battlefield, you understood the violence, death and secrets. You understood what it was that you fought for. In life, on the other hand…

You hadn’t known he was dying, and because of that you had moved forward with your life. You felt selfish, but on some level understood why your parents had kept the secret. Your father had wanted you to have a future. He did not want you to exist in limbo.

My father wants me to live. Your mother wanted to protect you from the war by removing you from it. She was not wrong to feel that way. It was your father who had known you more, had realized that one day you would leave the nest to fight. He had prepared you for that. To dwell on his death, to believe that he had wanted you to come home instead of living your life, that would do him a disservice.

“If you continuously allow yourself to be blinded by emotions and fear, you won’t get very far, tooka.”

On that note, General Hux took his leave of your room. You cupped the shake in both of your hands and stared down at it. There was much one could learn from their enemy. It explained Rey more. Her belief that Ben Solo could be saved. That, in part, was her own personality, her empathy. It was also the glimpses of him she had caught. The same ones you had seen. That defining the world as monsters and monster slayers could only get one so far.

Phasma is a monster I will slay. Hux is an enemy I will defeat. Ren is...complicated.

You finished the shake, feeling the effects of the pain medication and the space heater helping to ease some of the soreness in your muscles. Wearing your own, comfortable clothing didn’t hurt. There was also the relief that you had not caused your father’s death. He had not chased after you only to die, had not been murdered by Kylo Ren, and had, hopefully, perished while knowing that you were living your life. You were making your own path. It did not fully erase the regret that you hd not seen him again before his death, but that you could live with.

The Supreme Leader reentered your bedroom with a plate of snacks. Cookies, you noted when he set them down in front of you. “I heard.” The rumble of his voice fit your current mood. A lack of intense emotion. Calm. “You’re crying.”

“Tears of relief.” Kylo Ren picked up one of the treats and handed it to you. You nibbled on the edge. “My mother made these.” He nodded despite it being unnecessary. You knew for a fact that she had baked them by their taste and texture. The rift between the two of you did not eliminate the love you felt for one another. “The night before I changed my name, this was what she had made. My father made my favorite cocoa to go with them.” Your breath hitched when Rey walked in with three cups. The scent was familiar. “Oh…”

“You want to live,” Rey said, the former scavenger smiling at you. Her expression was contagious. She placed a towel that she had been carrying onto the bed beside you and sat on that. Kylo Ren shuffled awkwardly from leg to leg, the man more flustered when the young woman commented that the sheets would need to be changed. You leaned your head against her shoulder, and clinked your glass against hers. The pair of you raised the cups in unison. “This is good.” She stared at the liquid with awe. Why did it escape you how lucky you had been in life? This woman had been deprived of so many experiences. “Urvno said he will draw up a basic exercise regime for you to start with.” She turned her head to check the hallway. Kylo Ren had been doing the same. Both listening, ever vigilant, making sure that neither Hux nor Phasma could hear. “He worries that you will push yourself too hard.”

“I won’t.”

“I know.” The way she said it—at one point, she had worried as well. Now that you knew that you valued your own life, however, there was need to worry that you would be so reckless. “Until they leave, though, you won’t be able to.”

A nod from you. “I will rest...and do a bit of research on future targets.” Holovids. Reports. The same methods you had used to learn more about Kylo Ren when he had been your target. All the training you had received from the Resistance and from your father would be put to good use.

#kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #kylo ren smut #kylo ren imagine #three blind tooke #elmidolfanfic #precarious harmony

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ilcaeryx · 5 years

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Tenacity: Chapter 7 - Ghostwriter [Shinsou Hitoshi/Reader]

SUMMARY: Your husband is on sick-leave, but the world cannot seem to stop bringing the hero out of him.

TAGS: Shinsou Hitoshi/Reader, family, comfort

COMMENT: 4971 words... almost 5k. Bruh.

A lone TV broadcasted fresh news into the empty living room, the steady-voiced news anchor preaching to no one in particular.

"Now for the daily news," he announced, clasping his hands above the desk and leaning towards the camera. "Today around three in the afternoon a man in his early twenties committed mass murder at Hikage elderly care facility. Fifteen deaths have been confirmed together with twenty-three injured. The perpetrator is currently on the run."

Change of scenery: a short clip is shown. There's a cascade of powder and debris avalanching down the hill where the entire facility previously stood. Perhaps half the building is now remaining. Like a calzone pizza someone has taken a bite off, the interior is exposed and there are staff members of public service dipping in and out of vision. Cameraman pans down the hill to show the chaos outside, specifically zooming into the heroes Uravity and Cementoss dashing towards the incoming debris.

"The police and hero associations involved plead with the public to stay clear of public spaces and crowds. The perpetrator is highly unstable and dangerous. Do not attempt to parlay with him."

In the front seat, you were preaching to someone in particular. Your feet on the dashboard, eating your confidence through a bag of potato chips and complaining to the driver, who thankfully didn't need to focus because of this massive traffic rubberneck. At this point, though, you suspected he was merely indulging you. He was looking forward, eyelids drooping and back straight against the car seat. With this somewhat forlorn expression he focused on something above the car in front of you, you noticed as you followed his gaze.

"And you know what, Hitoshi? I'm not letting her win, so I'm not going to stop doing that," you cut your complaints short and offered him your bag, "though I will stop ranting. Thank you for coming to my talk."

Hitoshi accepted. He pulled down the sunscreen above his head but you enjoyed the summer sun straight up burning your skin. Admittedly, you didn't have much of a choice considering that you were wearing a comfortable tank top and shorts that covered little. Your husband was better off, wearing khakis and a T-shirt, yet his forearms and cheeks were already coloured a faint red.

"Do you want something to drink? Seems like we'll be here for a while." You patted the space below your seat, searching.

"Sure. I think there's been an accident up ahead."

He stretched his right hand towards the radio. A second faster, you fished up the water bottle and smacked it into his palm. You gave him a knowing look.

That's a no-no.

Being on sick-leave meant leaving your job behind, even if your job physically was in front of you. Much like other aspects of concurrent culture, being unaware basically meant being left behind but this time it was serious. He couldn't take much more. And nevertheless, without his staunch refusal to take a vacation, you're certain he would've had deep guilt about it.

Fucking hero culture.

"Right."

Fathers carrying their young children. Couples rushing, hands interlocked. Elderly people clutching their bags. All of them rushing past your car, moving towards where the rubberneck presumably started. There were shouts accompanying this early stage of chaos around you, uncoherent shrieks distress.

Fear struck you imminently, your body shrinking as the visceral sounds continued. You folded your legs beneath the dashboard and let the plastic bags down through the empty space between your seat and the door.

Your fingers felt clumsy and numb when you reached and clutched Hitoshi's hand, barely aware of the pressure he enforced on the steering wheel. The tip of his fingers and nails paled visibly.

All the noise outside made thinking hard, much less rational thinking. As such you looked at Hitoshi for support.

"Get out of the car." It was a monotone order, one without malice or aggressivity. There was no explanation, nor did you have a follow-up plan, yet you obeyed. Integrating it as your sole objective, you let go of his hand and opened the car door cautiously, peering out for incoming humans.

Behind you, the driver's door slammed shut. By the time you got out Hitoshi was already striding to your side, his eyes scanning behind you. His hand shot up to your waist, his palm warm and solid against you. Ever lightly, Hitoshi buffered you in the direction of the horde, silently begging you to listen to your instincts. You wanted to, but you also wanted him with you - and by his concentrated stare and squared shoulders, you knew you would never convince him to.

Momentarily, the two of you locked eyes and you thought you could control yourself enough to stay with him.

A strange warping sound hollowed whatever conviction existed out of you, leaving a void desiring safety.

The primal demand to survive was staggeringly powerful and you did not understand how Hitoshi could resist it.

"Y/N, head up the road to the heroes," he said, overexaggeratedly articulating his words. His bared canines and wild hair confused you; how could he look like a panther ready to kill its prey while sounding like an audio book storyteller? "I can't focus while you're here - I need you safe. Now go!"

He half-shouted that last part, imploring whatever self-preservation you had to keep you safe. So it did, because you ran all the way up to the temporary encampment for wounded civilians. You escaped from danger only to plunge into chaos.

Without back-up and without gear, Hitoshi left you alone to face the rampanging villain, alone.

That's when you knew you would have to try harder or the hero world would consume all of your husband.

"That's a nasty Quirk you've got there," Hitoshi spat out, wiping blood off his cheek. He involuntarily winced when the back of his hand came into contact with the gushing wound, tingling pain following. A warm trail brushed down his chin and neck, soaking into the hem of his T-shirt. It wasn't too deep a wound, all things considered.

Overall, it wasn't just the combination of a disturbed villain and high-powered Quirk - the situation itself was beyond fucked up; two heroes had their limbs removed (for lack of a better word) and several civilians were strewn about, pinned down between cars or otherwise immobilized. He couldn't accurately discern the dead from the living, not with the swirling smoke billowing around the cars. Had this occurred back in the day, this would have been filed as a terrorist attack by the League of Villains.

"If you're not going to talk then at least look at me, dickhead," he said, switching his weight to the front of his feet.

And so the villain did.

The hero encampment was an absolute mess. When you first arrived you had attempted to help out, but your offer was declined. You passed by several heroes, quietly greeting those you recognized. Some gave you an encouraging smile, others barely registered you as a living being. Rapidly you had settled into sitting by some teenage girls, absorbing the atmosphere until your soul started to hurt.

At one point the endless cries droning on in the background merged from dozen different voices… to five… to losing complete meaning. Passively observing the frantic movements of humans around you, everything was rather meaningless. Whenever an ambulance arrived to retrieve a patient, they left behind a shaken and upset family to listen to the fading sirens. The worst was that as heroes removed cars from the highway for availability reasons and as the wounded were sent away, the suffering never dipped below a certain threshold. More and more people amassed, grieving and aiding each other in an intimate organic hivemind of humanity. Misery truly loved company.

This is how it remained for hours.

You had a vague idea of what was going on. Snippets of comments were travelling throughout camp. As apathetic as you felt, there was nothing else to do but listen to the speculation and information with those around. Eventually, word spread that the villain had been subdued.

Until you heard from a hero acquaintance that Hitoshi was alive and well, no tidbit eased your fear. When you heard 'Hitoshi' in the same sentence as alive, dizziness overwhelmed you. Once you knew he would return, you retired to a less populated corner and passed out.

Maybe a few minutes or an hour later, you came to with a powerful headache crowning your skull. It made your vision float uncomfortably when you sat up at too fast, so you leaned towards a crate. You were completely out of breath despite having done nothing rigorous.

Even later after you had awakened, Hitoshi found you. Your husband looked incredibly roughed up; his vacation clothes had left him defenseless, his knees and face skinned and cut. As he approached he walked unevenly, avoiding straining his left leg with his weight.

If you stood up, you knew you were going to faint. Thus you stayed down and he joined you with a pained groan, though he did seem pleased to see you. In his own way, of course. The alert expression he had donned that noon was worn out, resetting to its normal resting bitch face. His untamed hair was partly flat against his skin, sticky with sweat, and partly roughed around like bed-hair. He repeatedly pushed his hair away from his face but it returned all the same, tangling in front of his eyes. He was so tired…

"Are you hurting?" you asked, pointing at the white bandage on his cheek.

Hitoshi laid down on the grass beside you, bracing himself on his elbows. Until he reached out for you, you didn't make a move at him. Something finally clicked in you as you nestled against his side, letting him guide you against him. It almost felt wrong, holding your usually touch-averse husband in this suffocated place where so many were without their loved ones.

"The medics patched me up well enough. Getting away with these kind of injuries against someone like that is a reward in itself - some people weren't as lucky. And you listened to me, for once. I expected you to talk back when I told you to run."

You glanced up at him, squinting in the sunlight.

"Well," you started and blinked dumbly, not sure of how to phrase your rebuttal. Right now you had poor recollection of these last few hours, though you could remember being unable to control yourself. "I thought that just this once, you probably knew what you were doing. Also, why are you insinuating I never listen to you?"

You heard him shake his head lightly.

"It's less not listening and more reckless behaviour, to be perfectly honest."

Again, his words swam inside your head without giving you a clear and definite feeling or thought. You curled your leg over his while trying to ignore the clamor around you.

"I want to answer 'Wait until I get used to this and I'll talk back all the time', but I don't want to go through this again, Hitoshi."

He inclined his head to look at you, frowning softly. While he did seem to want to answer, he dejectedly caressed your shoulder with his thumb. Through the thick fog inside your head, you reasoned that he too wished for this to never happen again. Wouldn't that be amazing? An alternative lifestyle, or rather the one that the majority of the population lived by, where you didn't fear that your spouse would die on the job or accidentally reveal where their loved ones live to villains.

This, along with the exhaustion and hunger, made it hard to convey what you were thinking, so you just sighed. "I want to go home."

"I'll get someone to pick us up, but there's something I need to tell you."

Upon returning home, the puffiness of your eyes had abated and the pulsing ache behind your head matched the one in your chest. As soon as the car stopped, you released yourself from the belt and thanked the driver with a gravelly voice. You hurried into your apartment, keys shaking in your hand. With Hitoshi right behind you, you entered your home to soft mumbling from the living room.

Both of you froze, until you recognized a voice actor's famous drawl.

"We left the TV on," Hitoshi said quietly, gently pushing you aside and striding into the living room with squared shoulders. You followed him inside when you heard him hum discontently, flipping through the channels. The TV flashed and it conveniently showed the news detailing today's attack. As much as you didn't want to know about it and for Hitoshi to further stress himself up, the rule about no news could not be enforced when family members were involved. It seemed like no matter how much you wanted to shield him from the world, life would find a way to screw specifically with the two of you.

"I can't believe he's done this," you said, feeling your soul evaporate from your body as the camera crew showed the remnants of the elder care facility from a distance. It seemed that all the inhabitants and staff had been evacuated. You wondered if they were still waiting for transport into the city hospitals by the hero encampment where you had stayed. Your car was still left on the road together with those of many others. An overview of the road flicked up, cars pushed to the sidelines for transportation.

"He doesn't exactly fit the usual profile," Hitoshi said.

You shouldn't indulge him, you really shouldn't…

"The usual profile being..?"

"A person in a vulnerable position. Money, work, problems with people… People don't turn into villains for no reason, I think. There's got to be something more guiding them, just like there is for those of us on the lawful side of society."

"Ah. I guess that is true."

It wasn't unthinkable that your brother had been influenced into committing a crime; he was a successful businessman with a throng of acquaintances, a few loyal friends and some noteworthy enemies. Much like Hitoshi, he regarded his vocational duties with serious respect, more than you would tolerate considering that all he made was money for his bosses. Someone out for his position could've done something to him, with the consequences being these.

Your baby brother in this position… You felt sick to your stomach. Was it because of the destruction? Because he never showed signs of weakness or whatever the fuck made him do this? Or did he perhaps just never reveal that part of himself to you?

That couldn't be true though. You two were so close.

"Can we go see him?" you asked, uncertain of how police protocol worked. On the way home, you had listened to the local radio comment about the attack and there seemed to be a high death count. That would probably affect whether or not you could see your brother.

Hitoshi stared blindly into the TV and said, "Will you face him even after everything he's done?"

It equally dumbfounded and conflicted you, it really did. 'Eighteen deaths' said the updated sign beneath the news anchor, increasing the death toll by three since this afternoon. On one hand, he was your brother - of course you'd back him up. That's what your initial instincts said. On the other hand, this visceral, unknown side scared you. The middle ground was curious, morbidly so.

"I saw your brother do some heroes in," Hitoshi said, his lips barely moving. "He ripped their arms and legs into oblivion. If he hadn't been confused after seeing me, I would have ended up like that too."

Slowly, you crept up to Hitoshi and attached yourself to his arm, feeling his muscle tense up. He had all the reason to be stressed. You wouldn't let him go in any case, not after today. You probably lost your brother after this ordeal and you refused to lose your husband, too. With your body chilled, as if submerged in ice cold water, you said, "I want to. I want to believe this wasn't his doing. It doesn't seem likely, though… If he is stuck behind bars I don't want to live without knowing why."

"Right. You talk to him, get to know his motives and hope that the people surrounding you have the tact to not ask you about it."

"Whatever I do, I will lose, then."

Since the villain's identity wasn't broadcasted the rest of your family and friends remained ignorant, aside from your brother's family and your parents. Your sister-in-law was inconsolable, you heard from your mother when you spoke on the phone. On the verge of tears around your parents, somewhat controlled around her children. Because your brother had young children she was keeping it together, but only barely. The entire family was camped out at your parents' place and the only reason you didn't go was because Hitoshi had been credited for suppressing the villain.

While your sister-in-law supposedly didn't mind, you and Hitoshi agreed that it'd be a bad idea to show up. All you could do was hope that your nephews weren't told, as they adored Hitoshi and vice versa.

During the night, you were unable to sleep. Hitoshi stayed holed up in your bedroom attempting to sleep while you straight up didn't bother trying. Before he left you by the kitchen table with a glass of juice and your laptop you promised him you wouldn't keep reading the news or comments on social media. With a quick kiss he bid you goodnight.

Throughout your misery there was a tiny speck of appreciation for him caring about your mental well-being. You could keep yourself off the internet and play games or whatever tickled your fancy at 2:20AM, but you couldn't stop ruminating.

At this point, you felt like a conspiracy theorist and you were convinced that Hitoshi would deadpan you for this idea.

Honestly, you thought and finished your second cup of coffee, as long as it gets me through this I don't mind going a bit batshit.

Your head was massively pulsating and it felt like you were going crazy with everything. Everything was going to hell and nothing made sense.

How long would this go on?

At precisely 4:13AM you stumbled into your shared bedroom.

Boy, did you have a revelation for your husband.

You crawled over your side of the bed to him, who laid sleeping on his side. He awoke before you could touch him with your shaky hands, looking awfully alert and aware for someone with permanent dark bags under his eyes. Hitoshi blinked against the hall lights until he focused on you, frowning.

"I don't think my brother did this out of his own volition," you said as steadily as you could, because you 100% needed him on your side right now.

He stared blankly at you, lips spread slightly. Turning around beneath the covers, he rotated until he could face you properly.

"You know my brother. He wouldn't do this out of his own volition, Hitoshi. Why would someone with a good career and family go on a killing spree? This has to be a mistake."

Heavy subject to breach his sleep with, you understood. Gripping the sheets, you begged him with your eyes to hear you out.

"So you think he's been coerced into this?" he said after some contemplation.

"Yes! Why would he do this otherwise?"

He didn't answer for a while and you started feeling defensive, so you evaded his gaze.

"Not everyone's motives are understandable," he finally said, using his forearm to keep his hair away from his face. "Everyone does whatever they want, regardless of the people around them or whatever they were born with. All I know is that he didn't have to kill humans."

That sounded very different from what he preached earlier to you. If people did what they want and the circumstances were irrelevant, why was the profile he spoke about so important? Fucking meaningless, all of it. You let air escape through your teeth, more like the determined hiss from a rattlesnake than a sigh. All you could try was to convince your silvertongue husband to believe you.

"Hitoshi..!"

You looked at him and got taken aback by his expression, one of profound sadness.

"Baby, I need you to listen to me," his voice like liquid. "There's nothing we can do right now. We just have to wait for justice to work things out."

"You need to hear me out."

"Right. I'll do that later. Now, lay down and get some shuteye."

Too tired to decipher whether he used his Quirk on you or not, you blacked out doused in disappointment.

Turns out your proposition wasn't positively received by Hitoshi. He seemed pensive about your words but you could tell that he didn't place much weight on them. Indeed, he disagreed strongly that your brother had been forced or otherwise influenced into this. When pressed for reasons, he continued that people could be blackmailed into financial shenanigans to cover them up, but downright murder was out of the question. That would obviously raise hell and was the opposite of being clandestine. His sources were his own experiences.

The one thing he had no clear answer to was whether his brainwashing could overwrite instructions from other similar Quirks. Seeing him doubt and scratch his head over it gave you some relief. This was your sole consolation.

It wasn't like you forced Hitoshi back to his workplace, but he was adamant on following this up. At least that was a place safer than anywhere else, considering how many pro heroes and side kicks that were in the vicinity. You could just hope that they wouldn't rope him into doing work. If they did, you'd personally show up at the office and leave with your husband and someone's bloody nuts.

While he was away you visited your family, gathered your thoughts and returned home with some of your mom's homecooked food. Everyone was in agreement; something strange was going on with your brother.

When thinking about it, you thought that he must've been pretty damn out of it to not recognize Hitoshi. Hitoshi didn't recognize him because of his get-up, but your brother should have recognized him. Why would he answer out of anger instead of being shocked or confused? Like Hitoshi had said before, if your brother had reacted out of instinct instead of having gotten confused, Hitoshi would've limped away with a missing limb or worse. As much as it terrified you that those people died because they were at the wrong place at the wrong time, you were secretly relieved that he arrived at the right time. However, the rest of the world didn't see it like that.

The news were always droning in the background while you were at home, because if your husband was at work you would also allow yourself to stay up to date with the news. They claimed that the villain most likely could've been neutralized had the heroes reacted faster or some other idiotic attack. You hated the worship that surrounded the heroes because it placed an insurmountable amount of pressure on a relatively small amount of people. The consequences? Overwork, survivor's guilt, high burnout and suicide rates, among many.

Hitoshi had updated you in a dry tone after his prolonged visit to his office. Word spread like hellfire when it came to mass murder and this was no different. With your heart rippling with fear, you listened to him explain that your brother had not been the only villain and that the heroes were currently tracking down the last two. There aren't words to describe the relief that shone through your body, the mere presence of hope aggressively raising your solemn mood. It could still mean that your brother had collaborated, yet you felt that you were right in assuming he was coerced. Your newfound hope fuelled you and you couldn't wait until you could tell your parents.

After your talk you gloomily realized that you shouldn't have let Hitoshi go in the first place, because his co-worker called him back into the office, saying that the cops were there. Was him being away really worth the information? Perhaps he had been right in saying that knowing everything about the case wasn't worth it.

Shinsou Hitoshi was accustomed to people gossiping about him. For some reason, people were very interested in his Quirk, the dark bags under his eyes and his ties to UA. When he returned to his office for the second time that day, his people had a newfound fixation with the fact that his brother-in-law had committed a severe crime. Indeed, he hung out behind a corner and overheard his assistants talk about it. His coffee tasted badly, regardless of how much milk he put in it.

"You're the last person I would expect to be here," His manager's voice rang out behind him. Hitoshi actually jumped, almost spilling his cup. His assistants ceased talking. "Yet it cannot be helped. Did you hear from..?"

"Yes," he said in a monotone voice and peeked across his shoulder, pokerface on. "I heard that the police came here to talk?"

His manager tightened his tie and gave him a tired look. "They're waiting for you."

"I won't keep them waiting further, then." Without further ado, he set off towards his office room, walking briskly past his assistants. If someone could spontaneously explode, they probably would've done it by now.

Hitoshi felt guilty for his manager. Sato would be working overtime to highlight his subjugation of the villain and quench whatever rumors were spreading. Unfortunately the rest of his team participated in that... A little support from his team wouldn't be bad. The public was ruthless in their criticism and he wanted nothing more than go back to his wife. His sick-leave was cut short by your personal tragedy that extended into becoming his personal win and tragedy. Usually when he successfully dealt with villains, he and his team would be thinking about ways to capitalize on it. This time around he would want it buried ASAP, both for his sake and yours.

Although it wouldn't stop after this little talk with the police, he started to seriously consider sick-leave a positive thing. He could certainly use a break from this madness.

"So the police came to question you?" You sat cross-legged on the sofa, spine hunched over and eyes set in shadows. It wasn't the 'seductive kind of deeply-set eyes' he allegedly had but 'I'm tired of everything eyes'. The way your body language had shot from lethargic to alarmed after he announced that he had news made him clench his fists in hopelessness. It was something he had encountered before when dealing with civilians in denial about the deaths of their friends or relatives. Or rather, it was a human quality. Damn if he hadn't thought about his brother-in-law being forced into this by someone with a Quirk like his.

"Yes," he said, leaning back onto his armchair. "It was pretty standard. They asked questions about what happened, his Quirk and how he acted. I'll skip the details…"

He trailed off, staring off into nothingness as he structured his thoughts quickly. "I kept thinking about what you said before… about my Quirk overwriting other Quirks. I told them I thought that your brother seemed off and not entirely there, just like it is with Brainwashing."

"So it's not impossible?"

That was a hard question he didn't have a factual answer to. If Brainwashing could be undone by hurting the subject, other suggestion-like Quirks could have other conditions for release. The two other villains had, much like the League of Villains members in the past, unregistered Quirks and it'd take a few days to completely figure them out. Until then, this would only be speculation.

"Probably not," he said reluctantly.

Your face relaxed, your shadows becoming less intensive somehow. Hitoshi was content yet uneasy. This was the closest he'd ever come to letting another person influence his observations. Courts experienced problems with witnesses showing bias or remembering things wrong, which could prove important for either incarceration or for the villain to regain their freedom. It surprised him how you could influence him to that extent. No one was immune, but still…

He regarded you seriously, clasping a hand behind his neck. While he was happy that you were relieved by the small chance for your brother to have been coerced, he understood the feeling of wanting to prove everyone wrong and wished you hadn't influenced his thinking.

But that was also why he liked you. Someone who could show him other ways to think. Who didn't like to be put in their place ever so often?

"I don't know how it'll turn out with your brother. I don't want to promise you anything," he said.

You wiggled your head loosely to the sides and hummed. Not quite content, then.

Hitoshi used his upper body strength to lift himself off the armchair and struggled over to you, left leg flaring up in pain. It disappeared once he sat down beside you and you let out an unwilling laugh when he laid down across your lap, his head leaning against your thigh. Your hands combed through his unruly hair and he groaned when you liberated his tangled ends.

This girl…

When it came to you, he simply didn’t know when to stop.

How far would the two of you get with your words and his voice?

If you liked this, give it a reblog or like! I’ll be releasing more soon.

Link to Masterlist

#bnha x reader #shinsou x reader #shinsou hitoshi x reader #shinsou hitoshi #bnha #bnha scenarios #bnha imagines #ilcaeryx.tenacity

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artificialqueens · 5 years

Text

In Sickness and In Health Ch6 - shalaska - pureCAMP

A/N - It’s been a while but I promised more would come and I have delivered! Also, since it is always gonna be a while between updates, I’ll give you a little reminder of what happened last time. Feel free to go back and reread, though!

Last time: After a dip in the sea and a confession of love, Alaska and Sharon sit reading together in the carriage, only to find Sharon’s health worsening by the minute. The carriage stops, saying he cannot go any further due to the presence of witches, leaving Alaska to lug Sharon’s unconscious body the rest of the way. At the brink of giving up, Alaska is approached by a witch, Max, who offers her help. She soon concludes that this illness is beyond her help.

Alaska wasn’t going to stand for it. Her gaze wrenched up from Sharon’s lifeless body to Max, who was wringing her hands. Sorrow emanated from her very body, her radiating hopelessness permeating the air. Unfortunately for her, Alaska hadn’t come all this way to be let down.

“That’s it? You just - you’re just gonna do nothing?” She demanded, instinctively grabbing at Sharon’s hand. It was far too cold.

Max shook her head. “This is beyond my capability. I suspected as much, but I foolishly hoped… Never mind. I promise you, nothing I can do will help her.”

“Bullshit!” Alaska swore fervently, her eyes blazing. “This is the princess, beloved in my kingdom, soon-to-be queen. She needs to be healed.”

“I…” Max looked pained. “Listen to me, listen well. There is only one who can undo this curse - the very same who laid it upon her. She will never comply with your wishes, it simply isn’t her way.”

Alaska looked down at Sharon, whose chest was rising and falling slowly.. There was still time. There was still hope.

“Take me to her.” She insisted. “There is nothing I won’t do to save her life. Nothing. Take me to this witch and let me give her a piece of my mind. You can help me! We can do this!”

Max swallowed. “Taking you to her is as much as I can do for you.” She replied sadly. “Our magic is conflicting, it will never be able to triumph over the other. But follow me, if you must.”

They mounted the brooms again, and Alaska clutched Sharon to her chest, sure that if she held on tight enough, the princess would never slip away from her. Alaska had made up her mind, her resolve was firm. When morning came, no matter how, Sharon would be alive and healthy and the curse would be lifted. She was going to make sure of it.

Then the little cottage appeared out of nowhere, and the brooms almost seemed skittish. They jerked and bolted, seeming reluctant to approach the little building. Emboldened but still slightly afraid, Alaska could understand why. It was choked with vines, ivy seeming to throttle every inch of the grey stones it was made of. Just below where they hovered, sickly green smoke billowed from the chimney, filling the air with a smell reminiscent of burning hair. Despite the terrifying aura that surrounded the place, Alaska found herself noticing that the exterior wasn’t as dark and mysterious as she had imagined it to be. Surprisingly enough, though overgrown, the garden was bursting with colour, illuminated by whatever strange light was causing the green smoke.

Overall, it was just… odd.

They landed gently just before the cobbled path leading to the front door. Alaska began charging towards it, still holding Sharon’s body as best as she could, until she realized that there were no footsteps behind her.

“Max?”

The witch sighed gently. “I can go no further. I sincerely wish that she will be lenient on you… but I know better than that.”

Alaska glanced at Sharon’s face. She was still completely out cold, and her breathing had grown even shallower.

“At least help me get her to the door.” She begged. “She’s so light, but… all these thorns, and brambles… she’s gonna get hurt-”

“That’s the least of your worries.” Max replied tersely. “I can’t venture down this path, for she will sense me instantly. But I mean it when I say I wish you the best. That’s all I can do for you.”

Max’s farewell was more ominous than it was helpful, but it made Alaska angry rather than scared. How dare she bask in her luxury of giving up, when it had never been an option for Alaska or indeed Sharon? At this point, both of their lives depended on Sharon’s survival, and now even Alaska’s heart was on the line. Losing Sharon now would devastate her more than the prospect of losing her home and her livelihood.

She raised her fist to knock on the front door. It creaked itself open before Alaska’s hand made contact with it, beckoning her into a home almost identical to Max’s. The only difference was that it was much darker and dustier, and instead of Max busying around, there seemed to be no one present.

Alaska felt for Sharon’s pulse and tried to remain calm as she observed her surroundings. There must’ve been someone there, at the very least to open the door, but nobody appeared. She simply looked around, wondering if she could make her own strange potion that would fix Sharon from all the ingredients located exactly where Max kept hers. They were not nearly as organised, naturally, but Alaska was sure if she just ran her hands through the jumbled things then perhaps-

“Oddly familiar, isn’t it?”

The voice came out of nowhere. Whipping around, Alaska still saw no one. She laid Sharon out on the ground and stared around, trying to locate whoever had spoken.

“Yes. My sister and I have always had more in common that she likes to admit. Of course, I’m not that superficial. In many ways I am like that ethereal bitch. Except for the holier than thou attitude. I can live perfectly well without that, thank you.”

Alaska swallowed. “Who are you? Where are you?”

It was impossible to keep the fear out of her voice, but she tried nonetheless. A deeply amused laugh followed her questions.

“Dear, dear. Not very observant, are we? Look up.”

There she was. Max’s sister, it seemed, her body contorted and clinging to the ceiling as though she were a spider, or something out of a nightmare. She moved unnaturally, crawling down the wall and finally landing in front of Alaska, her long fingers outstretched for a handshake. The entire ordeal felt like a trap, but she had no choice other than to comply.

“Hello Alaska. Hello again, dearest Sharon.” The woman grinned, revealing wolfish teeth. Alaska wasn’t sure what she found scarier; the fact that this witch knew her name, or that it seemed that her and Sharon had met.

“How… how do you know Sharon?”

The smile grew wider, more sinister. “Who doesn’t know the kingdom’s darling princess? Everyone adores her, you must know that.” Her gaze was telling, her eyes conveying a clear message that made Alaska’s stomach churn. You love her. You love her, I know you love her, and that can only work against you. “Although, I doubt she will remember me. If I can recall our meeting correctly, all she did was slept and cried incessantly. Rather annoying, but I’m sure she has changed since then.”

She released Alaska’s hand, her grip having grown so tight that it seemed to throb once she let go. Alaska cradled it and knelt down next to Sharon, desperate for help. The witch remained standing, watching with disdain.

“Young love. Ha. Too many think it’s a magical cure for any ailment, love. They come to me asking if a true love’s kiss will fix a curse.” She scoffed. “Many of the stories about curses are true, but none of the cures are. They’re fairytales, Alaska. Sharon’s childhood was spent reading plenty of stories about my work, each of them with fake endings. Look where it got her.”

Alaska scowled. “Stories didn’t do this to her. You did. You have to make her better.”

“I have to?” She raised an eyebrow. “Goodness. Why’s that? Because you love her?”

Alaska stuttered. “I-”

“My name is Yvie Oddly.” The witch crooned, kneeling and draping herself over Alaska, her lips inches from her ear. “I loved someone once. She was inflicted with insanity and neither my love nor my magic could save her. She was sent away and I have not seen her since. Tell me - why should your love for her change anything about her predicament?”

Incensed by Yvie’s words, Alaska shot to her feet. “Because you caused this! Because she isn’t suffering from some natural illness, she’s dying because you cursed her to be sick, and fuck knows why because she’s done nothing to you! I love her, I want to save her. Does that satisfy you?”

Yvie merely blinked. “Immensely, Alaska. You see, the thing is… you know why she’s cursed. You’ve been told. But you only had half of the story.”

“I… huh?” Alaska hated these stupid mind games - every moment that they wasted was a moment Sharon’s life was fading. “I don’t know anything! All I know is that you did this and-”

“Oh, you do know. Sharon told you herself. I believe I recall you reading her story together.”

Alaska’s blood ran cold. Her mind cast back to hardly any time ago, when she had been sitting beside Sharon - Sharon who was alive, and stronger than she was now - reading from the book of fairytales. A witch had cursed a princess because of a party she hadn’t been invited to…

“That’s not true.” Alaska insisted, tears glistening in her eyes. “It’s not. Tell me it’s not, Yvie. Please.”

Yvie shrugged. “I never lie. Equivocation is the closest I might get to a lie, but I will always tell the truth, Alaska. Now listen carefully, I will only say this once. This is your last chance.”

Alaska brought Sharon’s hand up to her lips and kissed it gently. It was cold.

“I’m listening.”

“Good. Now, unlike my darling sister, I don’t pretend magic is free. It isn’t. It takes time, effort and energy, all of which I don’t have to expend on you if I don’t want to. Thus, I expect a payment. Before you offer me money, however… I don’t want it. Money is worthless. I will set out the terms of payment, and you will agree to them, or…”

She pointed one long, crooked finger at Sharon. “You can watch here as I do nothing.”

Sharon’s body jolted, not unlike it had at Max’s. However, this one seemed a lot more sinister - whilst Max had been trying to help, all Yvie had done was point and look. She hit the ground again hard with a thump that caused Alaska to wince, knowing the internal damage would do nothing for her ill-health. At this point, even just laying on the ground was slowly leading up to her death.

“I’ll do anything. She has to be okay.”

Yvie revealed her malevolent grin once more; it was a clear indication that Alaska had made the right choice, even if it was at her own peril.

“Wonderful.” She crooned. “Now, stand back and just watch. You won’t want to miss this, I assure you.”

The show wasn’t all that spectacular, but Alaska assumed Yvie meant that seeing her lover - if she could evoke the courage to call her that - regain her health and beauty would be an unmissable phenomenon. Her breath hitched as Yvie knelt at Sharon’s body, directly opposite Alaska. Up close, her eyes were terrifying - boldly red, boring holes into wherever her gaze landed. She fixed it upon Sharon and placed her hands on the princess’ chest. For a moment, nothing happened.

Sharon inhaled sharply, sucking in a quick, deep breath. Then she exhaled slowly, and as she breathed out Alaska could only stare in total fascination as she began to change. First it was her skin, the sallow paleness fading to make way for her former flushed, rosy hue, even complete with freckles across her nose. Her previously cracked lips became lush and pink once more. Her hair grew out again, thicker and shiny just like it always had been.

“Oh my god…” She couldn’t help but whisper.

Another deep breath, slow and steady. Sharon’s dress began to fit her body properly for the first time in months, the fabric changing from the loose fit that hung off her frame to taut and fitted against her soft physique. Alaska kept waiting to hear that dreaded cough, a sickly reminder that she had been lied to and Sharon was still sick, but all she heard was a slight snuffle and the deep, even breaths of the princess lying on the ground.

Never in her life had she been so close to the princess like this. Even though she was known to wander the streets and interact with people, Alaska had never been able to study her quite like this. There were freckles peppered across her cheeks, and a tiny birthmark right underneath her eye, almost shaped like a heart. Her eyelashes were thick and dark. All of her clothes were expertly tailored, so even in her bloodied gown she looked like the epitome of fashion.

And there she lay; not sick, not burdened, not edging on the very brink of death. Just softly slumbering, her mind filled with peaceful dreams.

Alaska wasn’t able to stop the tears from spilling over.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She repeated, her gratitude tumbling from her lips at speeds she couldn’t quite control.

Yvie merely watched her, unmoved by the entire spectacle. “I expect her family will want to reward you handsomely. Good people like that, aren’t they? Always rewarding those who deserve it. It would pain them not to.”

Not sure where the witch was going, Alaska nodded slowly. “I can’t thank you enough, I-”

“Yes you can.” Yvie replied firmly. “Because now, whilst the poor dear sleeps until she’s good and ready to wake, we can discuss payment.”

Something about the intensity of her gaze told Alaska she was in deep, deep trouble. Beckoning impatiently, she sat down on an old wicker chair and gestured for Alaska to do the same, lacing her fingers together and resting her elbows on the table.

“Now, Alaska, I’m going to tell you a story. You may think you’ve heard it before, but I can promise you that you haven’t…

I am what they call a dark witch. That doesn’t make me evil, nor does it make my sister, a light witch, good. All it means is that we deal in different types of magic. My magic is often more useful than my sister’s…

Once upon a time, there was a great battle raging between two mighty kingdoms. The King and Queen were desperate to save their people, being the kind and good people that they were. Many days of travelling brought them to me, and we struck up a deal. My dearest love was fond of the Queen, who was heavily pregnant at the time, which certainly swayed me in their favour. So I promised them, with my assistance, the battle would be over within the next two years, and they would have won. All I asked in return was recognition for my work, and they promised me I would be invited to the palace when their little prince or princess was born, to show everyone that a witch such as myself is not to be feared, but respected.”

She paused. “A strikingly good deal, wouldn’t you agree?”

Alaska bit her lip. “My parents died in that battle.”

“Sacrifices are made in every war. Many valuable soldiers are lost. Regardless, it was a good deal. I agreed to it, and sure enough, their kingdom began gaining the upper hand.” Her gaze was dangerous. “I soon received word from an assistant of mine that a princess had been born. Strangely enough, my invitation to the palace never arrived.”

Everything about Yvie’s storytelling made Alaska feel sick. The story was horribly familiar, and as she put the pieces together it was all she could do not to grab Sharon and pull her out of the damned cottage, and disappear somewhere forever. It seemed all too clear where the story was headed and she didn’t like any of it one bit.

Yvie lit a candle to melt through the darkness a little more. It cast eerie shadows across her stormy expression.

“I kept my word, and two years later the battle ended victoriously. You were born around then, I’m sure, and although your parents passed, you have me to thank for the fact that you survived infanthood in a kingdom free of war and terror. But I was not about to let the King and Queen get away with their deliberate deception. So I placed my curse and I waited.”

She leaned forward, as though the story was packed with juicy gossip that she was itching to share with a friend. “Then, as I guessed, you appear. The darling princess is healed, and her commoner friend is enslaved to me as an assistant for the rest of time.”

Alaska’s blood ran cold. “But I-”

“You see, Alaska,” Yvie continued, “Only one of you can return to your kingdom, and as much as we both know how kind and loving your King and Queen are… they would much prefer their daughter, a princess, to some common muck. Thus, I get to keep you.”

So that was it. The ulterior motive, the payment that meant Sharon got to keep her life. Alaska, a slave to a jaded witch for the rest of her life, never to see her beloved again. The kingdom would flourish under her rule, and Alaska would never get to see it.

“Ah, sweet deliberation.” Yvie mused. “Vanessa, dear, tell our lovely Alaska how wonderful it is to work for me.”

She snapped her fingers, and a small door shot open. Clearly forced by some invisible spell, a girl appeared, her arms pinned to her sides, her face grimy and bruised. Her dark hair was matted and her eyes were dull, but she nodded slowly.

“Yvie is… a wonderful mistress…” She choked out, clutching at her ragged clothes. “So… generous.”

Once again, Yvie clicked, and Vanessa was whisked away. “You see? A similar predicament, and she’s perfectly happy under me. Now, Alaska, all you have to do is shake my hand, and your sweet princess can return home, happy and healthy. It’s your decision.”

Alaska’s eyes dropped to the ground, where they had left Sharon just a few feet away. She was healthy. She was alive. All because of Yvie. How could she say no to the deal? How could she let such an incredible life fall into disrepair and undignified death after all they’d been through? Yvie was right, after all. Sharon’s life meant far more than Alaska’s ever would. Sharon could go on to make real, amazing changes to the everyday lives of people from their kingdom. She could change lives… only if her own kept going.

Their hands connected and Yvie’s eyes seemed to glow. Her lips curled upwards into a sly smirk, and she lingered for a little too long into the handshake before letting go and folding her hands neatly into her lap.

“I’m so glad to have you on board, Alaska.” She gloated, everything about her dripping with insincerity. “Now, she will wake soon. You will inform her that she will be leaving here alone.”

The final twist of the blade. Alaska felt it in the centre of her chest, a blade that curved and carved out her skin, dissecting her heart and landing it in her palm. Her last deed, her first job as Yvie’s servant for the rest of her life, was to erase everything about Sharon from her heart and act like she meant it.

To make matters worse, Sharon groaned slightly, and Yvie cackled.

“Oh, look at that. She stirs.”

Sharon’s eyelashes fluttered open, blinking and squinting until she’d taken in her surroundings. Eyes like sapphires - no longer cloudy but bright, filled with love and life - landed on Alaska within moments of her waking, and yet it felt like hours. It was as though Alaska was watching everything happen from somewhere else, every infinitesimal movement seeming massive. Sharon’s eyes widened and her lips parted into an ecstatic gasp, and she was on her feet almost immediately.

“I can breathe…” Sharon marvelled, her voice catching in her throat. “I can breathe! I’m okay!”

She was bouncing on the spot, her body filled with energy. Alaska gazed on with a sinking feeling in her chest as Sharon examined everything about herself, completely thrilled.

“Wow!” She giggled, and even Yvie’s chuckle sounded good-natured. “I forgot that this is how I look… I look good!”

Yvie raised her hands, as if to abstain from taking any credit. “That’s what a palace diet will do to you.”

Sharon only giggled again in response; everything about her was an embodiment of her elation, repeatedly filling Alaska with guilt. Her chest was heaving, but in a far different manner to the one they had both grown accustomed to. The sheer excitement radiating from her was palpable.

“Lasky, this is it!” Alaska sucked in a breath as Sharon turned to her. “We can do it, we can go home! It’s finally over, this is the end. We can go home.”

She didn’t need to glance over to feel the weight and intensity of Yvie’s glare. Her first trial was underway.

“No.”

For just a moment, Sharon’s expression faltered. “What?”

Alaska steeled the softening of her face. “I said no. You can go home. But I’m not going.”

She froze. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s not difficult, Sharon. You’re leaving and I’m not.” Ignoring the way her heart screamed at her to stop, Alaska injected a note of artificial anger into her voice, simultaneously torn up and relieved about the way Sharon’s face coloured.

“It is fucking difficult!” Sharon argued, determined to make this even harder for her to cope with. “Explain this to me, I thought this was what you wanted?”

Entertained by the spectacle, Yvie lounged and regarded them leisurely, eyelids half-hooded as though she didn’t care enough to pay attention, only to listen. Still, Alaska knew her vested interest remained, making sure Sharon left alone.

“You’re a princess, Sharon.” She spat, and every word poisoned her tongue. “You live in a palace. I live in one room. You could eat to bursting every single day and still have leftovers. I can barely feed myself for a week. You have your pick of every bachelor in and around these kingdoms. I’ll die a spinster. We’re different people.”

Every word hurt. Alaska knew she loved Sharon - loved, adored, cared for her so much that any time her gaze flickered away it was as though her whole body ached until she looked back once again - and yet there was still a hint of truth in everything she said. The hatred and self-doubt poured out seemingly on accident, an amalgamation of all of her fears she had felt in falling for the princess. It was true that their lives were different. It was true that Sharon had lived a life Alaska could never even dream of achieving, and that had made them different in ways that perhaps simple love couldn’t reverse.

Sharon’s eyes filled with tears. “I- That never mattered before, Alaska, it doesn’t have to matter now. I’m gonna become the queen someday, I’ll change every goddamn law in this kingdom for you! Come home with me, please. Screw my parents’ reward to you, we’ll get fucking married and you can stay with me forever. We can change all of that, I promise. I’d do anything for you!”

Alaska swallowed, knowing Sharon would see through her act if she cried. “It won’t work, Sharon, it won’t ever fucking work, okay? Go back to your privileged life and let me lead mine. I only did this for the money anyway.”

“You…” The tears were falling hot and fast now, spilling onto her cheeks with every cruel word that tumbled from Alaska’s lips. It was heartbreaking to behold, and Alaska longed to dry her tears. “We can make things better, Lasky. I want you to rule by my side, and together we can make things better for all the people who’re stuck the way you were. Everything can be perfect if you just come with me. I love you, Alaska.”

“I don’t love you.”

No sound in the universe had ever been so horrible - a shuddery gasp, followed by a gut-wrenching sob of a woman utterly broken. Her entire body seemed to crumple into her sadness, her dark hair soon becoming unruly and dishevelled with the intensity that she tore her hands through it, desperate to understand. Alaska had to look away before she, too, burst into tears, thoroughly sickened by the consequences of her own words. Predictably, Yvie was delighted at the aftermath. Things had gone exactly her way.

“So it’s just… over?” Sharon replied hopelessly, then shook her head, her tears still flowing. “No. No, I won’t have it. As- As your princess, I d-demand that you come home with me right now. Please.”

Even in her distress, she was the most sublime creature Alaska had ever laid eyes upon. She tried her best to savour her final glance, knowing this would be the last time she would get to stare so unabashedly at the most beautiful woman she’d ever known.

“Your Highness, that will be all. Your services from me are no longer needed. Go home and run your kingdom. Without me.”

Sharon dabbed furiously at her eyes, refusing to give up. “I’ll be back for you, Alaska. I need you.”

“You’ll never find me.” Alaska shrugged, the very facade of nonchalance doing nothing to soothe the turmoil inside her.

“Don’t count on it.”

Sharon’s eyes blazed with rage, and for a moment, Alaska’s heart dropped into her stomach. The princess was stood tall and straight, firmly resolute, and everything about her stance suddenly hit home to Alaska that this woman, after all, would soon be her Queen. The years of training and scrupulous education seemed more prevalent than ever as she radiated a sense of power and authority. It hadn’t seemed possible only days ago, when she was weak and dying, but in her full health, Alaska was reminded of the sheer power that Sharon possessed. Even with tears in her eyes, she seemed unbreakable.

Before she could say anything, before she could succumb to Sharon’s authority and escape with her under palace orders, Yvie cut in. Her smile was saccharine sweet, her voice dripping with honey, but there was a sly look in her eyes that Alaska knew Sharon wouldn’t miss.

“Your carriage awaits, Your Highness.” She simpered. “Everything borrowed from your journey - the books, the weapons - have been returned to said carriage in the exact condition you borrowed them, so you owe debts to nobody. Your journey will take around four days, shortened from before. We wish you good fortune.”

Sharon stood fast. “I don’t know what you’ve done, but I’ll find out. I’ll get her back.”

Yvie raised one eyebrow, an infinitesimal movement that still had Alaska terrified that the witch was going to re-curse Sharon again. However, to her relief, she did nothing as Sharon turned and walked out, her head held high. When the door slammed shut behind her, a final act of defiance, Alaska cried.

“Vanessa! Get her out of my sight. You know I can’t stand tears.” Yvie grumbled, sinking into her chair and rubbing her temples. “The work starts tomorrow, I’ve had enough of bratty princesses for today.”

Obedient as ever, Vanessa took hold of Alaska’s hand, this time appearing through the door without the use of magic, and led her inside. The room was small, but Alaska could hardly see any of it through her tears. She could feel a scratchy sheet beneath her as Vanessa pulled her to the ground, and cold concrete against her back. Nothing made sense because Sharon was gone.

“Hey, hey, hey Blondie. Blondie, it’s alright, you hear me? It feels shitty now because it is shitty I’m not gonna lie to you, but now there’s two of us so it ain’t all that bad. You won’t even miss her after a while, they ain’t worth it to be honest. But I know it hurts now because it hurt me then so I’ma let you cry it out on me, I’ve been in your shoes. They ain’t like us and you gotta get used to that feeling, they live differently. I got you, Blondie. I’m Vanessa, you can call me Vanjie when the bitch isn’t around. You’re Alaska, right?”

It was a lot to take in at once, but Alaska managed a nod. She dried her tears on her arm, not wanting to soak Vanessa’s shoulder any more than she already had, given that they had just met. The kindness of a stranger letting her weep on them alone made Alaska want to cry again, but she knew she had to pull herself together.

“They’re not like us?” She asked, wincing in case her prying had gone a little too far.

Thankfully, Vanessa only shrugged. “Queens, princesses, women with titles and jewelry and maids, you know ‘em. No sense in denying how pretty they are, but they can fuck you up real good.”

Alaska sniffed. “Sharon said she’ll come back for me…”

To her surprise, Vanessa grinned. “You’re already doing better than me, Blondie, don’t be too upset! Now my girl, Brooke, she’d just been coronationed - coronanated - coro - now how the fuck do you say tha - made queen, right? Little bit of a perfectionist, comes asking for an affluent kingdom, whatever-the-fuck that is, I’m the price to pay, and ka-boom, I’m gone. I used to be mad, I ain’t mad no more. I hate it here, but I’m past being mad about it. Just gotta keep on moving, eh Alaska? I know she’s a great queen and all that and she probably got some nice old cosy husband and she ain’t need me anymore, but it is what it fuckin’ is.”

Vanessa’s oversharing, talkative nature turned about to be a godsend. Alaska’s new life was, in one word, hellish, and her new loudmouthed companion seemed stubbornly determined to make every second of it a little bit lighter. Not being alone with her thoughts in the wake of such a sudden, horrific change was a total blessing.

Everything they did was everything Yvie didn’t want to. It meant fourteen hours without sitting, bent double over flaming cauldrons and overheating to the point of passing out whilst brewing meticulous potions. Sweat dripped from every single pore of Alaska’s body, and her lungs screamed for fresh air after so long inhaling nothing but pungent steam. The brewing room was hot and heavy regardless, lacking a chimney so that nothing harmful could escape, which meant that Vanessa and Alaska were stuck in there for sometimes days at a time, soaked to the skin, hair ratty and frizzy from the incessant humidity.

Even then, Vanessa somehow kept Alaska’s spirits up. She talked nonstop, telling stories about her home life, her love affair with Queen Brooke - who, admittedly, Alaska had never heard of, given that she wasn’t so involved in the world of politics as a regular commoner - and singing ridiculous songs made up on the spot, detailing her dislike for Yvie, her frustration at the tasks, and her general mood that day. Sometimes, Alaska even laughed.

Other days, they were kept apart. Those were the worst days.

Winter was approaching, and although it hadn’t arrived yet, the unencumbered chill of a desolate landscape certainly had. Without any other buildings for miles around, the cold had wrapped itself around Yvie’s home with full ferocity. Whilst the witch relaxed inside, pleasantly warmed by her peculiar fire, Vanessa was still brewing potions in a sweltering cavern, and Alaska was freezing outside in the garden.

In order to brew the potions Yvie kept stacked on the shelves, locked away, she needed fresh ingredients. However, the majority of the ingredients, whatever they were, didn’t want to be harvested. Some were choked with thorns, others tinged with poison, some emitting foul scents and corrosive liquids whenever they were touched. Worse still, some of the ingredients were live, leaving Alaska to pick through the brambles and vines at her own risk, to grab at things that did not want to be grabbed.

Numbed by the cold, Alaska’s fingers seemed to be impervious to everything except the pain. From fingertip to elbow she was covered in angry red welts, adorned with scratches and cuts that dripped blood onto an already aggressive ecosystem. All along her forearm was a purplish rash, the mottled skin webbed with veins and itching from the touch of some plant Alaska had long since forgotten that had caused it. The pain was exacerbated by the pinpricks left behind by thorns, but she did her best to push through it all and keep gathering whatever it was that Yvie had demanded.

It was easy for her mind to wander when she was alone like this. She wondered how Sharon was doing, and if she really was trying to find a way back. She wondered how the kingdom had reacted to the return of their beloved princess, after so long of her devastating ill-health. She wondered Yvie’s fire so often burned blue, when Vanessa had told her that the flame’s colour correlated with emotion.

From what Vanessa had gleaned, and then shared with Alaska so the two of them could observe together, something more was troubling Yvie than being disrespected by a nation or two.

It seemed that, on her rare good days, the fire was a bright scarlet. Those were the days where Vanessa and Alaska were allowed to work together, or not screamed at for having a conversation, or only mildly punished for making a mistake in potion brewing. The bad days, which occurred far more often, were the ones in which they were separated, punished, and forced to work longer hours than ever, and the flames were melancholy blue.

Shivering, Alaska managed to balance the baskets of herbs on one arm and barge open the door to Yvie’s cottage with the other. The witch didn’t even look up as Alaska deposited her collection onto the table next to her, only scowling when she almost knocked over her glass of… whatever it was that she drank. She snatched up the glass and hissed under her breath.

“Fucking useless. You’d think after all this time you’d have gotten a little more competent, hm? Be better.”

Alaska nodded. “I’m sorry. May I help Vanessa, if she’s still working?”

Yvie’s chuckle was mirthless, as usual. “By all means, knock yourselves out.”

To her slight surprise, the brewing room wasn’t nearly as unbearable as it often was. The flames were low, as the huge cauldron that Vanessa tended to was simmering gently, clearly almost done. There was no discernable scent in the room, and for once, without the hissing and squealing of a boiling concoction, it was fairly quiet.

“I am so fucking bored of this potion, Alaska. I’m gonna tell Yvie how fucking bored I am.” Vanessa complained, in lieu of a greeting.

Alaska frowned. “No, you’re not, Vanjerella. That’d be suicide.”

It was strange. Vanessa was always honest, often to a fault, but not quite that honest. Yvie was still a threat to them, after all, and the last thing either of them needed was to end up cursed by her.

“Yeah, it’d be suicide. Ain’t much else left for us, is there?” Vanessa breathed in deeply, inadvertently inhaling a lungful of the potion’s smoke. “Man, I fucking miss Brooke.”

Now, that was even stranger. For however long Alaska had been there - she knew it had been a long time since Yvie had forced her labour, long enough for the weather to turn, but the exact duration she had no idea - Vanessa had vehemently denied any lingering emotion for her ex. She had admitted, once, that she sometimes still thought about her, but confessed that the spark was gone, and she just wished she could be rescued and move on.

Acting on a whim, Alaska spoke up again. “Vanjie, step away from the cauldron for a second.”

She did. “You miss Brooke?”

Vanessa paled. “Whu- I don’t know why the fuck I said that. I don’t miss Brooke at all…”

“Okay.” Alaska nodded, her mind racing with a sudden possibility. “Go back over.”

Thankfully, Vanessa was either unaware that she was taking part in Alaska’s little experiment, or complicit in it. She returned to her original position, stirring the mixture a couple more times and breathing in the smoke once again.

“So, you don’t miss Brooke?”

Vanessa sighed. “I miss her a lot. Like, it fuckin’ hurts me that she traded me in for her kingdom, you know? I know it’s important to her and goddamn it was important to me too, but it feels like she tossed me away like I was nothing to her. We weren’t nothing, and I ain’t asking to get sympathy but I loved her and I know she loved me, but clearly not enough to keep me and her ambition separate. I wish I could tell her I ain’t a chess piece to be traded in for somethin’ better.”

There was a multitude of things Alaska could unpack from that confession, but the main one was flashing right before her eyes: Vanessa was telling the truth. Out of her control, clearly not of her own volition, she was confessing exactly how she felt and sparing no minor details at all.

“Vanj,” Alaska called, beckoning her away from the cauldron a third time. “Do you know what that potion is that Yvie has you brewing?”

Vanessa shrugged. “Not a clue. Why, do you?”

She smiled. “I think I do. And if I do, I think I have a plan.”

“Go on…” Vanessa encouraged, intrigued. “I wanna hear this shit. Lay it on me, Blondie.”

And so Alaska, in full awareness of how dangerous and maybe even life-threatening her plan could be, told Vanessa everything that had suddenly sprung to her mind. There was so much potential, possibly a chance of freedom; they had only their lives to lose, and yet an entire life ahead of them to gain. A lot was at stake, on the assumption that Alaska was correct.

“It’s pretty much finished, I been working on this for forever. Do you really think it could work?”

Alaska sucked in a breath. “Do you think it’s worth trying?”

She didn’t miss the way Vanessa’s eyes lit up. “I’ll try anything, Blondie. Anything at all.”

“Perfect.” She walked to the other side of the room, where a small door led out into the corridor that took them to their tiny room. “You work on perfecting it, alright? I’m gonna go fetch my glass. I think it’s time Yvie tastes the fruits of our labour.”

#rpdr fanfiction #purecamp #in sickness and in health #shalaska #sharon needles #alaska thunderfuck #max malanaphy #yvie oddly #vanessa vanjie mateo #brooke lynn hytes #branjie #submission #lesbian au #royalty au

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