#six or seven colors at my disposal | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

helly-watermelonsmellinfellon · 8 months

Text

"The first time I heard about Taylor Swift, I was in a Los Angeles County jail, waiting to be sent to prison for murder. Sheriffs would hand out precious copies of the Los Angeles Times, and they would be passed from one reader to the next. Back then, I swore that Prince was the best songwriter of my lifetime, and I thought Swift’s rise to teen-age stardom was an injustice. I’d look up from her wide-eyed face in the Calendar section to see gang fights and race riots. The jail was full of young men of color who wrote and performed their own raps, often about chasing money and fame, while Swift was out there, actually getting rich and famous. How fearless could any little blond fluff like that really be?

In 2009, I was sentenced to life in prison. Early one morning, I boarded a bus in shackles and a disposable jumpsuit, and rode to Calipatria State Prison, a cement fortress on the southern fringes of California. Triple-digit temperatures, cracked orange soil, and pungent whiffs of the nearby Salton Sea made me feel as though I’d been exiled to Mars. After six years in the chaos of the county jail, however, I could finally own small luxuries, like a television. The thick walls of Calipat, as we called the place, stifled our radio reception, but an institutional antenna delivered shows like “Access Hollywood,” “Entertainment Tonight,” and “TMZ.” I was irritated by the celebrity gossip, but it was a connection to the outside world, and it introduced me to snippets of Swift’s performances for the first time. Here and there, I’d catch her on “The Ellen DeGeneres Show” or “Fallon,” and was surprised by how intently she discussed her songwriting. I didn’t tell anyone that I thought she was talented.

In 2013, when my security level was lowered owing to good behavior, I requested a transfer to Solano state prison, the facility with a Level 3 yard which was closest to my family in the Bay Area. I got the transfer, but my property—a TV, CD player, soap, toothpaste, lotion, food—was lost in transit. I shared a cell with someone in the same situation, so, for months, we relied on the kindness of our neighbors to get by. Our only source of music was a borrowed pocket radio, hooked up to earbuds that cost three dollars at the commissary. At night, we’d crank up the volume and lay the earbuds on the desk in our cell. Those tiny speakers radiated crickety renditions of Top Forty hits.

During that time, I heard tracks from “Red,” Swift’s fourth studio album, virtually every hour. I was starting to enjoy them. Laying on the top bunk, I would listen to my cellmate’s snores and wait for “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together” to come around again. When it did, I would think about the woman I had lived with for seven years, before prison. I remembered bittersweet times when my sweetheart had visited me in county jail. We’d look at each other through security glass that was reinforced by wire. It didn’t seem fair to expect her to wait for me, and I told her that she deserved a partner who could be with her. But we didn’t use the word “never,” and deep down I always hoped that we’d get back together. When I heard “Everything Has Changed,” I had to fight back tears of exaltation and grief. Swift sings, “All I knew this morning when I woke / Is I know something now / Know something now I didn’t before.” I thought back to our first date, and how we had talked and laughed late into the night. We had to force ourselves to get a few hours of sleep before sunrise.

After several months, my belongings, including my CD player, finally caught up with me. I was getting ready to buy “Red” from a catalogue of approved CDs when I learned that the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation, or C.D.C.R., had placed me on another transfer list. I didn’t want the album to get stuck at the prison after I had been transferred, so I resorted to a country station that regularly featured Swift. Sometimes, hearing Southern drawls and honky-tonk medleys, I’d laugh out loud at myself. But that was the station that played the widest variety of her music, from “Tim McGraw” to “I Knew You Were Trouble.” There was, in her voice, something intuitively pleasant and genuine and good, something that implies happiness or at least the possibility of happiness. When I listened to her music, I felt that I was still part of the world I had left behind.

Hitting a new yard—in this case, the prison known as the California Men’s Colony (C.M.C.)—means finding new friends and allies. Each table and workout area was claimed by a different gang or ethnic group. I’m Asian and Hispanic, and I chose to join the Asians in a cement workout area. When they asked me what kind of music I liked, I confessed that I was anxiously waiting for a Taylor Swift album. Everyone laughed. “Oh, my God, we’ve got a Swiftie on the yard!” Lam, a muscular guy, told me. “You in touch with your sensitive side? Are you gay?” He especially loved to heckle me in front of his buddy Hung, who spoke little and laughed almost silently.

I was waiting for “Red” to arrive when I saw Swift perform “All Too Well” at the 2014 Grammys. That became the song that I played first when I peeled the plastic wrap off the disc, and the song I’d stop at and repeat whenever I spun the album. (Her ten-minute version is even better.) As Swift sang about love’s magical moments, how they are found and lost again, I thought about a time before my incarceration, when I briefly broke up with the woman I loved. She came to my house to return one of my T-shirts. When she hung it on the doorknob and walked away, I was on the other side. I sensed that someone was there, but, by the time I opened the door, she was gone.

When “Red” arrived, I finally found out why Lam had been clowning me in front of Hung. “Red” was the only Swift CD that Hung didn’t own—because he considered it a misguided pop departure from the country greatness of “Fearless” and “Speak Now.” Eventually, Lam outed himself as a Swiftie, too. For six months, the three of us would work out and debate which album was best. Then Hung transferred out of the prison, taking his CDs with him.

Around the time Swift dropped “1989,” I acquired an old-school boom box. Technically, exchanging property and altering devices is against C.D.C.R. rules, but every prison has guys who fill their cells with radios, TVs, and speakers to repair and resell. I looked out for one guy, G.L., when he first hit the yard, and he became one of the best electronic fix-it guys I’ve ever met. He loved reconfiguring different speakers to get the best sound. He rewired the boom box for auxiliary cables and gave it to me. At C.M.C., I had a cell to myself, so I’d turn up the music enough to drown out obnoxious sounds outside my cell. Of course, some people always think that Swift is the obnoxious sound. “What’s up with the damn Taylor Swift?” a neighbor yells out. Another voice chimes in with requests: “Play ‘Style.’ That song’s tight right there.” By the time the song ends, someone new will admit, “That girl’s got jams.”

When you transfer between prisons, you can’t take any undocumented property with you. At the end of 2015, I gave that boom box back to G.L. and left C.M.C. for Folsom prison. After a year, I landed at San Quentin. I started working at the San Quentin News, the in-house newspaper, for a quarter an hour. Around that time, C.D.C.R. started allowing a vender to sell us MP3 players for a hundred dollars. They charged $1.75 per song and ten dollars for a memory card. Eventually, I asked my family to order one and would call my cousin Roxan with requests. “What’s up with all the damn Taylor Swift?” she’d say during phone calls. By the time Swift released her album “Lover,” in 2019, I had almost every song she’d ever released. And, when the MP3 players were restricted because crafty folks were using the memory cards in illegal cell phones, mine was grandfathered in.

One of my homies at San Quentin had a pristine radio that played CDs and cassette tapes. When he earned parole, everybody hounded him for it. He knew how much I’d appreciate such a luxury, but I didn’t join the herd of pesterers making offers, and I think he appreciated that. He gave it to me as a parting gift. I was even able to have it officially documented on my property card. The MP3 player clipped neatly into the cassette door, so now I could see my playlists while I listened. My neighbor, Rasta, was the weed man for the building, so I played Swift to drown out the guys who were lighting up outside. Rasta made fun of me, but the crowd always liked her “Bad Blood” remix, featuring Kendrick Lamar. “That’s the shit right there,” they’d say. “Who would’ve thought?”

Seven months after “Lover” came out, C.D.C.R. shut down all programming because of the covid pandemic—no indoor group interactions, no volunteers from outside the prison, no visitors. C.D.C.R. brought the coronavirus into San Quentin when it moved some sick guys from another prison in. By the end of June, 2020, hundreds of us were testing positive and getting sick, including me. I lugged all my property to an isolation cell in a quarantine unit, where I shivered and sweated through a brain fog for two weeks. My only human contact came from nurses in full-body P.P.E., who checked my vitals, and skeleton crews of officers—the ones who weren’t sick themselves—who brought us intermittent meals. I followed San Quentin’s death tallies on the local news. Would I die alone in this cell, suddenly and violently breathless? I made a playlist of Swift’s most uplifting songs, listening for the happiness in her voice.

Alone in a prison cell, it’s virtually impossible to avoid oneself. As my body and mind began to recover, I started to question everything. What really matters? Who am I? What if I die tomorrow? I hadn’t been in touch with my sweetheart in more than two years, because she had told me that she was trying a relationship with someone who cared about her. Now, though, I wrote her a letter to see if she was O.K.

A week after I mailed my letter, I received one from her. Prison mail is slow enough that I knew it wasn’t a response—we had decided to write to each other at the same time. “The lockdown has afforded me plenty of time to reflect on all sorts of things,” her letter said. “I’ve been carrying you with me everywhere.” Reading it brought to mind Swift’s lyrics in “Daylight”: “I don’t wanna think of anything else now that I thought of you.” She was single again, and we started talking every week. In lockdown, between paltry dinner trays, I did pushups, lunges, squats, and planks in the twenty-two-inch-wide floor space in my cell. The twentieth year of my incarceration was approaching.

In 2020, the California legislature passed a law that made anyone who served twenty continuous years, and who was at least fifty years of age, eligible for parole. I’m fifty-three, and I’ll get my first chance at release in 2024. I couldn’t help but think of “Daylight” again. “I’ve been sleeping so long in a twenty-year dark night,” Swift sings. “And now I see daylight.”

These days, I call my sweetheart as often as I can. Officers can shut down the phones with the flick of a switch, and technical glitches often take the system offline, so I treat each call as if it were my last. It often feels like she’s waiting to hear from me. She tells me that it’s complicated and confusing for her, speaking to the ghost who disappeared twenty years ago. But, leaning against a wall, next to all the other guys talking with loved ones on the phone, I don’t feel like a ghost. I feel alive. Just recently, she told me, “Talking like this over the phone so much, I think we’ve gotten to know each other way better than before.” We talk about how much we have changed. “You might not even find me attractive anymore,” she tells me. “I’m not the same person I was back then.”

One morning in October, 2022, I had breakfast in the chow hall and made it back to my cell in time for “Good Morning America.” My TV doesn’t have any speakers, so I plugged it into my boom box. Suddenly, I heard a familiar voice singing an unfamiliar chorus: “It’s me, hi / I’m the problem, it’s me.” The anchors on the broadcast were giddy to announce Swift’s new album “Midnights,” and play clips from the music video of “Anti-Hero.” Swift appeared as a larger-than-life figure, arguing with different versions of herself. I laughed to myself. Here we go again.

Our MP3 distributor was always slow to release new music, so I spent a couple of weeks hearing about the album on the news, waiting for my chance to listen. Then, out on the prison grounds, I bumped into a volunteer whom I’d known and worked with for years. We were walking through the yard together when they started looking around to make sure no one was watching. After confirming that the coast was clear, they slipped me a brand-new copy of “Midnights” and wished me a happy birthday. The gesture nearly brought me to tears. That evening, after dinner, I peeled off the plastic and brushed a bit of dust out of the boom box’s CD player. “Lavender Haze” played as I read the liner notes. “What keeps you up at night?” Swift writes.

For the past two decades, sleep has not come easily to me. Often, when I get into bed, I think about the day I was arrested at the scene of my crime. Some neighbors called 911 and reported gunshots. I can still see the grieving family members of the man I killed, staring at me in the courtroom at my trial. I’m guilty of more than murder. I abandoned my parents and my sweetheart, too. There’s no way to fix this stuff.

Taylor Swift is currently the same age, thirty-three, that I was when I was arrested. I wonder whether her music would have resonated with me when I was her age. I wonder whether I would have reacted to the words “I’m the problem, it’s me.” Hers must be champagne problems compared with mine, but I still see myself in them. “I’ll stare directly at the sun, but never in the mirror,” Swift sings, and I think of the three-by-five-inch plastic mirrors that are available inside. For years out there, I viewed myself as the antihero in my own warped self-narrative. Do I want to see myself clearly?

In “Karma,” Swift sings, “Ask me what I learned from all those years / Ask me what I earned from all those tears.” A few months from now, California’s Board of Parole Hearings will ask me questions like that. What have I learned? What do I have to show for my twenty years of incarceration? In the months ahead, when these questions keep me up at night, I will listen to “Midnights.” The woman I love says she’s ready to meet me on the other side of the prison wall, on the day that I walk into the daylight. Recently, she asked me, “If you could go anywhere, do anything, that first day out, what would you want us to go do?” That question keeps me up at night, too."

~.O.~

This was an amazing piece. Taylor's music touches the hearts of many people across the various divides that humanity has created to separate us all. I genuinely believe this man has served his sentence and has truly changed for the better, and I hope that he and his lover get a happy ending to their Love Story.

#Taylor Swift #Midnights #red taylor’s version #speak now taylor’s version

15 notes · View notes

dmagedgoods · 1 year

Note

3 for Sal, 6 for Eneas, and 9 for both of them please 👀

3. What was their most expensive purchase/where does their disposable income go? Salvadore is great with money – as long as he owns too much of it. He has no idea how to survive on a low budget or not for longer periods of time. Despite the things his family did to him, the cage was golden. He always has been rich and it shows. Not only does he spend vast sums of money on extravagant custom-made clothes (his uniforms, shoes, jewelry and other garments cost a fortune), he eats the most expensive foods, collects valuable books, intensely enjoys high-priced entertainment and art, only accepts materials of the best quality, invests into many forms of charity, has to pay his servants and all the other people who make his life more comfortable, loves to show off by tipping extra and by paying generously, makes impressive gifts to his allies, sometimes to his foes as well, and even more extensive ones to those close to him. His most expensive purchase during the events of the game or slightly after? The white palace he had built and the lavish garden surrounding it. (To my huge enjoyment, it was Woljif who brought it up during a council meeting and Sal agreed with him. Yes, he thought, it was indeed time to leave this tiny room (ha) in the Citadel behind and build himself and Daeran a palace. Woljif got a spacious guestroom with all the luxuries he can wish for.) 9. What is their favorite holiday? Will he get his own holiday named after him, now that he closed the worldwound? (Salvation Day?) He is of the opinion that he should and it would be his favorite. As an Atheist, Salvadore doesn’t have strong emotions towards any of the god's holidays. He likes those that circle around the achievements of people instead, improvements of society or won battles. His favorite parts are skillful speeches (he may hold one himself) and of course, as soon as the formalities are done, the dancing and conversations. He also enjoys birthdays and if he is in charge to plan the festivities, it’s always an extravagant pleasure circling around the special taste and preferences of the one who’s celebrated. ~ 6. Are they an oldest, middle, youngest or only child? Eneas is the youngest one. He has three older sisters who loved him dearly. His family was caring, gentle and very happy, his mother a powerful druid, his father a hunter who loved to tell stories. He remembers his deep warm voice. There also is a memory of hands in his hair, almost as small as his own, already so thorough in their attempts to braid it. If he tries, he recalls the name: Gaia, the youngest of the three sisters, only two years older than him, curios, his companion in all his adventures, sometimes a little careless, pulling him along when he wants to stay back. There are pictures in his mind of a walk surrounded by never-ending shades of green. His second oldest sister always knows the most interesting places: Chiara, she is already working to become like their father. He has faint memories of a day at the beach, surrounded by his sisters and his mother, but their faces blur. His mother is dressed in vivid colors and she sings a song … He dreams with it and it seems to carry him away. His oldest sister takes his hand so he doesn’t fall in the waves tearing at his tiny legs: Ceres. Calm, attentive, more aloof than the rest, but he feels so safe around her. Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? It’s all long gone, his memories are vague enough it probably has only been a dream born of loneliness and yearning. He was six when the men stole him and he never found his way back. 9. What is their favorite holiday? Seven Veils. – A holiday of glorious dancing, exuberant feasting, and courting without bounderies to celebrate diversity with a masquerade ball and all the guests in disguises to hide their race and gender, using masks, magic and illusions. Ah, it's a celebration to his very liking, combining everything he cherishes and loves.

#thank youuu!#❤️#knight commander salvadore #oc: salvadore #oc: eneas #my ocs #dmagedtexts

10 notes · View notes

borrebitsch77 · 1 year

Text

Coronavirus Causes Americans to find Easter Fun at least 6 Feet Apart

New York - Easter is a special holiday for 6-year-old Nora Heddendorf. It's a time when she's a sucker for dressing up in a fancy dress and shiny shoes and spend time with her family and friends searching for brightly colored eggs.

The coronavirus epidemic forced her to adjust this year. She'll finish her Easter outfit by adding a white paper mask and disposable gloves in blue, and disinfectant wipes. And after hearing that her New Jersey town's annual egg hunt could be cancelled She came up with the idea of an "rock hunt."

Article content Nora's hunt does not only replace brightly colored stones for eggs, which are in short supply at some stores, but it also lets her neighbors do their hunting during their walks.

Article content "I was devastated that the school was going to be cancelled because of the virus," the kindergartener said to Reuters in a phone interview. "I would like to make people happy."

The pandemic has affected everyone from the White House to small towns parks. It has also led to the cancellation of traditional Easter egg hunts across the United States. Closed churches and plans to scotch Easter dinners with extended families have been cancelled.

However, many Americans are still finding ways to have holiday fun, from an Oregon candy maker making chocolate bunnies wearing face masks to an Texas church hosting a virtual egg hunt using the video game Minecraft.

Article content Nora and her mother started organizing their hunt in Medford Lakes a few weeks ago. She put together a number of DIY kits, each with five rocks, four paint colors, instructions and all packaged in plastic bags. Of course, she wore disposable gloves and applied disinfectant to the materials.

She then left the kits outside her home for pick-up by people who want to take part. The young artist, Nora's Rocks requested her friends return the adorned rocks she left to her for hiding.

"Thank you for helping Nora’s Rocks bring our community closer but also separating us," she wrote in the instruction letter she included with the kits.

Samantha Heddendorf, Samantha's mother and president of an environmental cleanup firm which has been cleaning up the buildings affected by the coronavirus crises She said that the hunt will begin on Good Friday and run until Easter Sunday. New batches of painted rocks being hidden each day.

Article content The goal of this project is to install 500 stones "eggs" in every corner of the 1 mile (2.6 km) town.

"People are able to look for Easter eggs or even rocks on their social distancing walks." Samantha Heddendorf stated that they could find something to look for, take them home, and have at least smiles to celebrate Easter.

In Central Point, Oregon, chocolatier Jeff Shepherd had a brainstorm to save his Lillie Belle Farms from shutdown in the wake of the coronavirus. Srazy.info He shared with his Facebook fans that he'd make "Covid Bunnies" - milk and dark chocolate ones with white face masks , and white chocolate ones with blue masks for faces.

It was a roaring success. Shepherd was able to hire back the full-time staff of seven who he had let go and has sold 5,000 bunnies and is scurrying to fill back orders, and is now limit purchases to six per customer.

Article content Safe distancing to thwart spread of the virus is what prompted the Tate Springs Baptist Church in Arlington, Texas, to move to digital for its Easter Egg hunt, using Minecraft but disabling potentially scary game elements such as monsters.

Reverend Curtis James stated, "Our primary goal in life is to share the gospel. We also want children to have fun celebrating Easter."

Nora was delighted to discover that her idea was so well-received in New Jersey. The mayor stopped by to see her stuff the kits and the Lions Club invited her to lunch "when the entire thing is done."

Her favorite "thank you" was gift-wrapped rolls of toilet paper one of the essentials such as eggs being hoarded by people panic buying during the pandemic.

Nora said, "My mom smiled when toilet paper came in." (Reporting by Barbara Goldberg, New York Additional reporting by Rich McKay, Atlanta; Editing by Rosalba Obrien

#Srazy #Info

1 note · View note

stantondyer · 2 years

Text

Coronavirus Forces Americans to find Easter Fun at least 6 Feet Apart

New York Easter is a memorable holiday for 6-year-old Nora Heddendorf. It's a day that she is a fan of dressing up with fancy shoes and dresses and go on a hunt with her family and friends to find brightly colored eggs.

The coronavirus pandemic forced her to change her clothes this year. She'll finish her Easter outfit by adding a white paper mask, disposable gloves in blue, and disinfectant wipes. After learning that the annual egg hunt in her New Jersey town might be cancelled she came up with an "rock hunt".

The hunt of Nora's article does not only replace brightly colored stones for eggs, which are in short supply at some stores, but also lets her neighbors hunt while they are on their walks with friends.

Article content "I was devastated that the school was going to end up being cancelled due to the virus" the child told Reuters in a telephone interview. "I would like to make people feel happy."

From the White House to small town parks The pandemic has prompted the elimination of traditional Easter egg hunts and "rolls" across the United States, closed churches and scotched plans for Easter meals with extended families.

However, many Americans are still finding ways to have fun during the holidays, from an Oregon candymaker making chocolate bunnies with face masks to an Texas church organising an egg hunt that is virtual with the game Minecraft.

Article content A few weeks ago, Nora and her mother started organizing her hunt in their town of Medford Lakes. She gathered a plethora of DIY kits, each with five rocks and four paint colors, instructions and all packaged in plastic bags. She put on disposable gloves and sprayed all the contents with disinfectant.

The kits were then placed outside her house to be picked up by those who wish to take part. The young artist, Nora's Rocks requested her friends return the rocks she left to her to keep for herself.

"Thank you for helping Nora's Rocks bring our town closer but remain separated," said the instruction letter she included in the kits.

Her mother, Samantha Heddendorf, president of an environmental cleanup company that has been decontaminating structures affected by the coronavirus crisis The hunt will begin on Good Friday and continue until Easter Sunday, when fresh batch of painted rocks to be found each day.

Article content The goal is to place 500 stone "eggs" in every nook and cranny of the 1 square mile (2.6 square km) town.

"When people are taking their walks with friends, they can look for rocks, or what are known as Easter Eggs. They could have something to look for and then grab them and at least have a smile to share the joy of Easter with," Samantha Heddendorf said.

Central Point chocolatier Jeff Shepherd has come up with a solution to save his Lillie Belle Farms in Oregon from being shut down by the coronavirus. He informed his Facebook followers that he was going to create "Covid Bunnies" which are dark and milk chocolate with white face masks , and white chocolate ones with blue masks for faces.

It was an instant hit. Shepherd was able to hire back the seven full-time staff who he had let go and has sold 5,000 bunnies and is scurrying to fill back orders. He is now restricting purchases to six per customer.

Article content Safe distancing to stop the spread of viruses is what convinced the Tate Springs Baptist Church in Arlington, Texas, to go digital with its Easter Egg hunt, using Minecraft but disabling potentially scary game elements like monsters.

Reverend Curtis James stated, "Our primary goal in life is to spread the gospel. We also want children to still enjoy Easter."

Nora was delighted to discover that her concept was well received in New Jersey. The mayor came to visit her to fill the kits, and the Lions Club invited her to lunch "when the whole thing is finished." MINECRAFT SERVERS

Her favorite "thanks" was gift-wrapped roll of toilet paper. This was among the most popular items that people shopped for in the panic of the pandemic.

Nora said, "My mom smiled when toilet paper arrived." (Reporting by Barbara Goldberg in New York; Additional reporting by Rich McKay in Atlanta; Editing by Rosalba O'Brien)

#Minecraft servers

1 note · View note

coleslawbros · 2 years

Text

Prompt #2: "Beatrice, stowaway"

“Beatrice, stowaway”

I spend a lot of time stoned because I don’t like myself. Plenty of people get high on marijuana for the euphoric effects because it calms them down and makes them more amiable. I take it because I’m a stowaway in my own mind.

You know what it’s like, don’t you, to not really know who you are at your core? We could be good, bad, and everything in between, but I know I’m nothing. I’m a mute standing at the stovetop, stirring a pot of soup, sipping it every now and again. It needs salt. It needs msg. It needs lithium.

My mind controls me, not the other way around. I feel either so strongly I need to break every bone in my body or nothing at all, and I’m just stirring the pot to have something to do. Not to actually create anything, no, just to stir. Clockwise seven times. Counterclockwise once. Repeat. I never really add anything. Just sip sip sip.

“Beatrice, don’t you have the doctors today?”

My head snapped up from where it was staring listlessly into my bowl of soggy cheerios. “Yeah, sorry, mom. Thanks.” I stood up and dumped the untouched cereal into the sink, listening to the angry churning of the garbage disposal. I took a puff off my vape, leaning deep into it, letting the molecules of THC bind to my blood and the weight of the world lift a little. Better.

I wandered outside to my car and climbed in, shutting the door. I didn’t bother brushing my teeth or putting on a bra; that all seemed like so much effort when I already had to drive myself to my morning doctor’s appointment and then come back to work on my Algebra assignment.

Math was not my strong suit, never had been. Honestly, math homework made me want to die more than existing did. Something about solving for x or y or using imaginary numbers made me want to bang my head into the wall above my bed.

I turned up the music, plugging in my aux cord until the song was louder than the thoughts in my head, and I could breathe again. Putting the car into reverse, I backed out of my driveway and drove out toward school. Drives like this were the best part of my day because I was alone, yes, but the music overwhelmed me.

The music settled my bones, settled the mania of my mind, and let me peek out occasionally to feel the colors on my skin like the sun racing behind parted clouds.

I want to cry so hard that I choke, til I shake my mind loose from its moorings. My eyes are dry, and my chest is still. My heart beats steadily. My fingers grip the steering wheel as tight as the corded knots in my back.

You see, it happened again. Whether I’m stoned or not, people still don’t like me. I got ghosted again, something beautiful that has happened since time began. When someone doesn’t have the courage or capacity to confront someone about how deeply unlikeable they are, they ghost them. They disappear out of their life like they never were, with no explanation or goodbyes, no real closure for the person affected.

My therapist, Janice, tells me that no one owes anyone an explanation but that she gets why it is such a huge trigger for me. For someone who spent their childhood unwanted and abused, bullied and left to rot, someone exiting my life so unceremoniously affects me deeper than others.

I’m trying to get over it, get over Sam, but I really liked her. We’d hung out almost every day for the last six months, chatting and bingeing shows on Netflix. She kissed me like she meant it, hungry. I’d felt ecstatic to connect with her, someone so human. Obviously, it was never going to last, but I didn’t know it would end so abruptly. I wasn’t even sure the last time we’d had sex. Was it after we’d finished Downton Abbey or after our ice cream date?

That was it. That was part of the problem; I had a memory like a sieve and spent all my time panning for gold, trying to remember the little bits that made me a person. We’d had a fight, and Sam, with her big poofing curls pulled back into two cute little clouds surrounding her head, brown eyes warm but angry.

“It’s like you’re not even here, Bea,” she’d told me, her voice worn at the edges. “Like I see you, I feel you, but it’s all empty.”

“I am here,” I’d pleaded with her, but we both felt the hollowness in my voice, the lack of something vital to make it believable.

Her amber eyes shined with tears as she stood up from the kitchen table and then turned away. “Do you even care?”

“Of course I do.” I cared more about her than I had in a long time about anyone and felt connected to her so strongly it choked me up. But none of that came across when I spoke.

“It’s like you’re not even a part of the team here. It’s just me, and you’re a stowaway, and that doesn’t make a partnership.”

I didn’t say anything. What was the point?

“I need space.”

So I gave it to her. I gave her the space she asked for. I watched a whole season of Stranger Things on my own before I texted her again, and she never replied. I didn’t understand I had been ghosted at first, so I pathetically texted her a few more times before the message hit home: she was done with me.

The one person who really made me feel anything, who had made me feel safe in my own skin for once, dropped me as easily as if I hadn’t meant anything to her. It was as if our relationship had been just a passing fancy.

And honestly? She was right. There was nothing to me, and I was just a stowaway, locked in the travesty of my own mind.

I pulled into the parking lot of my therapist’s office and put the car into park with a jerk. The tears wanted to come now, of course, that way, I could walk in there and show Janice my pain, prove that I really had felt something for Sam. That I could make Janice believe me even if I couldn’t prove it to Sam.

God, what was wrong with me? My girlfriend had ghosted me, and I was still thinking about her like there was something to prove. I had trouble letting go, and Janice said it had to do with my personal trauma.

I needed people to like me to fill some void, mainly because I didn’t like myself. I could hear her voice in my head even as I walked into her office, reprimanding me for ruminating on all the wrong things to help me heal.

I checked in with the lady at the front desk, wiping away the tears beading in the corner of my eyes. She pretended not to notice. My phone was in my hand, and I opened up her messages, typing in the dreaded i miss u. I didn’t send it. I didn’t want her to be put in the awkward position of having a stalker, someone who couldn’t take a hint. But the desire to send it was so powerful that I swallowed and shoved my phone into my back pocket. I was weak, but I wasn’t stupid.

“You keep allowing yourself to build all these impossible feelings inside,” Janice said, rambling on. “You build these relationships with people, these commitments, but fail to express them properly. Then when they disappoint you, you blame yourself.” She sighed, scribbling something on her yellow legal pad.

“You’re disappointed,” I grumbled, sinking into her white leather couch.

“What I feel is honestly irrelevant, Beatrice. You need to wake up and realize that instances like this are going to keep happening until you take control of your life.”

1 note · View note

ladyartemesia · 3 years

Text

The Luna

◐ PART VII of THE ALPHA ◐

◐ Series Masterlist ◐

◐ Part I ◐ Part II ◐ Part III ◐ Part IV ◐ Part V ◐ Part VI ◐

Pairing: Alpha Werewolf Jimin x Omega Reader

Rating: Hard Mature 18+ (for this installment)

Warnings: this one is a little darker... implied violence, mentions of blood, ABO sexual dynamics including discussion of scenting, marking, mating, and claiming, sexual innuendo, discussion of violence relating to ritual combat, possessive behavior, injuries and discussion of injuries, discussions or ruts, (non-explicit) kidnapping and drugging, its not as bad as it sounds, but it is definitely a bit darker...

Word Count: 4200

Author’s Note: You have no idea what your support has meant to me. After getting the dreaded Covid it was awhile before I had the energy to work on this. Truly your asks and your messages and comments...they made me so happy. You made me believe that people wouldn’t forget about this story. I am so grateful you were able to wait. As always, my angels @ppersonna @xjoonchildx @untaemedqueen and @underthejoon were the best betas and the best friends anyone could ask for. My thanks to ALL of you for helping me bring this story to life! I don’t know what I would do without your daily encouragement and your daily support. You guys are the heartbeat of this story.

———◐———

Fifteen Years Ago...

———◐———

“It can’t be-”

“Run for the elders! Quickly!

“Red smoke rises from the Luna’s hearth!”

The red smoke was invented by the first wolf known to mate a witch. Legend has it that their bond lent him some of her magic and with it he created a mystical powder that unleashed bloody plumes like knife slashes in the clouds.

It was a distress call.

A wolf in danger or in need could throw the powder (usually into their fireplace) and the red smoke would rise - drawing others to their aid.

No fire was needed and the strange shimmering clouds it produced could even be seen on a moonless night.

“What happened? Where is the Luna?”

The chief elder was still out of breath, having charged over from his chambers to find Isa in hysterics.

“She’s gone! Something scared her! It triggered a half-shift!”

His eyes widened in fear and alarm.

“She’s too young to half-shift. The energy it would take-”

Isa broke into sobs again.

The girl was only five years old. She and her wolf were too volatile to merge safely. The wolf would be frightened - it would run.

Eventually the child might regain control, but she would have no way of knowing where she was or how she got there…

And she would be weak. The effects of the shift were too much for a pup that age.

The chief elder felt true terror grip his heart.

“Call for the alphas - immediately!”

Although they were technically one of the oldest bloodlines in the village, Park Clan had only five families to its name - all betas.

Except for one.

Park Jimin was the first alpha ever born to the Parks and as such he became the head of his family on the day of his birth - officially the youngest clan leader in history.

When the call for alphas spread through the village, nine year-old Jimin was roused from his bed to serve on behalf of his people.

Clan alphas were required to report, regardless of their age.

“I don’t have to tell any of you what is at stake. Our pack has been entrusted with the Luna’s bloodline. Her safety is our sacred commission.”

The woods were no place for a child. If fluctuating temperatures and possible starvation weren’t bad enough, there were wild bears, packless ferals, rogue witches, snakes, and worst of all-

Unblessed wolves—animals without a human heart. They were by far the most pressing danger to the little girl.

“Surely young Park can remain at home for this,” Jeon Jinseok pressed. The boy was barely older than his grandson, Jungkook, and he was reluctant to endanger another pup needlessly.

Some quiet murmurs of assent could be heard around the elder’s chambers, however the chief elder himself shook his head sadly.

“I understand your concern… but the law is the law. Every clan alpha is sworn to such a task. He took an oath after his first transformation-”

“He was seven-”

“An oath is still an oath.”

All eyes turned to the gentle voice in the corner. The Park alpha looked impossibly small and soft.

But his gaze burned with determination.

“It is my right and duty to seek the Luna alongside all of you.” His round little jaw clenched stubbornly. “I’m not afraid.”

The sound of bones and sinew shifting filled the air as one by one the clan alphas fell to their wolf forms and took off into the forest.

Until only a small silver wolf remained.

The chief elder sighed.

The boy would not undergo the Change for another six years. The mental link between his wolf and human forms was not yet complete. It was difficult for information to pass from one to the other.

“You are the wolf force of Park Jimin.”

After a moment the wolf nodded.

“You were called here because the Luna has gone missing and you must find her if you can. Search the woods until your wolf force can endure no longer and then return. If you find the child, bring her home as soon as possible.”

The young wolf nodded again and then disappeared into the night.

It was cold.

The last thing you remembered was a loud noise. It was too close - you panicked-

Then there was heat and pain and running and now this-

Darkness and barren trees looming over you as far as your frightened eyes could see.

“...Hello?”

Your hands were bleeding. Tears began to slide softly down your cheek as your lips trembled.

“H-Hello?”

Jimin had never been allowed into the forest alone. A myriad of new shapes and odd smells assaulted his senses as he ran.

He had only seen you a handful of times.

Bright silver eyes with a smile that could set even the coldest heart into bloom.

Now you needed him.

And he was going to save you.

It was not a question or a matter of chance in his mind. He was meant to find you. It was as if a thread from his chest was bound to a thread from yours and his wolf knew to follow it without question or thought for its significance.

I’m coming, little Luna. Hold on.

Your nose was not yet fully developed, but the stench creeping through the air toward you was unmistakable.

Unblessed.

A soulless wolf.

The last time you encountered it was after a hunt. Your father killed one who attacked him and he brought it home for you to scent.

So you could recognize the smell of danger.

Gradually two shining eyes emerged from the darkness, yet unlike the wolves of your village, these were dark and fathomless-

Hungry.

You couldn’t tell much about its age or coloring, it was too thin - too dirty, but the bared teeth and steady progress closer signaled its intent clearly.

“Please,” you whispered, as it crouched back on its hind legs, preparing to strike.

Tears blurred your vision as you heard it leap forward.

But the strike never came.

Another wolf tackled it to the ground before it could reach you. The two of them tangled viciously in the moonlight; a terrifying mass of snarling and claws.

The smaller fighter was already bleeding, but he clamped down on his opponent’s throat in the first hit and hung on to it even as the animal snapped and scratched brutally at his skin.

Jimin could feel his strength beginning to fail him. The pain was excruciating, but he had to endure. If he let go, he was lost-

You were lost.

So he held.

And at last the soulless wolf collapsed on top of him.

For a moment, all was quiet.

Jimin felt the wounds over his hide begin to tug at the edge of his consciousness. Accelerated healing could only do so much... He was hurt badly.

Then two small hands began to push at the unblessed corpse. Small huffs and heaves poured from you as you worked to free him from beneath his defeated foe.

“Don’t be afraid, Silver,” you grunted, “Momma says the healing works best if you can get warm.”

With one final heave you disposed of the beast as best you could, then moved to wrap your body around your injured champion.

“I can help,” you whispered, letting the tears fall freely. His soft whimpers were the only reply you received as you snuggled in closer, running your hands gently over the soft fur.

The young wolf’s eyes were already beginning to lose focus.

“Please goddess,” you begged into the night. “Please save him.”

Then the two of you drifted into a heavy sleep.

Jimin opened his eyes again just as the dawn broke.

He was still in wolf form, but the pain of his injuries had lessened considerably.

Either that or he was becoming numb.

His eyes dropped to the figure curled up next to him and his heart stirred. You were so pale… and he could feel your small body shivering violently against his chest.

She will not last much longer...

It took nearly everything he had to stand to his feet and nudge you awake.

“Will you bring me back, Silver?” you asked weakly.

Jimin nodded and the two of you stumbled forward into the forest, trusting the vague recollections of his wolf instincts to lead you home.

Isa was beside herself with worry. Wolves came and went throughout the night-

But there was still no sign of you.

And the odds of a child surviving the woods alone with no heat and no protection were slim at best.

Her hands shook as she gathered feed for the horses from the storeroom near the back of the house. She willed herself to complete the task - any task - in an effort to busy her mind and perhaps achieve a moment of respite.

Her hand closed around the back door handle and she started forward - only to nearly lose her balance over something lying on the porch.

The bucket of feed dropped from her grasp, sending kernels of grain in all directions.

Two bodies lay in a heap at her feet, clutching one another desperately. The Luna and her silver wolf were covered in matted blood and dirt.

But they were alive.

Isa began to scream, drawing out the other two occupants of the house; her husband Roojin and his younger sister, a beta healer named Ryn.

“Oh my goddess,” Ryn gasped, “that’s the Park alpha! I heard some of the elders saying that he hadn’t checked in last night!”

“Get them inside. If we don’t act quickly we could lose them.”

Roojin tried to lift you away from the wolf, but the action was enough to rouse you and you immediately began to kick and scream frantically.

“No! I won’t leave him!” you sobbed, wrapping your body even tighter around the injured pup. “Silver, wake up! Please wake up!”

“Baby you need to let him go! We have to treat him!”

But you were frantic, refusing - violently - to be separated from your rescuer.

Ryn was eventually forced to grab a syringe from her field kit to sedate you.

Isa carried your limp body to the fireplace and began to peel off your wet clothes while Ryn and Roojin dealt with Jimin’s injuries in the kitchen. Blood dripped over the tabletop and puddled ominously on the floor while they worked.

“It looks like he was attacked.” Ryn’s eyes began to water. “What a brave little boy.”

“How the hell did he survive this?”

“I don’t know, but without a healing touch he’ll die.” She ripped her gloves off and rolled up her sleeves. “Stand back.”

Twenty minutes later Isa and Roojin caught the young healer as her legs gave out from under her. She had poured the majority of her energy into restoring the young Park alpha - perhaps more than was strictly safe-

But he would survive and that was all that mattered.

“I must contact the elders,” Isa murmured as she helped Ryn to a seat near the hearth. “In all the chaos I forgot to tell them that we found her.”

Roojin sighed, letting his eyes drift back to the table.

“That pup brought her back, but I wonder if they’ll even believe it. I wouldn’t - not if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

“No...” Ryn whispered from the chair. “You can’t tell them about the boy.”

“Why not? He’s the only reason she’s still alive. He deserves to be recognized.”

“You don’t understand,” she shook her head weakly. “His clan is nothing. They have no power - no other alphas. This will make him a target. The alpha pups will challenge him and the stronger clans will see him as a threat to their influence…”

She pulled herself upright and limped over to the table where the young wolf slept.

“But he's just a child….and small for his age at that. He has no powerful clansmen to protect him from the ramifications of this.”

Her hands clenched to fists.

“When his human form returns, he won’t remember saving the Luna. We’ll take him to his mother’s home at nightfall - make it seem like he wandered back. He may garner some respect for surviving the woods, but then they’ll leave him alone… and he can go on living his life in peace.”

Ryn turned to face them both with a determined expression.

“We owe him that.”

“Where is the silver wolf? Where have you taken him?”

As soon as the sedative wore off you reached for the boy once again, only to find that he was gone.

“The silver wolf was hurt very badly, sweetheart. Your aunt carried him away to be treated.”

“I have to go with him! He needs me!”

“No, honey - you can’t-”

Isa pulled you into her arms and you collapsed into helpless sobs. The last twenty-four hours had finally caught up with you.

You were too weak to fight back.

“Luna… the silver wolf is in danger. Are you willing to keep him safe?”

You nodded fiercely, letting the flow of your tears soak through your mother’s sleeves.

“Then you must never tell another soul that the silver wolf saved you. No one can know that he was with you in the forest.”

Your eyes narrowed in confusion.

“But-”

“You will tell everyone that you found the way back alone. Do not mention the silver wolf.”

Isa lifted your chin till your eyes met hers.

“Promise me, Luna.”

Your heart squeezed painfully in your chest as you thought of your champion. He had spared you from a gruesome fate and you did not even know his name.

You wanted so desperately to thank him.

Last night, you were so cold - so afraid - that you hadn’t said it...

Now you never could.

So instead you would protect him - no matter what it cost.

“I promise.”

———◐———

Today...

———◐———

“I don’t like him.”

Jimin tilted his head slightly toward his best friend.

“Who?”

Taehyung took a long sip of water then moved his hand to cover his mouth. To an outside observer he would appear to be wiping excess liquid from his lips.

“The senior envoy from the Iron Claw pack.” He shook his head. “Something about him is off. He’s ill at ease.”

All the major packs of the mountain nations dispatched representatives to greet and solidify their relations with the new Alpha.

Any pack who failed to send a proper delegation risked a diplomatic incident.

The first twenty-four hours held great significance when it came to the transfer of power. The official term for the tradition-packed period between the revelation of the Alpha and his ultimate reunion with the Luna was called “The King’s New Moon.”

The new moon was the darkest phase of the lunar cycle and the immediate separation from his mate was meant to be a test of the Alpha’s restraint and bearing.

Jimin wanted to put his fist through a wall.

He missed you.

Fighting Namjoon was nothing compared to the torture of this bureaucratic circus.

As the day progressed he was extremely grateful to have Yoongi and Taehyung at his side. Yoongi agreed to act as interim Praetor while Namjoon recovered and he and Taehyung were quick to fill in any knowledge gaps Jimin had with regards to protocol.

The first round of ceremonial greetings between packs dragged on more than an hour before the bell struck for a brief recess. In fact, until Taehyung’s rather strange pronouncement, nearly every moment played out with boring predictability.

Though there was one notable surprise.

Apparently the Iron Claw pack had just undergone a change of leadership and was now under the command of a female alpha named Azira Kai.

Authority in the Iron Claw pack was traditionally decided through combat, and Azira beat nearly thirty-five challengers to ascend as queen.

Female alphas were extraordinarily rare. Jimin knew they existed, but Azira was the first one he’d ever heard of.

Iron Claw’s senior envoy delivered the news himself at the start of the ceremony and personally conveyed the queen’s well wishes.

Jimin eyed the representative in question speculatively from his corner of the table. At first glance the man seemed much like every other emissary gathered in the crowded hall to fulfil centuries old obligations. But Taehyung had always possessed a strange sense about people.

His instincts could not be easily dismissed.

“I will keep that in mind,” he whispered as he sent the young man a courteous nod.

The sun had already begun to set when a messenger from the chief elder’s chambers arrived at your door. At long last the ceremonial requirements were drawing to a close and soon the elder’s council would be sending you instructions.

However...‘soon’ could mean anything from twenty minutes to five hours.

“You might as well rest while you can,” Jin teased with a salacious wiggle of his brows. “Who knows what strenuous activity you might find yourself involved in when they finally let that boy loose.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to pretend that your cheeks weren’t burning with embarrassment.

“I will rest, but not for any reason you’re thinking.”

Truth be told, your nerves were a bit… frayed.

A frustration was building within you and nothing seemed to satisfy it. You weren’t even sure what you were wanting, but you definitely wanted it.

“Of course not,” your cousin chuckled as you gathered your gloves and wandered back to the bedroom.

An hour later Jin’s boredom found him snuggled up on the couch near the fireplace reading over an old cookbook from your mother’s pantry.

“Heavens… no wonder Aunt Isa’s kimchi is so dry. This is a disgrace.”

Suddenly the front door began to shake and pound violently. Strange smells carried through the air and his eyes widened.

Foreign wolves.

He drew in a deep breath and immediately growled in frustration.

Foreign alphas.

A small bowl of red powder sat on the mantle above the hearth. Jin just barely managed to toss it into the flames before the door splintered off its hinges.

“Hello boys,” he drawled, unleashing a massive dose of pheromones while the knives strapped to his forearms slid smoothly to his hands. “What brings you here?”

“I just heard the strangest news,” Min Yoongi narrowed his eyes at the small scrap of paper passed to him by one of the council aides.

“Oh?”

The next set of guild masters were making their way to Jimin at a snail’s pace. It would be several seconds before he needed to greet them.

“One of the healers sent word that Namjoon has disappeared from his assigned recovery room.” He shook his head curiously. “Where do you suppose he’s gone?”

Jimin’s eyes widened.

That mangy mutt. He’s probably bent Yunli over every surface of her brother’s house by now. Goddess above! He couldn’t hold out for six more days?

“I’m sure I have no idea.”

I should have killed him. This is a disaster. He can barely walk, how does he expect to-

“The Miner’s Guild is honored to serve at the pleasure of the Alpha.”

Jimin nodded regally and forced up a pleasant smile.

“The honor is entirely mine, Master Lee. I look forward to-”

A loud crash split the solemn hush of the room as a young member of the council guard burst through the heavy wooden doors.

“Red smoke! Red smoke rises from the Luna’s hearth!”

Jimin felt his heart plummet into his stomach.

Chaos erupted immediately.

“Call for the guards!”

“We must notify the healers.”

“The messengers just spoke to her-”

“Is it an attack?”

“ENOUGH!”

The Alpha’s voice cut across the assembly with authoritative resonance.

Every eye turned to him in expectation.

But he could only think of you.

“Jung, lock the building down. Take your clansmen and seal off every entrance.”

Murmurs began to stir through the hall as Hoseok directed his people toward the access points, but he ignored them.

“Choi. Make for the healers. Have a dozen of them meet us there.”

Jimin was already heading for the door. The deadly length of his claws flashed ominously in the firelight.

“Kim, Min, Jeon - with me.”

The three alphas in question fell in step behind him without a word.

The scene at the Luna’s home was nightmarish.

Jimin ran to your room immediately, but all he found was a broken window and the lingering scent of your fear.

His wolf howled in anguish as he fell to his knees and screamed in rage.

At the front of the house four badly beaten bodies lay strewn about the kitchen and living room area. Most of the furniture was destroyed and the scent of carnage soaked the air.

“Jin!”

The omega stood at the center of the rubble. There was a nasty slash running up his right leg and another grievous wound near his ribs.

But his arms were wrapped around a massive foriegn wolf with the thin blade of his favorite knife pressed against the intruders throat.

“What happened here?” Yoongi gasped. “And that smell-” he moved his hand to cover his nose.

“Pheromones,” Taehyung nearly gagged.

His eyes fell to the corpses - examining their injuries with a critical gaze.

“Jin, you dangerous bastard.”

The omega simply smiled and forced the prisoner onto his knees.

“I don’t understand…” Jungkook shook his head.

“He flooded them with omega pheromones... These four were unmated.” The Kim alpha let out a cold chuckle. “He triggered their ruts… and they killed each other over him.”

Jungkook’s eyes widened.

Male omegas really were terrifying.

Taehyung’s eyes narrowed and he considered the scene.

“None of this makes sense. The scent markers are clearly from the Iron Claw pack. They didn’t even bother to mask…”

Jungkook and Yoongi began to search the bodies for any hint of their motives or identity when Jimin returned from your room. His fury was palpable in the air around him.

“Why would anyone kidnap a Luna?” he snarled. “The divine bloodline is sacred to all wolves. Who would be so reckless?”

Jin shook his head.

“I don’t know.” His knife twisted into the prisoner’s neck. “But he does.”

Jimin crouched down in front of the foreigner, fighting every urge in his soul to tear the mountains apart for his mate.

“Where is she?”

The prisoner sneered.

“You may be a powerful Alpha, but you are not of my pack or my blood. I’ll never tell you anything.”

“Oh,” Jimin’s eyes flashed with golden fire, “I think you will.”

Heavy.

That was how you felt.

Your body was sore (like it had been tossed and carried a long distance) and your mind was out of focus (as if everything around you was moving either too quickly or too slowly - honestly you couldn’t quite tell).

You remembered being drugged; some sort of compound pressed against your nose and mouth.

Glass from the window shattered onto your face…

Then unfamiliar scents and unfamiliar hands closed in on all sides.

Too fast for you to react.

Too shocking for anyone to have predicted.

Nothing like this had ever happened and there was no reason to believe it would.

To harm a Luna was sacrilege.

It was simply not done.

What could drive men to such a course of action?

You should be afraid; terrified even.

But you weren’t.

Your eyes fluttered open to take your new surroundings. You could vaguely see the shape of seven or eight wolves - alphas by the smell of them-

And then you smiled.

It wasn’t your usual impish grin or anything close to soft or inviting.

It was a cold twist that crept over your lips as you watched your abductors set up their camp.

After a moment, one of them noticed your strange expression.

“Looks like the little Luna hit her head on the way here,” he called out to his comrades with an amused snort. “You should have been more careful with her, Mac.”

He shook his head and made his way over to where you were tied up. The young alpha reeked so heavily of sweat and self-importance, you almost gagged.

“What’s got you so amused, Miss Luna?”

It was more of a taunt than a question, but your smile widened nonetheless.

“My mate is going to kill you.”

Shock flickered over his features for just a second before he threw his head back and laughed.

“We’ll be long gone before your sweet little alpha even knows we’re here.” He gripped your chin between his fingers and you snarled. “We masked our scent as soon as we got you - and there isn’t a wolf alive that could track our crew through the woods.”

“You’re wrong,” you whispered.

Jimin’s face flashed through your mind - followed immediately by another memory, buried deeply, but never forgotten—

of a frightened little girl and the silver wolf who braved the forest and fought a monster to save her.

“He’ll come for me - no matter what precautions you’ve taken.” You leaned forward a bit, letting the conviction in your gaze blaze through to the depths of your captor’s soul. “And then - he’ll come for you.”

If you are already in the taglist, then I will automatically tag you for the next part! If you would like to be added to the taglist, please let me know.

And also please tell me what you thought of this update! I am really excited to hear your thoughts! (I know it was kind of unexpected right?) Feedback really does fuel my writing and hearing from you means a lot to me! On days that its hard to write, I go back and I read your lovely words and it makes me want to keep going! I cannot overstate its value in my heart!

2K notes · View notes

virgil-writes · 3 years

Photo

ash & soot

Long before the Winters come into play, a monster stalks the Forbidden Forest that surrounds the Village. Karl Heisenberg is sent to investigate, and heads deeper into darkness to find his prey, a thorn on his side and someone just like him. (Heisenberg x OC)

chapter 12 - cabin fever

SFW, around 5K words.

chapter 13 - liebchen (ao3 only, smut)

The sheets underneath him were worn but comfortable, ancient-looking in design but well taken care of. The bed frame is barely there, mattress a well-placed lattice away from being on the floor. He can’t remember the last time he’s been on a bed, the last time he’d laid his body down at all, for any reason. His back complains every other second, not because of the comfort of the bedding, but because it had gone without for so long. A wonderfully comfortable blanket covers him up to the hips, the soft mattress almost makes him feel like he is floating. Fuck, he really missed having a proper bed now.

He inspects himself carefully, still not fully convinced this is not a fever-induced hallucination. His hand is where it should be, and so is his leg, and every other part of his body that he recalled having before. There are half a dozen new scars that he can count, all healed over perfectly like they’d opened years ago instead of hours, forming a map of stories he would rather not tell. He is shirtless but is wearing pants now, his trench coat and hat nowhere to be found. He pushes the blanket aside to find the damn woolen slippers waiting for him on a woven rug. It doesn’t take him long to realize where he is, but nothing resembles her, no personal belongings on the nightstand, no desk or mirror or even a dresser. It looked as if the room was rarely visited, kept clean but empty, and he wondered if sleep was a foreign concept to her, too.

Hesitant, tentative movements take him down the ladder and into the living room, and he expects to find her hard at work at something or another, humming a tune while she cooks, petting the goat and telling it asinine, cutesy things in a soft voice. But the house is silent and she is nowhere to be found, the dog sits in front of the closed front door and watches his every move. It is not aggressive but watchful, like it had been given the task of keeping an eye on the ailing man and alerting his owner in case anything was amiss.

“I’m fine, fleabag.” He laughs at the dog and gets a huff in response, an acknowledgment, and the shepherd moves from its post at the door to give him passage if he so desires. Heisenberg gives it a well deserved pat on the head as it passes by, tail wagging hesitantly as it tried to make friends with him. He is glad to be alone - if anyone ever used this against him, he would deny it.

A plate awaits him at the dinner table, and despite his intentions of running out of there before she could see him again, breakfast is an offer he cannot bring himself to refuse. Bread and jam, a robust omelet served with sprinkles of cheese and herbs. He can almost see the aroma the coffee has left behind, and finds the pot on the side of the wood stove, cup and saucer set for him nearby.

He eats slowly and in silence, chews thoroughly before swallowing, as if he fears some abrupt movement would rip reality apart and throw him back into the pit of suffering he found himself in the night before. There is no blood, no pain; no sign of the madness he had come so close to drowning in. He is safe and comfortable, there is good food in his belly and a warm hearth to keep the cold at bay. His problems are far and cannot catch him, and maybe if he keeps stalling to finish breakfast he can stay in this bliss forever. The world is quiet outside, and so are his thoughts, for once in his life.

A shirt and sweater are neatly folded and arranged as to call attention on the couch, no doubt to replace his blood-stained, ragged trench coat. He feels naked without it, he muses as he pulls the moss-colored shirt over his head, and it feels awkward not to wear the hat and the glasses. It would be unpleasant if she were to catch him now, free of his usual regalia; he felt that she would see right through him, stare deep into his eyes and find out all he had worked so hard to hide.

He did not feel like Karl Heisenberg, Lord of the Village, powerful mutant capable of unspeakable acts of violence. He was… Karl, middle-aged immortal man who enjoyed tinkering, was a big fan of meat an potatoes and didn’t know what to do when he had time to waste in his hands. Karl, of German origin but Romanian by birth, come from a long line of miners and steel workers. People of few words and fewer luxuries, hardy of constitution and blunt to a fault. He had been content to be those things and nothing more, to carry on what the Heisenbergs had done for centuries, until life dumped him on his head and led him to where he is today.

But not today, because maybe just today he can forget, and let his gracious host distract him with her mystery and the delicate curves of her buttocks. Perhaps tomorrow he would go back to treating her like a tool he would use and discard, but today she would be none the wiser, and neither would he. The fresh air of the mountain and distance from the cramped confines of the factory would do him good, he decided, help reinvigorate his spirit and refresh his ideas, spark some inspiration. And if not, well, the food was excellent and she was easy on the eyes.

A pair of boots that didn’t belong to him were by the door, just the right size to fit him. He had walked all the way up barefoot, he remembers, but he would very much like to know how she seemed to have everything that he needed readily available. Was she clairvoyant alongside being a healer? Did she bleed money that she could buy information on him from the Duke and the apparel to go with it? He opened the door to find her outside, looking like the cat that ate the canary, a couple meters away from the gate that separated her plot of land from the heart of the forest. She had just emerged from amongst the trees, heavy coat over her shoulders and leather boots to keep the ice off her feet. Her hands were free, no basket for foraging or firewood in her arms. No sign of a knife or any other kind of weapon, but judging by the look on her face, he could swear she had just committed murder. Her eyes told him she would not speak of it.

“Good morning, pumpkin,” he began, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest, at least trying to fish an explanation out of her. Instead she pretended to forget the suspicious circumstances and focused on him instead, her face lighting up at the sight of him up and about, like she didn’t expect to see him anytime soon. Had it been that bad?

“Good morning, my lord. Are you well?” Shame and madness aside, he thought, things were going swimmingly. “I hope the accommodations were to your liking.” Once again with the pleasantries, with the caring for what he thought of her hospitality. Did she get a kick out of being so kind? That was the most foolish thing he had ever heard. He tried to come up with a witty response that would catch her off guard, but the night had been long and there was too much tiredness swamping his mind, and all he got was honesty:

“Quite. Hadn’t slept in a bed in decades.” As if to validate his words, he stretched and grunted in approval, pains he did not even realize he’d had gone like magic.

“Well, it remains at your disposal,” was her response as she chuckled, wiping her hands on the embroidered apron before gesturing an invitation. There was dirt on her palms. “It may not be much, but it’ll give you a good night’s rest.” She motioned for him to follow, something he would grow accustomed to.

“You know,” he began, following her into the shed, accepting the shallow basket she handed him. “I bet it’d be even better if you were there with me.” She hummed in approval, a smile as devious as his on her face. The damn woman would always catch him off guard; Heisenberg was not used to being flirted with, words thrown about only half-seriously, only to make the villagers blush and Alcina mad. He had never followed up on any of it, because it was always meant to annoy, and the fact that she not only took him seriously but fired back pulled the rug right from under him. And boy did he like it.

They laughed but spoke no more of it, tension like static in the air, both fully aware the joke had more than a few nuggets of truth to it. A dozen different scenarios ran through his mind, on ways he could take her, mark her, ruin her. Inside the shed, behind the stables, propped on the porch railing. Standing, face pressed against the floor, legs tightly wrapped around his waist. She smirked as she passed by him, smirked like she could tell every image that went through his mind. Smirked like she knew he would not do any of it, that his flirting was just a front and he had never found the courage to take the plunge, not even once. Her wink was the cherry on the cake, the challenge that made his cheeks flush at just the right moment so that she wouldn’t see it.

The morning was spent tending to the animals and the garden, and she instructed him on how to feed the chickens and keep the tiny goat happy. Its name was Prince and it demanded to be treated like royalty, lest the puny humans faced his wrath and for now adorable headbutts. The thing followed him around the whole time, demanded his attention when he collected the eggs from the coop, when he let the horse out of the stable to let it stretch its legs. Only when the weather took a turn for the worse did it scurry off to hide in the pens with its mom, settling down on a nice and dry bundle of hay.

He was put in charge of firewood while she tended the garden. The innuendos were kept to a minimum, but the static never left, and he felt her eyes heavy on him as he brought the axe down, muscles flexing and veins showing on his forearms with the effort. Maybe he ought to do more housework around her, and she’d come around and do his bidding without hesitation.

When the wind blew away his hat, Heisenberg realized there would be no going back to the factory unless he hurried. The storm had been mounting for days now, but he had never been one to pay much attention to the tells of weather; he rarely left his hideout, and with the factory being mostly underground, he would be trapped inside for a few days at best. He had perhaps half an hour for a journey that would take him one or two under such bad weather, and he would have to be lucky for the bridge to hold if it got too bad. She wasted little time paying attention to his inner turmoil, and went about securing the animals instead, making sure they had food, water and a warm place to spend the night. Snow was falling fast by the time she was done, and she ushered him in when he’d stood there too long, snow coming up to his shins already. They brushed off as much as they could on the porch before heading inside, water dripping down their shoulders. There was a long pause as they both watched the storm come down through the living room window, a knowing silence that the day would be long, and the night longer, and neither would be leaving that cabin for at least the next day.

“Well, it seems the bed is yours for the night again, my lord,” were her words as she bolted the door, a hint of joy in her voice. He imagined it was a lonely existence, secluded in the mountains and feared by all, not part of any community and especially not theirs. She always seemed so happy to see him, to see another human whose first instinct wasn’t to attack her. He would pity her if he cared, if his existence wasn’t equally as lonesome, if he hadn’t fashioned it to be exactly what he wished. He’d never needed anyone yapping about everything and nothing in his ears, interrupting his work and diverting his attention from what really mattered. Alcina was insane to have taken in the girls, really; children sounded like an exhausting chore that never ended. He never understood why she always looked so content in spite of it all. His mother always told him one day he would understand, he would want to keep someone close, and then he would want someone else just like them to cherish and love, to teach and share the good and bad moments. He would turn a hundred soon and never quite felt like it; maybe in another hundred years?

His only answer was a lopsided smile, tired and sad, and he tried to brace for the barrage of questions and comments that were certain to come. She was trapped inside her living space with the stranger who emerged from the guts of the forest, come from a village rife with death, where he was sovereign save for Mother dearest. He was the favorite son and the most powerful, gifted with strength and wits and influence and power. Those he could not talk down he could easily buy out, and those he could not buy out he could easily destroy. He was a fabled recluse and rumors ran rampant of the work he’d conduct in his factory, of treasures he kept deep underground. It would be a long day, the first in forever that he would spend so close to another breathing, talking human, and he did not know what to expect aside from a lot of chit-chat and a mounting headache. Surely she would like to know all about him, now that he couldn’t run away from her. Surely she would pry into his motives, pepper in questions about his siblings and the village. A thousand smug answers he conjured in his mind, each snappier than the other, every retort a question thrown back at her. It was only fair, of course; she had thrown much at him, bits and pieces of improbabilities that he couldn’t put together, and if she intended on digging deep, he would do the same.

To his surprise, all she did was leave her boots behind next to him and proceed to ignore him, going about her daily life like he was of no consequence. He found himself stunned, rooted in front of the door with a puzzled expression on his face. She looked at him as if to say well, this is it, make yourself at home and enjoy the day, and once again the domesticity of it all broke him more than words could ever have. He felt weird as he reached for the papers he had brought with him the night before, tucked next to the myriad of books on her shelf. They remained silent when he took a seat at the table and pushed open the schematics to get a better look at them, the potted plant centerpiece serving as a paper weight so he could work properly.

First, she dusted the shelves, reorganized her herb cabinet and found a place for his hat. The curtains were drawn and she took a peek outside, checking on the pens and the stable to make sure the animals would have a comfortable enough day. Then she bound off to a corner of the living room, producing a basket with threads and fabric, yarn and needles that she brought over to the couch. She sat cross-legged, close to the fire, and only spared him a brief glance before tending to her needlework. He felt weird as he reached for the papers he had brought with him the night before, tucked next to the myriad of books on her shelf. They remained silent when he took a seat at the table and pushed open the schematics to get a better look at them, the potted plant centerpiece serving as a paper weight so he could work properly. The first few minutes were nerve-racking, his paranoia telling him he would look away and find her peering curiously over his shoulder, trying to steal away his secrets to use against him as leverage. He read the same words again and again only to realize he hadn’t understood them, eyes turning to her every minute to make sure she still hadn’t moved. She caught him eventually, eyebrow raised in his direction as she tried to make sense of the situation, mouth turning into an “oh” as she jumped off the couch and stood on the tips of her toes to reach the very top of the bookshelf. A minute later and she had brought him a candle and holder, a half-empty box of matches in her other hand. She stood at the other end of the table and pushed it in his direction, still not curious regarding his work, but figuring that, even in daylight, the cabin was dark and he likely was not used to doing things by candlelight. It took him a moment to process and bring the light closer, shocked as he was to see that she intended to leave him to his own devices but cared about his comfort.

The hours were a blur then, when he convinced himself she would not surprise him, and his suspicions were correct; a change of environment had done wonders for his creativity, solutions jumping at him paper after paper, a multitude of new projects and ideas for him to try once he was back at the factory. He can’t remember the last time he had been so productive, the last time he had folded everything in and told himself he was done for the day, because he had done more than enough. She had brought him tea and bread at some point and he had eaten absentmindedly, crumbs and drops of jam staining the papers, but he could not bring himself to care. After tea she had brought him coffee, and then a jug of water, and while he felt a bit like a caged animal being fed periodically, it did wonders to keep his work flowing.

Night had already fallen when he finally took a break, got up to stretch his legs and look around to see just what she had been doing this whole time. Her crafts basket was back in its place, a sock taking shape on the needles. A book abandoned where she was sitting instead, the little witch nowhere near it. Instead she was busy preparing dinner, swaying her hips to a tune but quiet as a mouse, like she was going out of her way to give him peace and quiet. He appreciated it, try as he might to deny it, how she cared without meddling, made herself present but not intruding.

Maybe he should hire her to be his assistant, help him organize the half-done office he had begun building on the upper floors of the factory. She certainly would be great at helping him keep his affairs in order - and by that he meant she would keep him fed, mostly, the one thing he kept forgetting to do and that always set him back. He could provide her with something better than this, surely, her very own quarters with modern wonders such as electricity and proper plumbing, a bathroom of her own, maybe even a fridge. Had she ever seen a fridge before? He imagined she would decorate the place with all manner of silly things that would only serve to gather dust, knickknacks and wreaths and woven things, and that it would smell of flowers and fresh-baked bread. Her responsibilities would include housekeeping and Heisenkeeping - organizing his papers so he wouldn’t lose them, keeping track of all of the family meetings he had to attend, dealing with the Duke for supplies so he wouldn’t have to. He’d reward her handsomely, give her days off, be a good employer unlike his parents had been. Not a bad plan, if he did say so himself.

He had only forgotten to factor in that she was, still, a powerful, self-described blood witch. He had been entertaining himself with the thoughts of having her around as he watched her prepare dinner; she’d gone hunting in the morning, he realized, two hares hanging upside down from an iron ring. She took one down to place it at the cutting board, its insides clean but pelt still intact. He had no doubt she would be skilled at skinning it; when one lives as long as she has with no contact with the outside world, such skills are necessary for survival. What he did not expect was the way she’d go about it: a firm hand grabbed a handful of fur, gave it a gentle twist and pulled, effortlessly, the entire thing coming off in her hand, no cuts and no tears, neck and head and all. He could see the knife from where he was sitting, placed blade down into the ceramic jug.

Heisenberg bent forward to see better when she did it the second time around, and it was as unexplainable and horrifying as the first. Gross but humane, like she simply coaxed the skin to slide right off the flesh. If the thing had been alive, he imagined it would have been quite painful, a whole human suit in her hand and living flesh left behind. The thought almost makes him gag, a disgusted sound escaping his lips and making her realize she’s not alone. She slowly turns to face him with a sheepish smile, like a child caught red-handed. “Pretend you didn’t see that?” She offers, but he shakes his head no. Not in a million years he would forget the sheer brutality of it. He waits but she doesn’t explain it, goes back to making dinner like nothing had happened.

“Could you do that to something… Bigger, darling?” He approaches her slowly, like a predator carefully stalking its prey, though he feels far from a position of power at the moment. She nods her head yes. “Like, say, a good ole’ human?” He whispers in her ear, a shiver running down her spine at the sudden intrusion and hot breath against her skin, flirting his go-to attempt at getting back the reigns of any situation.

“Want me to test it on you, my lord?” She quips in the same whisper tone, and he is wise enough to back off for now.

“Think I’ll pass.” Before he can run back to his seat, she hands him the smaller, bone-bladed knife and pushes a bowl of potatoes towards him, the sudden motion startling him and eliciting a chuckle out of her. Looks like he’ll have to earn his keep. For a while they work shoulder to shoulder in peaceful silence, save for his grunts of frustration at not being able to peel a potato successfully. It’s been a long time. “You ought to show me what you can do one of these days. I’m awful curious.” She considers it for a second, head moving left and right, knife following the movement.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” and she doesn’t mean metal bending and knife juggling, he knows. He can’t think of a reason why she would want to see him, truly see him, monstrous appearance and all, but if that’s the price to pay, he’ll gladly do it. It would be good for his ego, too, that priceless look on her face as he shifts into the stuff of nightmares.

There are no more gruesome sneak peeks for the night and soon the stew is ready, he helps set the table and she finds a bottle of wine she’d stashed away for a rainy day. She explains over dinner that he was quite feverish when he arrived, and it’s a wonder he made it through the night. He truly was sturdy, no ifs or buts about it, she said in appreciation. There were cuts and bruises all over him, all shapes and sizes, like he’d fallen through glass. Did he have an accident at the factory? There was genuine concern in her voice, though they both knew that she knew better.

His curiosity gets the better of him and he experiments with a few questions, each answer leaving him further in the dark. How old was she? Somewhere around a hundred and thirty. She remembers being old enough to read around 1902, when she saw the date on a newspaper she fished out of the gutter, but beyond that time was either a blur or she’d been too young to remember. Where did she come from? Not a clue, but she’s been around: she’s seen Italian castles, been to centuries old British pubs. She’s seen the Brandenburg Gate and visited Chateau de Versailles. She’s bathed in the beautiful waters of the Greek coast, made a pilgrimage to the volcanic beaches of Iceland. She’s never made it past the ocean to the Americas or down to the warmer climates of Africa, but time has never been an issue, and she figures she’ll get to it eventually. He asks her why all the wandering, is someone after her? Her breath hitches and her eyes lower, shoulders slump, a deep breath before the replies. Something like that, and he understands maybe it’s best if he doesn’t push.

They returned to the topic of his feverish display once dinner was over, with her cautioning that he had been lucky this time around, lucky that she was home, lucky that he even made it across the bridge and found his way home. Home, her use of the word is deliberate and strokes something warm and fuzzy within him. Disgusting. There was the matter of the shard, he took a sit on the couch as she reached into a drawer to pull out a bundle of clean cloth, and he feigns confusion when she unwraps it to reveal a piece of metal shaped similar to an arrowhead. He recognized it, the shavings of a project he had worked on… Maybe a year ago? It’d been sticking out through his ribs when he arrived, she said, and it looked anything but recent; infection had taken around it, skin red and swollen. She could see that it was agonizingly painful - had he not noticed it at all?

“Ah, so that’s what it was.” He blurted without really meaning to, a humorless chuckle that left her confused. “I’d been feeling this weird poke in my ribs for the longest time - thought I’d broken something.” He shrugs and she nods, clearly aware of their peculiar situations, perhaps now beginning to comprehend just how many layers of fucked up he was made of. “You’re a miracle worker, doll.” His fingers instinctively trace over the spot where the shard had been, nothing there but a scar that had healed remarkably well. “How can I ever repay you?”

Money, gems, jewelry? She didn’t strike him as the materialistic kind. No, she was all about the meaningful gestures, the showing of kindness. There were a few ways he could think of showing his appreciation - slamming her body against the wall to press a hard kiss on her lips, a nice, firm tug on her hair as he nibbled on her neck. Or maybe something softer if she was so inclined, more romantic even, like a well-placed, resounding slap on her ass cheek. “I’ll be sure to think of something, my lord.” Was the answer she gave, though he was sure she meant something else entirely judging by the way she let her coat slide off to reveal her bare shoulders as she set about getting ready for bed. Her hands gathered more and more of her skirt until it’d reached the middle of her thighs, delicate lace adorning the band of her stockings, tiny suspenders disappearing from sight but serving to peak his curiosity. She undid the hooks that kept it in place, fingers threatening to roll the garment down agonizingly slow. Instead she turned to look at her enraptured audience, the pose propping her ass up and so close to his hands. He had thought it had all been an act, carefully orchestrated to put him on edge, but the gasp of surprise she let out told him otherwise. “I am so sorry, my lord.” She quickly let go of it all and stood up straight, a flush running across her face. “I am not used to having visitors.”

“You needn’t stop on account of little ole’ me, darling.” He is quick to say, rich laughter that filled the room with mischief. Heisenberg sprawls further onto the couch, legs parting like an invitation. Best seat in the house, in the whole village even. “I did enjoy it.”

When it was time to say goodnight, he kept his composure and even helped her move one of the pillows and blanket down the ladder. If his mother were alive she would chastise him for not being a gentleman, for not refusing vehemently to let her sleep on an uncomfortable couch instead of her own bed. But the day was over and so were the pleasantries, and he would have to take the time to cleanse her off his mind, ease himself back into his usual mindset. She was impossibly alluring, impossibly annoying, impossibly loving. There was no figuring her out and it seemed there would be no delving deeper in. Playtime was over and it was back to work tomorrow as soon as she storm had passed. He needed to shed away her kindness before it managed to ooze under his skin, but she had no intention of making it any easier on him.

“Here you go,” Heisenberg had no time to stand on ceremony, shoved the pillow in her direction and flashed her a smile to keep up appearances, mind wandering somewhere else, somewhere where he did not care about her. It was better this way. “Good night, sweetheart.”

Even though he tried, he never truly reached that fabled place where she was of no importance. Not that he would ever acknowledge it.

#resident evil village #karl heisenberg #karl heisenberg x oc #karl heisenberg x reader #virgil writes

9 notes · View notes

thelukesalvez · 4 years

Text

Luke Alvez x (daughter) Reader: Through Flames

Request: @literallyprentissstwin requested; an imagine where Luke’s teenage daughter gets kidnapped and the team has to save her.

Tagged: @ssaic-jareau , @alvezstan , @saintd0lce , @ogmilkis , @reidswords , @akimagies, @literallyprentissstwin

Word count: 4.5k

Warnings: Kidnapping tw

A/N: this was emotional writing, luke as a single, super protective dad makes me rly soft so thank you so much for this request!

Luke has to excuse himself from the round table when the call comes through his phone. Normally, he’d let calls go to voicemail when he was at work, but you were always the exception.

“Hey, we’re in a meeting,” Luke begins to explain, but he’s cutoff.

“Daddy-” your voice is a hushed whisper. It’s enough to make Luke freeze in his tracks, his full attention shifting to you and the phone call.

You had turned seventeen years old a little over a month ago, and only ever called Luke ‘Daddy’ when you were either trying to evade trouble or get something you wanted.

Suddenly, Luke remembers you being ten years old again. That was the first time he ever remembers you calling him “Dad” instead of his coined title.

“Dad?” he had raised an eyebrow at you in the car as he drove you to school. “Since when do you call me dad?”

“I’m not a baby anymore,” you had said, crossing your small arms in front of you. “Daddy is for babies.”

“Well you’re still my baby,” he’d assured you.

After dropping you off, the smile Luke had been wearing faded. He was secretly disappointed by your sudden declaration. Being called ‘dad’ was just another indication that his girl was growing up, something he’d been dreading since the day you were born.

For the longest time, it had always been just you and Luke. When you were only six, your mom had walked out. There was little explanation as to why she left, other than her wanting another life, which Luke could never understand. Who could want a life away from you? You were his life- his girl, the only one that mattered.

“What’s wrong?” Luke asked through the phone, his voice serious.

“Th-there’s someone in the house,” your voice is barely a whisper when you respond, but it sends shockwaves through Luke’s entire body. It’s enough to send him back into the conference room, where the rest of his team is gathered.

“What?” he spits. “Who’s in the house?”

When you answer, Luke can detect traces of panic in your voice, “I don’t know…”

He pulls the phone away from his ear, the attention of the entire team is trained on him after overhearing the last bit of his conversation. “Send units to my house,” he says, without explanation, before speaking to you again.

Luke swallowed, only now realizing how dry his throat felt. “Where are you?”

“I’m hiding- under my bed. I-I don’t know what to do. I’m scared, Daddy.”

Your words shoot through Luke like a knife, twisting their way into his skin until they pierce through his heart. His head is clouded with a feeling of helplessness and desperation. “It’s okay. It’s okay baby, I’m here. The police are on the way. Stay on the phone with me, do not hang up, okay?”

Instead of answering, you respond in a hushed, terrified tone. “He’s coming- he’s coming up the stairs!”

Luke squeezes his eyes shut and can’t help the burning tears that are threatening to spill over. All he can do is coax you through the phone and pray to whatever God might be out there that you’d be okay. So that’s what he does.

“Stay on the phone with me,” he orders. He doesn’t even recognize his own voice, but he needs you to stay calm. “And be quiet.”

He hears your labored breathing through the phone. It’s choppy and uneven, but you do as he says.

There’s a pause, a moment of complete silence that was probably only a minute, but to Luke, felt like an eternity. He doesn’t even realize he’s been holding his breath until now.

When you finally do speak, your voice is still quiet. “I think he’s gone.”

Luke’s shoulders visibly relax, and he’s about to exhale a sigh of relief when there’s a crashing sound on your end of the line, followed by an earth-shattering scream that makes Luke’s entire body go cold.

He yells your name through the line, but there’s nothing else he can do, there’s no way he can help you.

“Daddy!” you scream, “No! Daddy, please!”

Even after the line goes dead, Luke doesn’t hang up. He just listens to the empty dial tone, unable to move or think or do anything at all.

…

When in doubt, always revert back to victimology. That was the first rule of profiling that Luke had learned upon joining the BAU. The team spent hours on cases examining and comparing the Unsub’s victims. They’d look for commonalities or links between them, anything to link it all together. They’d assess the reason that person was targeted and any known connections among other victims.

Most often, perps would choose their victims based on some sort of fantasy. That person would fit into a mold, or have certain characteristics that match what the Unsub was looking for. Generally, these were distinguished attributes; hair or skin color, age, profession. Sometimes, the links weren’t so obvious and the team had to work a little harder to connect the dots.

Then, there were the surrogates. These people were chosen because they resembled someone in the Unsub’s life; a scorned lover, an abusive parent. Someone the perp needed to recreate for one reason or another. Once you found out who the victim resembled, you could narrow down your suspect pool and catch your guy.

Oftentimes, Luke’s favorite part of a case was to examine the victims. He liked how concrete and factual it all was. Victimology was so important- it had solved so many of the BAU’s cases.

The second rule of profiling was: don’t forget that this is a job.

Level headedness, clear thinking, and a calm demeanor were essential in finding an Unsub. It was never a chance to be a knight in shining armor, or a way to get fifteen minutes of fame. Sometimes cases ended well and sometimes they didn’t, no matter how well you profiled it and no matter how textbook they were. But no matter what, you couldn’t take it personally.

But Luke had known from the get go of this case that he was never going to be able to follow that rule. This was a different situation, completely uncharted territory for him. Since Garcia had been digging, she had found four other missing girls in Virginia, D.C., and Maryland that were all the same age as you, all taken from their homes in the middle of broad daylight. God knows how many of them were dead. And one of them was his kid.

“You know I have to take you off of this. You can’t be in the field.” Emily was suddenly standing in front of Luke. “But as a courtesy, I’m letting you stay in the BAU. You can help Garcia here.”

“Emily-” Luke started to protest, but she cut him off.

“No,” her voice is firm, it’s final. “This one is too close.”

He knows he can’t defy her orders, so instead, Luke hangs his head. First, he couldn’t help you over the phone. He’d stood by, helpless while you’d been abducted out of your own home. But now he couldn’t do so much as his own job to help save you. What kind of father was he?

Emily senses Luke’s uneasiness and places a reassuring hand on his sunken shoulder. “Luke, we will find her.”

She sounds so sure of herself.

“We will not rest until we do.”

…

When your mom still lived with you and your dad, she had a painting of a potted plant hanging in the hall.

“Why don’t we just get a plant?” you’d asked her, imagining a real snake plant would be much prettier than this dull painting of one.

But she’d shaken her head, “I can’t keep a plant alive for the life of me. Plants die. But a picture will live forever.”

You’re staring at a similar painting now hanging up on an unfamiliar blue wall. It’s wild and green and the leaves are all spilling over the edge of it’s pot. They’re growing in all directions, some combing towards a window, some stretching towards the sky. There was no logic or gravity or sense in it. But that plant was going to live forever.

The same couldn’t be said for you.

…

“Are you sure, Garcia?” Emily asked. Her, Reid, and Luke were gathered in the conference room, sitting in chairs around the table.

Garcia nodded, her laptop clutched tightly in her hand.

“I’m sure, the other four girls’ families all received distressed calls roughly six hours after the initial abduction.”

“Why did no one tie these crimes together until now?” Emily wondered out loud.

“Because he crossed state lines, there was no communication between the stations, so no one made the connection,” Garcia explained.

“Wait-” Luke interrupted, not entirely sure he heard his coworker right. “You’re telling me that I’m gonna get a call from her?”

Garcia nods slowly. “If he follows the pattern.”

Luke’s mouth feels dry. “Can you trace it?”

She shrugs, shifting the laptop into her other hand. “I can try- I mean, I’ll definitely try. It just depends on if it’s a disposable, how many cell towers are in the area, how long the call is-”

“If anyone can do it, it’s you,” Luke mumbles.

Luke watches the clock like it’s his job for the next hour. He concentrates his eyes on the digital numbers on his phone screen, trying not to let his mind think about anything else. By anything else, he meant you and whether or not you were still alive.

When six hours past your abduction came and went, Luke was beside himself.

“Why isn’t she calling?” he asked, there was a knot in his throat reminding him that he was on the verge of tears any second now.

“Some of the calls were made up to seven hours after abduction,” Emily reminded him. “She’s going to call.”

Luke continued staring at his phone and his lockscreen. It was a picture of you and him he’d snapped at the park from earlier that year. You were both sitting in the grass, you with your phone in your hand, leaning into Luke, and a cheerful grin spread wide across your face.

“You take selfies at the wrong angle!” you’d laughed at him. “You’re supposed to hold the camera higher.”

“What? Like this?” he’d asked, extending his arm.

“Yes! Perfect!”

That’s when he’d taken it.

Luke’s thoughts are interrupted when an unknown number suddenly flashes across his screen. For a moment, he can’t believe what he’s seeing and he freezes in place. Garcia clicks a key on her computer, then gives Luke a thumbs up, indicating that she was ready to begin tracking the call.

Luke’s hesitation is short lived and after only a moment, he hurries to answer the phone.

“Daddy?” he hears your voice say. .

“Hi sweetheart,” he answers, trying to decompress the emotion in his voice.

Luke remembers when you were a baby, learning to walk, and were stumbling all over the place. You would always look up to him when you’d fall, and if Luke looked concerned, you’d burst into hysterical tears. But, if he seemed calm, you’d pick yourself up and keep going.

“Are you hurt?”

“N-no.” You pause. “Daddy, I’m scared-”

Luke bit his lip. “I know you are, baby.”

He looks to Garcia, hoping to see any indication that the tracking was successful. She shakes her head and mouths to Luke, “I need more time.”

Luke nods. “I want you to know how much I love you,” he says.

He could practically hear the panic rise in your voice when you responded, “Are you telling me that because I’m going to die?”

“No,” he says sternly. “No, baby. You got everyone looking for you, we’re going to find you..”

“He says- he says that he’s going to take good care of me-” he can hear that you’re crying now in the hiccups between your words. You always hiccuped when you cried.

Emily slides a note towards Luke from across the table just then. He peers at it and reads, ‘try to speak to the Unsub directly.’

He nods.

“Baby,” he says calmly. “Can you ask the man-” he swallows. “Can you ask the man if I can speak to him?”

Luke hears muffled voices on the other line, then a shuffle, before it’s quiet again.

Garcia, meanwhile, is staring at her screen and typing frantically. She mouths to Luke the word, “almost.”

When Luke hears shallow breathing on the other end of the line, he knows it’s his daughter’s abductor. His insides fill up with rage, but he muscles it down. He needed to remain calm.

“My name’s Luke Alvez-” he speaks into his phone. “I just want to talk.”

There’s more muffled sounds and then a deep, male voice speaks. “I have nothing to talk about.”

“What about Y/N?” Luke spits out, desperate to keep the Unsub on the phone. “You must want to talk about Y/N. It’s very clear that you care about her.”

The words taste like poison in Luke’s mouth. But he was willing to say or do whatever it took to get her back.

“More than you ever have!” the Unsub shouts.

“You don’t think I care enough about my daughter?” he asks, trying to keep the conversation open ended. As long as Luke kept him on the line, you had a chance.

“No!” he hollers. He sounds agitated and unsteady. “I’ve been watching her for a while now. I see the way you leave her alone, sometimes for the entire night!”

Luke continued to press. “You don’t think seventeen year olds should be left alone?”

“No child should ever be left alone! That’s when accidents happen. You can’t protect them.”

“Protect them from what?”

Luke has to swallow back the bile that rises in his throat when he hears the Unsub sneer, “Men like me.”

With that, the line goes dead.

…

When you were little, you used to be scared of the dark. You’d make your dad come in, after you were tucked under all the covers, and check out the whole bedroom- in the closet, under the bed, all the drawers of your dresser. Sometimes, you’d wake up crying in the middle of the night, convinced that you’d seen something hiding in the shadows of your room. Your dad would hurry in, quick to sit on the edge of your bed and hold you tight.

“Monsters aren’t real,” he had assured you, his large hand tracing circled on your back.

But now you knew he was wrong. Monsters were real.

Now, you sat in the dimly lit room of your capture’s house. The sun was setting outside, soon it would be completely dark. You were sitting against a wall, your hands now tied tightly together in front of you.

Your capture paced rapidly on the opposite end of the room. He ran his long fingers through his blonde hair and muttered to himself. Whatever your dad had said to him over the phone really rattled him.

You had faith in your dad. He knew what he was doing. But you wished he would’ve just stayed on the phone with you just a bit longer. Just the sound of his voice made you feel safe. You closed your eyes and tried to hear it in your mind.

…

“Were you able to track it?” Emily is hunched over Garcia, gazing at her laptop screen with intent.

“Not completely,” she says, frazzled. “I was able to narrow it down. It was a cell phone, and it pinged off from one of these two towers.” She points to the screen.

“That’s what? A thirty mile radius?”

Garcia nods solemnly.

Luke huffs out anxiously. “So what?” he barks. “What? We have nothing?”

“No-” Emily interjects. “We have the profile.”

Hours passed since your abduction, and Luke was desperately trying not to lose hope.

He’d attempted to call back the number you reached him on three times now. Each time, it went straight to an automated voicemail.

He tried to help the team, but his mind was too scattered and he couldn’t concentrate on anything for more than a few moments before he was worrying about you again.

Currently, he was slouched over in the same chair he’d been sitting in all day, his arms crossed across his chest and staring up at the vision board Reid had created. Your driver’s license picture was taped to the board, your smiling, eager face looking back at him.

He remembers the day he’d brought you to the DMV. He’d secretly been hoping you’d fail, but only because he was so worried about you driving on the road. His biggest fear was one day receiving a call that you’d been in an accident.

Turns out he should have been worried about other things.

His thoughts are once again interrupted, this time by JJ. She’s bursting through the conference room door like she’s on a mission.

“Guys-” she announces. “They just ID’d the remains of three of the four victims. They were burned in a fire pit in the radius Garcia narrowed down.” She crossed the room and put a tack in the map Reid had taped up. “Here,” she said.

“Burned?” Rossi asked, narrowing his eyes. “That’s an odd means of disposal. Do you think it’s a forensic countermeasure?”

“I don’t think so,” Reid mused, narrowing his eyes like he always did when he was in deep thought. “There were fingerprints and DNA all over the crime scene. The Unsub just wasn’t a match in CODIS. If he were so concerned with hiding evidence, he wouldn’t have left so much more behind.”

“So why burn the bodies?” JJ asks.

Reid shrugs. “Maybe it’s part of his ritual that we never considered.”

Luke thinks back to his conversation with your capture on the phone, trying to uncover any incriminating evidence in his words.

“He was really upset that I would leave Y/N home alone,” Luke stated out loud. “That bothered him more than anything, he said she could be harmed.”

“What if our Unsub lost a child?” Reid mused. “Think about it- he’s more concerned with Y/N’s safety, than anything else- which indicates that he sees her as a surrogate daughter.”

“And the taunting phone calls, to the parents- it’s to make them feel guilty for not being able to protect their children,” JJ adds.

Reid continues, “What if that represents guilt he felt? For not being able to protect his own child?”

“I can narrow down child deaths in the radius I was able to locate,” Garcia suggests. She’s already typing away at her laptop.

“Did the Unsub mention anything else?” Rossi asks Luke.

Luke bites his lip and thinks back to the line that stunned him the most. “He told me that ‘No child should ever be left alone,’ and that ‘that’s when accidents happen’.”

The team mused over the quote for a moment before Reid spoke up. “Garcia, narrow your search to child deaths by fires.”

“What’re you thinking?” Tara asks Spencer.

“The burning of the bodies,” Reid explains. “I think he’s making these families experience what he did.”

“Bingo,” Garcia announces. “Megan Charles burned to death in a house fire just over a year ago, three weeks before the first victim disappeared. Her father, Doug Charles, came home late from work one night to find the house in flames. Firefighters couldn’t get her out in time. She was eighteen years old,” she finished sadly.

“You know what to do-” Emily said, as she and the rest of the team were already standing up and charging out the door.

Luke stood up from his chair but she shook her head.

“You can’t Luke-”

“Emily-” he pleaded, the tears he’d been holding back all night finally threatening to spill over. “Please, she’s my kid, I can’t just sit here-”

“Luke,” Emily said sternly. “You don’t have to be a hero.”

Luke shook his head. “I’m not. But I am a father.”

Luke watches as she truly considers his plea. “Fine,” she says, her voice softening. “You can come, but your gun stays here and you're waiting in the car.”

“Thank you,” Luke mouths. He strips his holster and gun from his belt and shoots after the rest of the team.

…

I didn’t do the dishes, you thought as you waited for your imminent death.

You wondered if your dad would get home and be mad to find that you didn’t do the one thing he’d asked you to do while he was away at work.

Now that you think about it, your dad rarely got mad, he got disappointed. You hoped disappointment wasn’t the last thing he ever thought of you.

…

As Luke rode towards you and the Unsub, he thought about the day you were born. He and his wife had been at home watching HGTV when her contractions started. They were getting closer and closer together as Luke drove like a maniac to the hospital. He left the car in the loading zone while he hurried his wife into the delivery room.

As soon as the doctor placed your bundled blanket in his arms he knew that you were the very best thing that would ever happen to him.

Your first word was ‘dada’. And you’d cry if he ever left the room. He taught you to ride a bike and he let you paint his nails all the colors of the rainbow. He took you hiking through all the trails in Virginia and would always bring the ingredients for s’mores on your camping trips. He’d watch dramatic teenage TV shows he had absolutely no interest in just to spend time with you. You’d talk about everything from which character from The Office you felt best represented you to why mothers leave their children sometimes.

When the SUV pulled into the driveway of the Unsub’s house, Luke unbuckled his seatbelt by habit. He was about to open the door to the SUV when Emily stopped him.

“Alvez, stay here.” She ordered.

Luke wanted to protest, but deep down, he knew she was right. He wasn’t sure what he would do upon seeing the man who had taken you away from him. And what if the team was too late? Luke knew he wouldn’t hesitate before killing Doug Charles with his bare hands.

He nods while biting his lip harshly. “Bring back my daughter,” he pleads.

Emily nods. “We will.”

…

This wasn’t how, or when, you thought your life would end. You were only seventeen, afterall.

As this complete stranger walked towards you with a knife and a devilish look in his eyes, you thought about how much you wanted to do. Like go to Europe- or see Niagara Falls. You wanted to skydive and snorkel in the ocean. You wanted to drink coffee in Paris and ride a camel in Egypt. You wanted to fall in love.

You were running through the list in your own head when you heard a smashing sound from down the hall.

Your eyes went wide with fear while the man above you snatched you into his arms. He hoisted you to your feet and barreled his arm across your chest, the knife pressing into your throat threateningly.

“Doug Charles, FBI!” A familiar voice boomed. You recognized it as Matt’s.

Footsteps grew closer until the door between you and the hall was opened hastily.

A handful of known faces filed into the room. Your eyes first land on Rossi. You’d been to his house before for spaghetti dinners. He’s holding his gun out in front of him, much like everyone else in the room. You searched their faces frantically for your dads. But you quickly realized that he wasn’t there.

“Drop the knife,” Emily says slowly.

You struggle to breath against the pressure of the man’s arm over your chest. You feel the blade against your skin, it’s sharp and ready to slit your throat at any minute. You squeeze your eyes shut and try to remain as still as possible.

“Doug- we know what happened to your daughter.” You recognize the voice as Spencer’s. “But what happened wasn't your fault.”

You feel the man’s grip tighten on you. “Shut up!” he boomed.

“What happened to Megan was horrible,” Reid pressed. “It was horrible, but it was an accident, and it wasn’t your fault. You can’t blame yourself. Killing Y/N isn’t going to bring Megan back.”

“Look at her,” Emily interjects. “She’s a seventeen year old girl. One year younger than Megan was. She’s innocent, Doug. Just like Megan was. Don’t hurt her, let her go.”

To your disbelief, after a few moments, you actually feel the grip on you loosen before it’s released altogether. You use the opportunity to launch yourself forward towards what you presumed as safety. Spencer was the first one to catch you. He wraps his arms around your shaking shoulders and shields you as he hurries you out of the room before you can see anything else. You barely hear Emily’s voice as she reads the man his Miranda Rights in the distance.

“M-my dad-” you spit out, your voice wavering.

“He’s outside,” Spencer assures you, his grip around your shoulders tightening as he feels you growing unsteady. “I got you,” he assures you.

Before your eyes could even adjust to the darkness of the outside, you hear a voice calling your name.

Dad, you thought.

Your legs, despite being wobbly, stepped forward towards the voice, until you could see him pushing past the other officers and EMT’s on the scene.

“Dad!” you shouted.

“Y/N, oh my God,” he took three giant steps forward before crushing you into his arms. He held you so tight you almost couldn’t breathe. But you noticed that as soon as he touched you, you stopped shaking.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

You nodded against him.

“You’re not hurt?” he pulled away, holding you at arms length. There was worry and concern written all over his face, and he stared into your eyes as if trying to gauge the damage done.

“I’m okay,” you told him.

Luke nodded only once before pulling you back into his embrace, and at last you felt at peace. Luke realized that holding you in his arms felt like a plane touching down in his own city again, when he’d realize that the only reason he ever left in the first place was to remember what it felt like to come home.

#luke alvez imagine #luke alvez x daughter reader #luke alvez x reader imagine #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds x reader imagine #luke alvez #luke alvez x reader fanfic #luke alvez fanfic #luke alvez fic #criminal minds fandom #criminal minds x reader fic

385 notes · View notes

trustsalvatorewriting · 4 years

Text

wasteland, baby! | kol mikaelson - chapter twelve

Summary: Kol makes a deal with the Hollow to revive the first woman he ever loved. Unfortunately, it doesn’t go as planned.

Trust’s Note: Please like and reblog! I hope you enjoy.

Word Count: 2,288

❝ what does one do with life when one expected to be dead ❞

"HOW DOES IT FEEL? To be alive, after all these years." Kol asked, eyes barely meeting Aniya's as they sat on a park bench. They had agreed to spend the day watching for strangers, any person that wouldn't mind having a sprinkle of amnesia in their lives. After a while the silence had gone deafening, and Kol decided to speak.

Aniya looked back at him, somewhat shocked that he had bothered to ask about her condition. She shifted in her seat. "Truth be told, I do not know what to do with the life I hold in my hands. It's as if someone has handed me the moon."

"Didn't you ask for this? To be immortal?"

"No. My father did." She said, looking down at her hands. She and Vihaan had questioned his beliefs once, and only once. It was the day that their father held their hands over a fire, and asked who would save them if not the gods. "And what of you? How did Esther create the spell that turned you into vampires?"

"She didn't create it. She found it, after Henrik was attacked by the wolves one night." He'd said it so casually, it might have gone over the average person's head; but Aniya had known him all his life. "Mother dearest murdered my ability to practice magic that night. About a decade ago, she stuck me in the body of a witch, but I was promptly killed by Finn shortly thereafter. Such a shame. The body was quite handsome."

He paused, then added, "Of course, not quite as handsome as me. But it did do the job."

She lifted an eyebrow slightly. "You would give your immortality to be a witch again?"

"You may have given your life for immortality, but I never wanted this. I was perfectly fine dying at the fine age of thirty years old," He sent her a smirk, and she rolled her eyes. She turned her attention back to the humans walking in front of them. Across the street, an old man and his wife, wrinkly and discolored, hair the color of salt and pepper.

"It is a wonder how humans learned to live so long. Perhaps my father wouldn't have forced us to into those rituals if he knew humans could become so... weathered."

Kol laughed then, and Aniya found herself smiling at the newspaper Kol had set down on their laps. After a moment, he asked, "You truly can't read?"

"I've learned a bit," She admitted. Henry had helped her, using a few pictures books he'd created and never published. Elijah had repeatedly offered her private tutors, but the situation had never been ideal. Even compelled humans would ask questions eventually, and there was something discomforting about allowing a stranger to see her weaknesses. She'd been a gifted witch once, a prodigy; and she had lost to something as simple as American tongue. "I do miss runes though."

"You'd be the only one," Kol responded. She narrowed his eyes at him in annoyance, and he simply shot her a smile. He turned his attention to the humans. "So, we've sat here long enough. Who will we put out of their misery and erase twenty years worth of memories?"

"How about one of the weathered ones?" She suggested. "They've been alive quite long. Surely they won't miss a decade or two."

Aniya had given eighteen years of her life to a set of rituals. Given her life for the sake of her parents. A few memories in exchange for a taste of her old life -- it was a small price to pay. Regardless, humans were never meant to live so long. They were in pain now, surely. Growing weak and inching closer to Death with each passing moment. To walk the streets and see the youth, see all they had lost.

Perhaps she would be putting them out of their misery. Granting them the ability to forget all they would never have again.

She stood from the bench and made her way towards an elderly man only a few feet away. Kol leaned back and watched the girl smile brightly, encapsulating the man in a short conversation about passing birds.

"I can't remember the last time I'd seen a creature so beautiful." She knelt down, though the bird hopped a few steps away. Her brown eyes dimmed for a moment, and Kol felt a heavy weight on his chest as he watched the little bird move away from her. As if it were repulsed.

"Yes," the old man nodded in agreement. His voice was aged, in a way that even Kol found himself pitying him. "Your generation is so glued to those phones. Rarely even feed the birds anymore."

"My generation," Aniya squinted her eyes. She was very much his elder, and Henry had tried to show her how to use a phone only a few days ago. Unfortunately, the very concept had gone over her head. "Yes. I agree. My brother, though, he used to care dearly for these creatures. Often found him climbing trees and feeding them leftover scraps."

She spoke fondly of her brother. It was hard not to. No one had a heart quite as big as his. No one dared to. The world was never made for one as beautiful as him, and yet there she stood, desperate to gain her strength and revive him.

"What was his name?"

Aniya hesitated. Her mother had always said names carried power. "Victor. My name is Annie."

"It suits you," He commented. The man's blue eyes sparkled with kindness, and she felt her stomach drop. "I hope he takes care of you."

"You needn't worry. My brother was quite the protector," She shrugged off his comment, eyes quickly shifting to the street in front of her. She pushed herself off the ground and focused her eyes on a nearby lamppost. "And what of you? Do you have family? People that care for you?"

"My wife, Betty. She cared dearly for me," The old man chuckled. He pulled out a small leather rectangle, and Aniya lifted an eyebrow at the gesture. Carefully, he unfolded it and revealed a black and white photo of a young couple. A blonde woman with molded curls and a young man beside him, in a perfectly tailored suit.

The man slipped the photo out and turned it around. At the bottom right corner was a jumble of letters. Aniya leaned forward to see the lettering, and after a few moments, the man said, "Betty and Edwin. Our wedding in the fifties."

Aniya's faced soured and she looked away, as if she'd just tasted something terrible. From across the street, Kol lifted an eyebrow. She took a breath. "Where is she now?"

"Died of long cancer twenty years ago. I miss her everyday." He said, his voice tainted with nostalgia. Aniya bit the inside of her cheek, a pit in her chest crawling up her throat. Edwin carefully tucked the photo back into his wallet.

"And you love her to this day? Your love for her, it never died?"

"In my experience, love never dies."

"How do you love someone you're sure you'll never have again? How can you bring yourself to love something so unbearable?" Surely he would give in. Surely he could bring himself to forget her. How much she would give in return for amnesia. In another world, she might've belonged to Henry and Henry alone.

Edwin shrugged. "I'll see her again. It's only a matter of time."

It was then that she felt something snap. A switch in her mind, flipped, and exchanged for something much colder. Ice rushed through her veins as she stared at the man, and her mind was made up.

Kol would one day see his Davina once more. Edwin would see Betty, and the world would continue to spin, as she stood paralyzed and alone. Even Henry would leave her eventually. She had only one insurance, one promise that would never leave her: Vihaan.

"I truly am sorry." Aniya placed a hand on the man's shoulder and whispered a spell beneath her breath. The man's eyes glazed over, and static ran through her veins. She took a step back and raised an eyebrow, ignoring the sense of euphoria that overwhelmed her. "Raise your left hand."

He obliged.

"Drop it. Raise your right hand."

He obliged. She had control of him.

"Give me your wallet. Go to Lafayette Cemetary and ask for Keres." The man, stripped of his willpower and sense of self-control, handed her the small leather object and walked away in a daze. Aniya swallowed and shoved the rectangle into her pocket. To her left, she felt a slight breeze, and Kol stood by her side.

Kol watched the man wander away, a brow lifted as Aniya gulped. "You hesitated."

"I'm ripping away an innocent man's free will because we made the mistake of getting married. My apologies if I'm not all that ecstatic about our situation," Aniya muttered. She huffed, shutting her eyes tightly as she turned on her heel.

"Well, lucky for you, we only need two more. I found a poor bastard in the cemetery last night. I'm sure no one will notice he's gone," Kol announces proudly, hot on Aniya's trail as she walked away from him.

"We shouldn't be preying on the innocent, Kol. Especially not men who are mourning their loved ones!"

Kol huffed and sped in front of her, raising his hands to stop her from crossing him. She sent him a warning look, and he sighed. "This one deserves death. Trust me."

She had been given no reason to trust him. In the weeks since she had come back, not once had Kol given her proof that he was worthy of it. Frankly, he's gone lengths to prove the opposite; but somehow, as she stared into his aged, tired eyes, she found herself wanting to believe him.

And so, she nodded, for once giving into his antics. "All right. I suppose we'll just have to find a few more and send them to Keres. I'm sure it won't be that much trouble."

Regardless, she couldn't seem to ignore the heaviness of her chest — the guilt she carried, knowing she had just sent a man to be stripped of his free will. Her parents had tried desperately to rip her of these emotions, trained her to see human lives as game pieces. Ones that she would have to dispose of once they no longer suited her. Her father had told her to embrace the electricity that ran through her veins when she practiced dark magic, but what was meant to surge of power had become nothing but a parasite. This power had turned her into nothing but a monster.

"Kol?"

"Yes?"

"What did your siblings and father exchange for immortality?"

He stopped walking then, his feet glued to the sidewalk. For a moment, his amusement faded, but it was quickly hidden away with a smirk. It occurred to Aniya that she might have hit a nerve. "I'm a vampire, darling. Haven't you caught up on the mythology yet? Watched a few scenes from Twilight? I've heard Robert Pattinson is quite dashing."

"Well, yes, but I'd like to see the truth. I'm not sure how much of that I'm going to find in pop culture." She crossed her arms over her chest and took a step toward him, looking up at his aged, tired eyes. "Show me."

"You're a stubborn little thing, aren't you," He murmured. He sighed then, leaning back against a nearby lamppost. Aniya came closer as he shut his eyes, and black veins crawled from beneath his eyes down to his cheeks. His eyes opened, revealing a pair of blackened irises and red, irritated scieras. Kol bared his teeth, displaying his sharpened fangs. When Aniya didn't flinch, the monstrous features crawled back into hiding, and Kol's curious face remained.

Then, she smiled, almost satisfied with her discovery.

"Was there any particular reason you wanted to see that, or were you just exhausted from staring at my gorgeous face for so long?"

"Is this typically how you flirt with women in the twenty-first century?"

Kol shrugged then, straightening his back and heading back in the direction of the Abattoir. Jealousy seemed to spike at Aniya's chest, as she walked a few paces behind him. How wonderful it must have been to be loved by something that hates all else. To be loved by what was perceived to be a monster.

She pulled the wallet out of her pocket, running her fingers over the faded photograph. She wondered to herself what might have happened if the Hollow has awoken Vihaan, as opposed to her. He might have been stronger. More willing to sacrifice the lives of several humans in exchange for the life he once had; but then, she wondered if he would have been more willing to give up on a marriage that had so clearly died. He would have been willing to sacrifice it all to ensure that she was back on Earth.

"I'd like to have this mission finished by the end of the night," Aniya revealed, her fingers tugging at the ring around her neck. "We'll find the nearest elderly person, and send them to the cemetery. You'll have your memories returned by midnight, and I'll have the evening to myself."

"You're going to see your human."

"Is that so bad?"

He hesitated. "I suppose not."

114 notes · View notes

shu-sakamaki · 3 years

Note

You have four children, there all around the same age, one is six, two are seven, and the oldest one is eight years old. All of them are vampires except for your youngest one who is a human. Her sisters (seven year olds) and her brother (oldest) always pick on her. She asked you if you’d turn her but you always refused, this always made her upset, she wanted to be like her sisters and her brother. She felt like she never fit in, her mother had also died giving birth to her, and her sisters and her brother would blame her for her death. You tend to spend more time with them than her, but not intentionally. One day her sister and brothers teasing goes too far, so she ends up running away. You look for her everywhere but unfortunately you never find her. Ten year later she’d be 16 now, you encounter a vampire hunter who tries to kill you however she fails. As your about to kill her you look into her eyes and realize quickly it’s your daughter and you stop. She had the same color eyes as you and her hair was raven black like her Uncle Reiji. You ask her why she tried to kill you “Every day they teased me, you never did anything! You spent way more time with them. I asked you if you could turn me into a vampire and you said I’m perfect the way I am. Was that supposed to make me feel better? I just wanted to be strong. Then I met a man and he said he could help so he started raising me after that. He was more of a father than you ever were! I hate you and even more so I hate my siblings! I’m going to kill them, my sisters and my brother! “ there was a burning hatred in her heart, you knew if you let her live she’d definitely kill her sisters and brother, she might’ve been no match for you. But you had encountered many hunters and they hadn’t encountered any, despite her losing to you she was a powerful vampire hunter. At this point your were conflicted, you didn’t want to kill your youngest daughter , but you didn’t want her to kill your other two daughters and your eldest son.

[*approach her*] [*giving her a free aim to my heart with her dagger*]

... Your chance of killing me is only now. If you let me go and kill your brothers, I’ll just have to dispose of... your ‘father’ myself.

But if you kill me, your father is not in danger. But... To kill me, you’ll have to let your brothers go.

[*hear my children arrive and listen to what is happening*]

Your ‘father’ will forever be in the aim of my familiars -, and your uncles. You break your promise, my brothers kill him.

All I’m asking you... Is to let them go. You may kill me, I’m standing right here for you... I won’t fight it. But please, let my children go... You don’t have to fight them. Just kill me...

I failed you as a father, is only fair I’m the one paying for it...

#Ask #dadshu

19 notes · View notes

purpleyellow · 4 years

Text

Stress

BTS 8th member

Sunny’s masterlist

“Sunny and Yoongi have a conflict″ Thank you for the anon who requested this!!

Disclaimer As the anon said, I too think Suga would be a more calm person, so I had a lot of fun thinking about a situation he would get so worked up. As a disclaimer this is in no way shape or form, me trying to guess what the boys went through in that moment, all the words written are fiction and made with entertainment porpuses.

a/n:Your opinion is very important for me, send feedback and requests anytime 💜 Also, don’t be shy and interact a little, ask box is always open.

"We were mentally struggling at the beginning of the year. While talking amongst ourselves, we even considered disbanding.” - Seokjin, 2018 MAMA

On edge, that was how every BTS member was feeling in the past few weeks. It was like nothing was working for them, their bond getting tested every moment and even the smallest decisions creating friction between themselves or the company.

Sunny herself didn’t have the mind to do anything at that moment, the meeting that was supposed to last all day had been called off after the first five minutes by their own manager, who allegedly “Didn’t think they should talk about those things at that moment”, and she didn’t want to just go home without doing anything productive.

Going to the cafeteria to refresh her thoughts before finding something to do, she found strange how empty the place was. It was usually filled with staff members, trainees, and general people who worked in the building, but now all of the tables were empty, except for one.

Right in the corner of the room sat a person dressed in black from head to toe, staring blankly into space as he siped from his coffee. Yoongi had just as bad of a day as she did, and as he sat on his studio to work on something nothing seemed to come to his mind except the blood boiling talk he had with one of the producers.

Getting her own cup of coffee, Sunny considered if not sitting in the same table as him would be weird. Of course, the few people who worked very closely with them knew about the phase BTS was going through, but if anyone else passed by and saw them sitting far away rumors could start spreading.

Pulling the chair in front of his so she could sit down, the girl missed his eyes snapping out of his daze and studying her figure before looking straight ahead again. She didn’t know if he was waiting for her to say something or not, so she decided to start a random conversation, hoping the worst thing she would get would be no answer.

“Did you see they changed the lobby’s carpet to a pastel blue color? I thought it looked pretty, maybe we could use it as inspiration and change the curtains of the dorms” She said nonchalantly and took a sip her coffee “I mean, we haven’t clean those in a while, let’s just get rid of them”

Suga snorted rolling his eyes, taking another sip he placed his cup down before staring at her with an unamused face “Is that really what you’re worried about?”

“It’s not my top priority, but it is something I think about. I mean, it has been collecting dust for a while and it could affect-”

“Well, fuck Sunny, really?” He cut her off laughing sarcastically and throwing his head back. “We’ve all been stressing like crazy and the only thing you care about is some blue pastel drapes”

“I don’t care about them, I just wanted to make small talk” She rolled her eyes speaking more firmly “But if you think I’m not as stressed as you then let’s talk about it”

“Oh, shall we?” He smirked looking around “C’mon tell me what worries you, did no one told you your hair looks pretty today? I bet that’s the biggest struggle you went through”

“What is with you today?" Sunny exclaimed, not having the patience to deal with his irony.

"Geez Sunny you really are oblivious huh? Pop the little bubble you live in, Bangtan could be ending right now, do you expect me to be laughing and paying attention to the small wonders in the world? NO” He slapped the table making the girl flinch from the scare.

“I AM aware of what’s going on, why did you think I tried talking to you?” She exclaimed putting a defensive hand on her chest. “Do you really think I don’t care about our future?”

“I think you’re not as passionate about this group like the rest of us,” He said still sitting down, gaze as cold as ice “To me you’re still that child who was put into the group the SEVEN of us build, it seems like people liked you so we kept growing, but think about it, you weren’t there when we build our name out of nowhere”

“You’re salty because of something that happened years ago?” Sunny widened her eyes and Yoongi snorted once again, his chilled position didn’t match the attacking tone of his voice and that was getting on her nerves. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here from the beginning, but since I joined you guys I have put all my blood, sweat and tears into the group, you cannot just say I was handed things”

“Oh, but you were. Can’t you see that everything-” He started but got interrupted.

“So all the times I spent”

“DO NOT CUT ME OFF WHE I’M SPEAKING” He raised his voice making her lose all the words in her head “This is what I’m talking about, MY GOD, we spoiled you too much. I told Namjoon we should assign you a specific thing to do, but he would always protect you, saying you were free to work on whatever you wanted. Now here we are, you get all the attention because you do the bare minimum, while the dumbass here works his ass off and gets told he’s just a disposable piece”

Sunny was both confused and hurt with his statement, everyone knew Yoongi as the mastermind behind BTS, even some of the producers in the company respected his opinion over their own. As for her work, she knew she would put her 100% on everything related to the group, his words didn’t change that truth in her head.

“I’m sorry my effort isn’t enough for you” she got up picking up her phone from the table “I knew you didn’t care about me but never realized my presence was such a burden to you. And if it counts as something, everyone knows your worth in the group, and they would all drop me if it meant you got to stay with them”

“Stop victimizing yourself” Suga groaned rolling his head back and Sunny snapped, turning around and pointing a finger to him.

“YOU are the one playing the victim here. I’m saying the truth because I know that between the disbandment talk you guys are also considering going back to seven. We live in the same house if you don’t remember, I can hear you talking behind my back”

“I’m older than you, princess” He got up and slapped her finger “Treat me with respect next time you get all worked up. And don’t act like you wouldn’t go solo in a snap of fingers.”

“I wouldn’t, because believe it or not, I’m in this Bangtan shit for life” As soon as she finished speaking, a middle-aged woman walked in talking to her phone, probably unaware of the tension in the room.

Not wanting to catch her attention, and also too pissed off to do anything else, Sunny walked out straight to the lobby, catching Jimin waiting for a car there. He looked over to her and they made eye contact for a few seconds before looking away like they hadn’t seen each other, before parting ways.

She had never felt the end of her family so close as that day.

…

“Can I talk to you?” Yoongi asked sitting in front of her, ironically, on the same table, they were when they had the argument two days prior.

“Sure” She mumbled locking her phone and looking around. The few people around made her feel safe, and Suga knew that, making him feel bad for snapping at her.

“I’m cutting to the chase because I don’t think either of us has the energy to deal with more than we already are,” He said and took a deep breath “I’m sorry for saying those things to you. The producing team had a meeting that day, and they told me I should step back from work for a few days, so I guess I got insecure and was stupid enough to let it out on you. I should not have done that”

“All you said seemed sincere enough for it to be a spur of the moment” Sunny arched an eyebrow “Did you think about that for a long time? Would it make things better for you if I wasn’t on the picture?”

“No, it wouldn’t.” He answered instantly but waited a few seconds to explain himself better “I’m going to be honest, I used to think those things when you first joined us. Not the success part, but the attention going to you when we had worked longer. I don’t think like that anymore, but the whole situation must have dug out those thoughts”

“Oppa, I’m sorry I made you feel like that” She sighed

“We know it has nothing to do with you” He comforted her and they sat in silence for a few minutes. “I think we all need a break”

“Yeah, me too” She mumbled picking up her things so they could go to the meeting together, “Do you think we’ll get over this?”

“I hope so.” Yoongi sighed and they moved to meet the other six members. “We did spoil you too much though?”

“W-why?” Sunny said with wide eyes, ready for him to blow up again.

“We go through a crisis and your instinct is to act like nothing is going on,” He said and started laughing “Talking about carpets and curtains, what were you thinking?”

226 notes · View notes

lils-writes-stuff · 4 years

Text

The Company

spencer reid x reader

Summary: When Derek’s presumed dead cousin turns up again the reader can’t help but feel guilty .

warnings: normal criminal minds things,

A/N: based on season 7 episode 20; this one was hard to write ngl

The warm shower water flowed through Y/N hair as she lazily ran her hands over it to rinse out the conditioner. The feeling of relief as she stood underneath the water made her sigh happily. When she stepped out, she wrapped a purple towel around her body and blow-dried her hair.

Stepping out of the bathroom, she grabbed her outfit that laid on her bed, a white tank paired with a taupe colored cardigan and some black pants. She did her makeup as normal and headed to the BAU office.

When she walked in, the atmosphere’s normal busy self greeted her. She smiled, for no particular reason, just a smile that made her feel good. Today was a good day, no clouds, just a bright sun that made her feel good.

“You seem perky, did something good happen?” Penelope’s sudden question as she approached beside Y/N made her jump. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” the woman apologized.

“No, it’s okay, I seem perky just because I have a smile?” She laughed as she spoke.

“Smiles in here are rare as you know, so I can only assume that something grand has happened to you,” she explained. “Which is a contradiction to Derek.”

“What happened with Derek?” Y/N asked. Whatever smile she had was gone as she felt concerned for her friend.

“This is the part I tell you that you have a case, and are to head to the jet right now,” Penelope said, a sheepish smile on her face.

Y/N’s head fell back, truly she was hoping today she got to catch up on some paperwork. But she felt guilty for her selfishness as she walked towards the elevator ready to help Derek with whatever he needed.

When she got in the elevator she pulled out her phone and called Spencer.

“Hi,” Spencer said, answering the phone.

“Hey, are you at the jet?”

“Yeah, I just got here, I was about to call you to ask where you were,” he said, confessing his actions that she had beaten him too.

“I’m on my way there now.”

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

“So your cousin fled Chicago eight years ago because a co-worker was stalking her?” Emily asked Derek on the phone.

The team, minus Derek, sat on the jet as they went over what little they had on the case of Derek’s missing Cousin. Who had been presumed dead for the last year.

“Yeah, a guy named John Hitchens,” Derek answered. “Cindi and Yvonne came to me and asked me if they should be worried, her emails and phone logs showed classic stalker behavior.”

“Multiple messages every hour, gifts he sent which she later returned, that would enrage a stalker,” Spencer said as he looked over the file.

“But until they become violent, they are smart enough to skirt the law,” Y/N said, reading over the file in hand. Her mind traveled back to when she could feel Caroline’s eyes on her. While she sat in a lecture, or at a coffee shop, she could feel her eyes bore into her skull. She began to feel sympathetic for Cindi as she related to her.

“Human resources at the investment bank wouldn’t do anything and Chicago P.D. couldn’t. So Yvonne and I convinced Cindi to move. She contacted us from Charleston on her way to Savannah and then she was gone,” Derek explained.

“And Hitchens blew his brain out two weeks later in Chicago,” Emily added from what she read in the file.

“And that was enough for local P.D. to conclude that he killed her?” Y/N’s voice spoke with question.

“Except for one major detail, we never found the body. If his endgame was suicide, he wasn’t organized enough to dispose of the body that permanently,” Derek continued. “That’s why I never stopped looking, I just never thought she’d surface right back here in Chicago.”

“We need to reopen both cases. Both Hitchen’s suicide and Cindi’s disappearance, the discrepancies in each will explain her current behavior,” Hotch said. “Morgan, I need to talk to you when we land.”

“Can’t wait.” Derek hung up the phone and the team looked over the files.

When the team landed they drove to the police station immediately to begin their work. Officers pulled old boxes from the case and Y/N and Spencer began to put the pictures up on the board.

“Detective Palmer, what do you have?” Rossi asked as the detective walked up to them.

“I wish we had more to give you,” Palmer spoke as he watched the two put what little evidence they had on the boards. “You know how missing person cases are.”

“Actually, there’s a lot more here then you would think,” Y/n said after placing a photo of Cindi on the board.

“These-” Spencer held up a picture as he placed it on the board- “were found in Hitchens apartment after the suicide. Some were blown up from the original film stock,” he explained as he taped another photo to the board.

“So if Hitchens took them, he didn’t zoom in. He's an old school shutterbug,” Emily said looking at Spencer.

“Reid and Y/N, look into Hitchens photographic background, even eight years ago most people had gone digital,” Hotch said, prompting the two to give thumbs-ups as a response.

“The gun Hitchens used to kill himself was traced to this dealer.” Rossi pointed to the picture of the man on the board.

“A local guy, completely by the book, no record,” Palmer said to him.

“The 44 was the only gun in Hitchens’ possession, that’s a big gun to kill yourself with,” JJ said, her face contorting with the end of her statement.

“We should talk to the dealer, figure out what his mindset was when he bought it,” Hotch said.

Rossi nodded his head and then to JJ telling her to come with him as they left the station.

----------

Derek stared at the boards with the pictures on them intently. Listening to the words of those around him as they said what was found on Cindi.

Y/N couldn’t help but feel guilty, knowing what this was like for her friends when Caroline was tormenting and hiding her away. She couldn’t think about herself right now though, she had to focus. Derek needed the team, his family needed them, and she wasn’t going to let these little bottled up feelings obstruct that.

“So Cindi had two stalkers,” Derek said as he turned to those behind him.

“No, only one,” Y/N corrected.

“Ford fits the profile better than Hitchens,” Rossi explained.

“Ford had multiple assault and harassment charges, all filed by ex-girlfriends and random women he met,” JJ embellished on what Rossi said.

“And Garcia found credit card purchases for black and white photographic equipment for Ford,” Spencer added, relaying the information he and Y/N found.

“So this guy killed Hitchens and then set him up.” Derek’s voice was stern and certain as he came to the realization.

“Behaviorally, it would make sense,” Emily replied.

“If Ford was stalking you cousin, he would have seen Hitchens as competition probably,” Y/N continued the thought.

“So he kills him and he puts the photos to throw off your investigation,” Emily concluded.

“Hotch, I want to bring this guy in and question him personally,” Derek said, turning to Hotch.

“Garcia just sent us the address,” Hotch replied.

Y/N waited from a distance as Hotch spoke to Derek. When Hotch had finished she walked up to Derek.

“Hey, Morgan, listen I just want you to know I’m here for you, you know if you need to talk?” She looked at him with promising eyes, her hands wringing together from an old habit.

He smiled at her with his charming smile. “Thanks, wonder woman, let’s go.”

The team walked away from the boards and got ready to go confront Malcolm Ford.

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

“FBI!” Derek’s voice bombed through the house as they entered it.

Y/N followed behind Spencer as they walked up the stairs of the house to make sure the second floor was clear. Spencer walked into what looked to be the master and Y/N into the guest room. The room looked like it had never been touched, dust covering almost every item making her want to sneeze.

“It’s clear here!” Derek’s voice was slightly muffled from him being downstairs.

“Clear.” JJ’s voice was heard next.

“Clear,” Spencer’s voice said from the room next to Y/N.

“Clear,” Y/N said, holstering her gun and walking out of the room to follow Spencer downstairs.

“House is empty, but there’s evidence of a woman living here,” Spencer said as he and Y/N entered the living room.

Derek crouched in front of the fireplace, taking out a pair of gloves and reaching for the little remains of paper in the fireplace.

“Looks like they both packed up in a hurry,” JJ said.

“They were trying to cover their tracks,” Y/N said as she looked at the half-burnt paper Derek was holding up.

“What the hell is she doing with this guy?” Derek said inspecting the paper in his hand. His eyes were sad, as he felt guilt and sorrow for his cousin.

“I’ll call everyone else,” JJ said walking out of the room and pulling out her phone.

When everyone else arrived, Y/N sat next to Spencer in front of the fireplace, pulling out the bits and pieces of the paper that was left out.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Spencer said to detective Palmer as he picked up a headbox they had found and examined it.

Y/N turned her head to watch as Derek approached the man.

“What is it?” Palmer asked.

“It’s a- um, it’s a headbox,” Y/N answered. Her voice tone was uncomfortable as she knew what they were used for.

“He would take my cousin’s head-” Derek picked up the box and opened it- “and put it through the hole, and then he’d…” he pushed the box to close, showing how the latches would be retracted on themselves.

Y/N shook her head at the thought of someone being put through that. She looked over to Spencer to get her mind off it and watched as he stood up, intently reading a piece of burnt paper.

“Morgan, we need to deliver a profile,” Spencer said as he continued to read the burnt paper.

“Why, Reid?” Derek asked sternly.

Y/N then walked closer to Spencer to look at the paper. Her gloved covered hands reaching for it hesitantly before Spencer handed it to her and pointed to the part he had been inspecting.

“We know who the unsub is,” Derek continued.

“No, he’s right,” Y/N said agreeing with Spencer as she handed the paper back to Spencer for him to show Derek.

“We need to deliver the profile.” He showed the paper to Derek.

Derek grabbed the paper from Spencer’s hand, reading what the two had already done. The words yelling at him on the paper, telling of the acts his cousin was forced to be a part of and something else called the company.

“Let’s head back to the station,” Y/N said, prompting the two men to follow her out and to the cars.

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

“After eight years in captivity at the hands of Malcolm Ford, we believe Cindi Burns’ ego has been shattered,” Y/N said as she began the profile.

“As a result, he could afford to give her some degree of freedom and trust that she would stay with him,” Emily continued.

“Which is why it’s going to be very difficult to get Cindi away from her captor,” Hotch explained. “We believe she’s suffering an extreme form of Stockholm syndrome.”

The officers in the room took notes diligently while they listened.

“Like Patty Hearst in the seventies, where she ended up robbing banks with her captor because of her Stockholm syndrome,” Y/N continued, giving an example that would hopefully be sufficient.

“Only this is worse, Ford has gotten Cindi to believe in something called the company,” Rossi said.

“What’s the company?” One of the officers asked, raising their hand politely.

“It’s a sadomasochistic role-play scenario, a game, essentially, in which a cabal of men tells their submissives they can trade their slaves at their whim. If you displease your master or try to escape, the company will find you, kill you, and kill your family, ” Spencer answered.

“The voluntary submissives understand that it’s just a fantasy, but Malcolm Ford has gotten Cindi to believe it’s real.” Hotch’s eyes scanned over the crowd as he spoke. Faces contorted in disgust and concern from the words of the profile.

“How?” Palmer asked.

“By making her sign a slave contract.” Y/N shuddered at her own words. The feeling of sorrow rising in her again for Cindi.

“The documentation we’ve found on the company informs our profile and will inform your manhunt,” Spencer began. “Because it might point you to where Malcolm Ford is now.”

“The language on their contract speaks of an underground network, which tells us that he has a few men he trusts,” JJ continued.

“Which means that what started as an S&M game could now be a ring,” Rossi said.

“Thank you.” The officers and others walked away to get back to their work. Y/N turned to Spencer, her lips pursed as she looked at him with the expression he knew all too well by now.

“Don’t feel guilty,” he told her. His voice wasn’t stern, but it was strong in a comforting way.

“I don’t think it’s guilt, I feel for her, I mean-” she looked around to see if anyone was in ears reach of her and Spencer- “I was basically held captive by a stalker, I hid away from everyone for years, I just, I want to help her.” Her sentence finished with a huff, finally feeling like she could breathe.

“I know, it’s what makes you a great person, always wanting to help others.” His smile reassured her.

She placed her hands on her face, rubbing her cheeks to snap out of her funk and get back on the case.“Thanks, I needed that, let’s catch this son of a bitch.” He nodded in response as the two began to look over the documents again and find out all they could.

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

“Is he in there?” Y/N asked as she walked up next to JJ. They stood outside of the bullpen of the interrogation room, both waiting for Hotch who had texted them to meet him there.

“Yeah, I think he wants us to start the interrogation, throw him off his game,” JJ said, looking over to Y/N.

Y/N nodded, saying that she understood.

Hotch then walked out to them, his face as serious as normal. “I need you two to throw him off, he’s expecting Derek but we don’t want to give him what he wants or expects. Just make it seem casual okay?”

The two nodded and walked to the bullpen. Y/N grabbed the Minella folder from Rossi, silently thanking him with a nod.

“Just start talking, like how we do in the mornings.” JJ nodded as she waited for Y/N to nod for her to start as the officer opened the door.

“So when I get home and, of course, he’s still up past his bedtime,” JJ said, her hands going up as the two walked to the seats.

“Uh, reminds me of why I’m not married yet,” Y/N said, laughing as she took a seat next to JJ.

“Oh, well, neither am I, technically,” JJ said, correcting Y/N.

“Oh yeah,” she laughed. “You’re right.”

Y/N placed her elbow on the table, turning her head away from Malcolm in the seat as she looked at JJ.

“Do you guys ever--”

“Oh, no, I really don’t need a man to tell me what to do,” JJ said, cutting Y/N off.

“Yeah, well that’s why things between me and Spence work great.” The two laughed as they just chatted, ignoring the man on the opposite side of the table. “I mean he does his thing, I do mine, we don’t have any problems re--”

“Excuse me?” Malcolm said, cutting Y/N off.

“Shh,” Y/N said, holding her finger to her lips. “Uh, the adults are talking.” Y/N pointed between her and Y/N.

“When it’s your turn to speak, I’ll give you permission.” JJ used the words that he would as a tactic to throw him off. “Okay, so anyway…” JJ trailed off as the two began to talk again.

“Oh, yeah, any sleep?”

“Uh, no, of course not.” JJ laughed at her words while Y/N turned to the file letting out a noise of annoyance at the thought.

“What are we doing here anyway?” Y/N asked, opening the file on the table.

“Oh, yeah,” JJ said, turning completely forward to face Malcolm.

“Oh okay so, Mal, can I call you that, cause I’m going too, you want to confess now or just go straight to prison your choice really.” Y/N folded her hands together as she faced the man across the table.

“Look, my wife and I had a disagreement in that store-” Malcolm began but he was cut off by JJ.

“Whoa- wife?” JJ asked, her words fake to throw him off.

“You’re married?” Y/N’s lip turned up at the thought. “No, no, this is about John Hitchens, it looks like his suicide is more of a murder and the gun, it traces back to you.” She pointed to the man with her pen that she held.

Malcolm’s once cocky demeanor was now broken slightly, realizing what he thought he was here for.

The two waited for a response, seeing as he was silent, they made their next move.

“Okay, uh, let’s go talk to this wife,” JJ said, standing up from the table, Y/N following suit.

“I don’t know who this Hitchens person is, but if you had anything you’d charge me already,” Malcolm said. Y/N and JJ turned back to look at him as he spoke. “You’re here because of Cindi.”

“Caught us,” Y/N said shrugging her shoulders with a laugh.

“You know what?” JJ said pointing to Malcolm as she sat down again. “This is my favorite part. This is where you hang yourself with your own tongue. So, please keep talking.”

The two women sat poised in their seats as they looked at the man. Gentle smiles on their faces they had before gone as they now had serious ones.

“What are you doing here?” Malcolm asked JJ. “With a baby at home being raised by a man you’re not married to, what are you doing here.” His words were judgmental, but JJ kept a calm face.

“Well, its work. But we make it work,” JJ answered the man, her voice calm.

“Where’s Cindi?” Y/N asked.

“Huh, work, I know all about work,” Malcolm scuffed, ignoring the question. “Negotiating who does the dishes, fighting over who folds the laundry. Except for Cindi and I never fight, she knows her role.”

Y/N laughed lightly. “After you beat her into signing a contract,” her words were calm and collected, not wanting to show Malcolm he was truly enraging her.

“What we have is a bond you know nothing about,” he said, eyes looking directly at Y/N. “But I’ll tell you about it-” his head then turned to look at JJ- “if you ask permission.”

JJ let out a laugh through her nose, never breaking eye contact with Malcolm.

Y/N chuckled, grabbing the file on the table. “Come on,” she said, standing up from the table walking to the door.

She watched as JJ played her next move, staying seated at the table.

“You’re curious, aren’t you?” Malcolm asked her. “You want to know our secret.” His head nodded as he rocked in his chair.

JJ just sat there, not moving for a second, until she tapped her hand on the table and stood up and walked to the door. Y/N opened it and led the two of them out of the room.

“I wanted to rip his face off,” Y/N stated once the door was closed.

“Please, let me go back in there,” JJ asked Hotch as they walked to him by the mirror.

“No.” Hotch’s voice was stern with his answer.

“His guard is down, he thinks he can manipulate me,” JJ said, pointing to herself.

“We can’t give him what he wants,” Hotch reminded her. “We need to keep him off balance.”

“Then let me go in,” Derek said entering the room.

Y/N’s face softened as she saw Derek enter. He looked distraught that he didn’t find his cousin, but also determined as he pushed forward in doing so.

“I can get in his head.”

“The way he got into yours?” Rossi asked referring back to when they found Malcolm.

“Look, I know I have no right to ask this, but please just trust me. I can break him.” Derek’s words were mostly to Hotch as he looked at him.

Hotch nodded, allowing Derek to then walk into the room and begin his interrogation.

-----------

Y/N stood behind Emily and Spencer who sat across from Malcolm’s lawyer and Cindi, who was very much alive and serious. She watched her demeanor, trying to spot any changes in emotions or stance as they sat in the room.

“We’ve been clear that we would like all charges dropped,” the lawyer said. His nasally voice made Y/N want to punch him. One because he was defending the egotistical prick in the other room, and two, because his face annoyed her, and she couldn’t deal with his voice.

“We still have some questions about John Hitchens,” Y/N stated, placing her hands onto the back of Spencer's chair to lean on it.

“And Mr. Ford has explained that the gun that Hitchens used to shoot himself was stolen, he even filed a police report,” the lawyer retorted, making Y/N internally roll her eyes.

Her eyes went back to Cindi, who was just staring blankly at the ground.

“So, what else do you need to know?”

Cindi then made eye contact with Emily, but when Emily turned her head in question, Cindi’s eyes averted.

“That’ll be all,” Spencer said standing up. The lawyer and Cindi did so also and exited the room.

“Did you see that?” Y/N said to Emily in a whisper as they began to walk out of the room.

“Yeah, I did.” The three walked out of the room, looking over to Hotch who raised a brow. Emily shook her head in response to the question, telling him that something was up.

Y/N, Spencer, and Emily walked over to a desk where JJ sat and began to talk.

“Was there anything?” JJ asked, hoping it was something that they could use to keep him here.

“No, but something was off with Cindi,” Spencer said, sitting on the desk in front of him.

Y/N stood next to JJ as the four began to discuss something, but her attention was soon brought away as Malcolm was brought out of the holding room.

“Guys,” she whispered, getting their attention to Cindi as she walked up and kissed Malcolm. Their faces sat in shocked expressions at what just happened.

Their eyes followed as they grabbed each other's hands and walked towards the door.

“There’s gotta be something that’s keeping her with him,” Emily said as she turned to the others.

“Yeah, but what?” Spencer asked, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Wait!” Yvonne said as she saw the two.

“I can’t talk to you,” Cindi said, her eyes turning to Malcolm’s feet.

Malcolm then whispered something to Cindi along the lines of trusting her.

“Let me just-- let me just look at you,” Yvonne said, timidly approaching Cindi. When she approached, she had a smile of relief on her face, finally able to see her daughter after so long. Her hand reached up, and pulled down Cindi’s turtle neck, seeing all the different bruises all over.

“Oh,” Yvonne whimpered. “What has he done to you?”

“He loves me,” Cindi responded, pulling her collar back up onto her neck.

“You call that love?” Yvonne asked aggressively.

“I have to go,” Cindi turned, tears in her eyes clearly evident but she wouldn’t let them spill. “I have to make him dinner.”

“Make him dinner? Would that be the first thing you would say?” Y/N asked her colleagues.

They all shook their heads, knowing something was definitely up.

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

“We need to rethink the profile, this ain’t Stockholm,” Rossi said as they sat around the conference table.

“It could be battered wife syndrome,” Emily posed.

“No, it’s not,” Derek said.

“Morgan, the way that they hugged each other, I-I think she genuinely loves him,” JJ concluded from her observations, that fact.

“I’m telling you not the woman I know, she wouldn’t do that,” Derek defended his reasoning.

“Then what is it, Derek? Why would she behave that way?” Rossi asked him.

“She said she needed to cook dinner for him. Is that what you cook for your husband?” Derek held up the small can of spaghettios. He then showed it to JJ. “Would you make that for Will?”

“No, I might for Henry, though,” JJ answered.

“Exactly, when I was growing up, this is what Cindi and I ate, this exact brand,” Derek said, his voice strong as he came out with his thoughts. “Hotch, what did your mom make you for breakfast?”

“Oatmeal and orange juice,” Hotch answered.

“What do you make for Jack?”

“Oatmeal and orange juice.”

“Same brand?”

“Mm-hmm, yeah,” Hotch said, realizing what the conclusion Derek was coming through.

“So, she could have been cooking dinner, but not for Malcolm Ford,” Y/N said, her mind thinking the same thing.

“So are we saying we think they have children?” Emily asked.

“Yes, I do,” Derek answered. Y/N nodded in agreement as she thought the same thing.

“We didn’t profile that, there’s no evidence of one in the home or their lives,” Spencer said.

“Unless, Malcolm keeps the child hidden from Cindi to keep her in line,” Y/N contoured as she gave it more thought.

“That fits the profile,” JJ embellished.

“It’s a stretch,” Rossi stated, unsure of what they were claiming.

“It’s the only theory that would explain her behavior,” Derek said looking at Rossi.

“All right, Morgan,” Hotch said, bringing everyone’s attention to him. “Prove it.”

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

The sirens were loud as the team and S.W.A.T. pulled up to the cabin where Derek found they kids were being held from the lawyer. When they hopped out of the cars, Derek went around front to go look for Cindi and the kids.

JJ and Y/N went around back to go see if anyone was back there.

“You get anything JJ,” Y/N whispered to her as they stood in the woods behind the house.

She shook her head, but then her eyes went wide as she heard movement and Derek yelling Cindi’s name.

“Come on, baby, talk to me, Cindi, it’s Derek,” Derek’s voice said. JJ and Y/N stayed back hidden behind a tree, not wanting to be seen by Malcolm.

They heard the struggles of Derek as he was grabbed by Malcolm, his gun flying across the forest floor. Y/N flinched to go help, but JJ stopped her and told her Derek had it. He did, but then Cindi’s voice was heard along with the unlocking of the safety on a gun.

“Stop!” Cindi commanded Derek who was throwing blows at Malcolm.

“Cindi, wait,” Derek said calmly, holding his hand up to her. “He’s gotten you to believe in a lie, the company is not real.” His voice was pleading to her as he tried to make her believe him.

“I know, Derek, step aside,” Cindi said, moving the gun with the light on it to the side.

Dere stood up from over Malcolm’s unconscious body, grabbing the gun in Cindi’s hand. He pulled the gun away from her, sad eyes now rejoiceful as he saw his cousin how he knew her.

“Let’s go home.” Derek’s voice was soft, but still strong.

Malcolm then quickly stood up, but JJ and Y/N were quick to step in front of him. Guns aimed and ready to shoot if necessary.

“Hi,” JJ said with a smirk.

“Malcolm Ford,” Y/N said, holstering her gun then grabbing out her handcuffs. “You’re under arrest for kidnapping, child endangerment, and the murder of John Hitchens.” The whole time Y/N was arresting Malcolm, his eyes never left JJ.

The two women grabbed each one of his arms and began guiding him to the car to take him back to the station.

“So, um…” JJ began. “Can you tell me that secret now?”

When they got back to the station, Y/N walked in happily and went to talk to Spencer.

“This is what makes it all better in the end,” Y/N said, watching a Cindi and her mom reunited. She laid the side of her head on Spencer’s arm who leaned on the desk next to her. Smile on her face as she got to watch the happy moment.

“It is,” Spencer agreed. His eyes panned down to her on his arm, being able to relax knowing she felt better now and didn’t feel guilt. “You know you can’t feel guilty in every stalker case, you couldn’t help what happened with you.”

Y/N sighed, knowing he was right and that she shouldn't but sometimes she couldn’t help it. “I know, but there’s always gonna be a piece of a case I relate too, some more than others.”

Spencer leaned down and kissed the top of her head. A silent reassurance that he understood what she was saying and he accepted it.

Y/N smiled at the feeling of his warmth. She felt content at that moment, like nothing could break it. And nothing would, but as things work out, good moments can only last so long.

Tag List (let me know if you want to be added!!):

@throughparisallthroughrome @word-scribbless @nintendumbfuck @confused-and-really-hungry @justine-en @andiebeaword @itsarayofsunshine @baby-i-am-fireproof @abitofeverythinggg @nanocoool @marceline-is-my-spirit-animal @fancyfaucet @im-a-raging-gay @atletino @mo-whore @peterparkersdestiny @bandsandjill @mbowles23-blog @sarcasm-n-insomnia @citrussirus @nerual222 @april-14-blog @reidloversisforever

#spencer reid imagine #spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid series #criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds meme #aaron hotchner #aaron hotch hotchner #derek morgan #derek morgan imagine #Matthew Gray Gubler

265 notes · View notes

dustedmagazine · 3 years

Text

Derek Taylor 2020: We’re Still Here

That’s about the best that can be said for a year that pulled out nearly every stop in a surging sea change to calamity, adversity and tragedy. The number of people lost to a pandemic that now stands steadfast as a monument to the true meaning of American Exceptionalism as the epitome of empathy-eradicating self-interest is enough to negate even the noblest efforts at laughing to keep from crying. Musicians and music persisted though, even in a severely altered performance landscape of shuttered venues and virtual concerts. And recorded offerings new and archival remained plentiful.

When so much about the present feels like a sprint backwards, societally, environmentally and across multiple other measures, music reliably endures as a means for finding both meaning and footing in the world. What follows are 20 capsule vignettes describing selections from the sea of albums circulated this year that kept me afloat, followed by 25 more in list form that did the same. Thank you for reading and thanks for sticking with us.

Paul Desmond — The Complete 1975 Toronto Recordings (Mosaic)

Given the magnitude of hardship this year’s wrought on living musicians, it may appear a bit perverse to lead this list with a dead one. Even so, this immersive set’s become an old reliable when it comes to achieving aurally-sourced solace. Desmond, the arch and affluent altoist, leaning into a Canadian club residency with ace sidemen while making good on his gentleman’s agreement with absent Dave Brubeck to abstain from piano accompaniment. The leader’s lady-killer instincts are assiduously evident in the amorously-oriented song choices as his dulcet, tranquilizing tone seduces and delights, night after night.

Chris Dingman — Peace (Inner Arts)

An intensely personal project where abundancy of content arose not out of ambition but rather necessity and is made all the more affecting for it. Dingman designed and played the nearly six hours of solo vibraphone music on this set for his hospice-sequestered father with sole purpose of providing comfort and calm. Reflection after his parent’s passing moved him to release it into the world with the hope that it could do the same for others. Intention accomplished.

Joe McPhee — Black Is the Color (Corbett vs. Dempsey)

It’s been a distressing year for nearly everyone, but particularly for McPhee, who lost his brother Charlie to illness. Even amidst ongoing emotional tumult, his fecundity felt undiminished. AC/DC on the British OtoROKU label offers another entry with the English organ trio Decoy. Of Things Beyond Thule, Vol. 2 is a smashing CD sequel to its vinyl predecessor with Dave Rempis, Tomeka Reid, Brandon Lopez and Paal Nilssen-Love comprising the super group. A reissue of the seminal She Knows… with Scandinavian power trio The Thing on the Ezz-thetics label and Black is the Color compiling early concert material in surprisingly sharp fidelity from the Corbett vs. Dempsey imprint cover the archival end of things.

Sonny Rollins — Rollins in Holland (Resonance)

The Saxophone Colossus holding court with Dutch compatriots in 1967. Most conspicuous is daredevil drummer Han Bennink, who even at this early stage straddles swing to European Free Jazz from behind his kit. Rollins shifts between comparatively pithy studio salvos and effusive concert excursions that once again cement his supremacy in the strenuous realm of long form improvisation. Seven decades as a musician makes for a bank vault-sized cache of bootlegs, but this one, refurbished and authorized remains something special.

Stephen Riley — Friday the 13th (Steeplechase)

Like McPhee, Riley’s a perennial resident of my pantheon. This date realized a long-standing wish to hear him in the company of cornetist Kirk Knuffke backed by the freeing simplicity of bass and drums. Both men have aerated, instantly recognizable tones and pliancy in phrasing that provides practically endless possibilities in tandem. Riley’s also instrumental as featured guest on Pierre Dørge’s Bluu Afroo, a slightly preemptive Ruby Anniversary celebration of guitarist’s multinational New Jungle Orchestra.

Sam Rivers — Ricochet & Braids (No Business)

The auspicious launch of a Sam Rivers archival series last year was among the Lithuanian No Business label’s greatest achievements. Two more seminal entries came down the pike in 2020: Ricochet featuring Dave Holland and Barry Altschul of particularly fine vintage, and Braids spotlighting another pivotal Rivers ensemble in Hamburg with low brass wizard Joe Daley. There are four more to go, which should target the end of 2022 for the series’ completion.

James Brandon Lewis — Live at Willisau & Molecular (Intakt)

Lewis is the type of compelling artist tapped for accolades like Down Beat’s Rising Star award, despite having been active as an accomplished improviser for over a decade. Delayed exposure is common collateral to a career path in improvised music though, and the saxophonist hasn’t let slow-to-cotton critics slow him down a bit. A deal inked with the Swiss Intakt imprint has so far yielded Live at Willsau, which finds him in fiery duo with Chad Taylor, and Molecular, a studio venture with an all-star quartet that will hopefully become a working band again in 2021.

Susan Alcorn — Pedernal (Relative Pitch)

Pedal steel may feel like a nascent voice in improvised music, but in actuality Susan Alcorn and her peers have been plying it as a viable vehicle for some time. While Pedernal is somewhat perplexingly her first album as clear-cut leader, impediments to an earlier debut seem inconsequential given the ample amount of thought and design evident in the end product. Strings wielded by Michael Formanek, Mary Halvorson and Mark Feldman weave with the wide gamut of Alcorn’s aqueous sonorities across intricate pieces further stamped by Ryan Sawyer’s peripatetic drums. The results are at once daring and distinguished.

John Scofield — Swallow Tales (ECM)

ECM has an enviably accomplished record when it comes to matching the austerity and formality of its sound design to artists’ objectives. Case in point this stark, but not standoffish trio set that’s as much (electric) bassist Steve Swallow’s offspring as it is Scofield’s. Drummer Stewart is the third point in the triangle, but he sagely defers to his elders, leaving them to a dance of differently gauged strings that expertly balances motion and space.

Corbett vs. Dempsey

John Corbett is emblematic of that rare breed of music monomaniac who balances obsessiveness with altruistic generosity. He’s personally responsible for bringing dozens of rare and classic recordings back into circulation, first through the fondly remembered Unheard Music Series and more recently via the CvD concern. This year, another stack was added to that sum with Milford Graves & Don Pullen’s The Complete Yale Concert 1966 (including the rarified Nommo), Alexander von Schlippenbach’s Three Nails Left, Tetterettet by the ICP Tentet, Peter Kowald’s self-titled FMP debut as a leader and the madcap New Acoustic Swing Duo from Willem Breuker and Han Bennink as standouts.

Whit Boyd Combo — Party Girls & Dracula (the Dirty Old Man) (Modern Harmonic)

Vintage skin flick soundtracks have rarely if ever received an even-handed shake in terms of relative artistic merits. Tarred with the same smut brush as the visuals they were constructed to accompany, they’re routinely viewed as just as disposable. The Whit Boyd Combo doesn’t exactly dispel this dictum, but it does lay down some funky and at times refreshingly fractious freewheeling horns over organ, bass, and drums driven beats on this late-60s session tape excavated by the folks at Modern Harmonic. The companion Dracula (the Dirty Old Man) isn’t quite on par, but it’s still a solid vessel for competently crafted fossilized grooves.

Robbie Basho — Songs of the Avatars (Tompkins Square)

Real Gone Music whet the appetite earlier this year with the release of Songs of the Great Mystery, a “lost session” from Basho’s tenure at the Vanguard label. Songs of the Avatars ups the ante substantially by granting outsider access to a six-hour survey of the dearly departed fingerstyle guitarist’s personal tape trove. The aural riches are ample and include Basho exploring familiar proclivities (Indian, Native American and Japanese interpolations) alongside unexpected new ones (ballet and cantata) with passion and conviction to burn along the way.

Jimi Hendrix — Live in Maui (Experience Hendrix)

Posthumous Hendrix is a seemingly inexhaustible resource as each year repackaged and repurposed treasures are released into the marketplace. Fortunately, familial heirs are the ones doing the sowing and this lavish set documenting musical and extra-musical particulars of the icon’s reluctant conscription into cosmic hippie scam does right by him. Given the windswept conditions near the Haleakala Crater it’s a minor miracle that he, Billy Cox and Mitch Mitchell mesh as well as they do, and while the footage included can be frustrating in its fragmentary presentation, it’s still a thrill to see and hear them jamming in amiable and ebullient form.

Joe Maneri, Udi Hrant & Friends — The Cleopatra Record (Canary)

Details on this one could easily serve as grist for a credible short film screenplay with perhaps Jim Jarmusch directing. Brooklyn, 1963: A group of marginalized ethnic musicians relegated to playing wedding gigs gets conscripted for an afternoon recording session. The cheaply packaged and provincially distributed results are destined for the anonymity of dime store cut out bins. Except that the band includes two geniuses: Joe Maneri, who would go on to become a master microtonal improviser/composer and Udi Hrant Kenkulian, one of most revered modern doyens of the Turkish oud. Available over at Bandcamp for a pittance.

Ayalew Mesfin — Good Aderegechegn, Che Belew and Tewedije Limut (Now Again)

Adding up Buda Musique’s 30-volume Ethiopiques series and a host of other more modest enterprises, it’s obvious that there’s never been more access to vintage Ethiopian music than now. This trilogy of discs from the Now Again label covering vocalist/keyboardist/bandleader Ayalew Mesfin’s catalog restores one of the last untapped reservoirs to circulation. Tight horns, choppy, fuzz and wah-wah drenched guitars and chugging bass fuel dance floor burners while Mesfin’s pipes work memorable magic on a string of melancholic, melismatic ballads.

Kent & Modern Records Blues into the 60s, Vol. 1 & 2 (Ace)

Ace’s appellation as a music label of enviable reach and import has never been an erroneous assignation. This pair of compilations investigates the urban, but far from urbane, blues scene surrounding Los Angeles as documented by the Kent label in the 1960s. Comparatively longer-in-tooth legends like T-Bone Walker and Big Jay McNeely jockey with younger, fame hungry artists like Larry Davis and Little Joe Blue in negotiating a West Coast argot that’s heavy on electricity channeled through guitars and organs. McNeely’s ripping “Blues in G Minor” is one of several snarling sonic wolves in non-descript sheep’s titling.

V/A — A Stranger I May Be: Savoy Gospel 1954-1986 (Honest Jons)

This astutely-sequenced set stands out in the particularly plentiful playing field of this year’s gospel reissues. The mighty Savoy label started out as a jazz venture before branching out into other African American musical idioms. The compilers at Honest Jons parse the program chronologically across three-discs and leave the heavy-lifting of context and artists biography to a lengthy essay. Choirs, ensembles, bands, and moonlighting R&B singers all make appearances directing their talents to devotional and invocational celebrations of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost.

Sun Ra

One of the highlight roundtables at Dusted this year was a Listening Post ruminating on the Sun Ra Arkesta with and sans Ra on the occasion of the band’s new release Swirling. I got to play the (hopefully uncharacteristic) part of curmudgeon in those exchanges principally because while I respect the ensemble’s longevity absent their lodestar leader, there’s still an explicit void extant that tends to eclipse my actual interest. The Ra reissue docket for 2020, which included excellent editions of Celestial Love and A Fireside Chat with Lucifer from Modern Harmonic, When Angels Speak of Love on Cosmic Myth, Heliocentric Worlds, Vols. 1 and 2 from Ezz-thetics, and Strut’s Egypt 1971, which collects Dark Myth Equation Visitation, Nidhamu and Horizon alongside a bevy of contemporaneous unreleased recordings, only bolstered the bias.

Fresh Sound Records

Still the standard for thoughtfully and lavishly curated jazz reissues, Barcelona-based Fresh Sound kept commensurately prolific pace throughout the year. Gary Peacock - The Beginnings surveys the recently deceased bassist’s early work as a versatile California-stationed sideman. Remembering does similar service to rare concert recordings by Belgian guitarist Rene Thomas while The Complete 1961 Milano Sessions offers truth in advertising by compiling woodwind savant Buddy Collette’s sojourn on Italian shores with (mostly) indigenous sidemen.

V/A — Sumer is Icumenin (Grapefruit)

An overdue sequel to Dust on the Nettles (2015), which apparently commands on princely sums on Discogs these days, this set encompasses 4+ hours of cherry-picked vintage British freak folk. Second helpings from stalwarts of the style such as Comus, Steeleye Span and Fairport Convention join Albion offerings from obscurants like Vulcan’s Hammer, Mr. Fox and Oberon in celebrating the weird crossroads of ancient Britannic and 1960s counterculture influences. The cant is more to The Wicker Man side of the spectrum with Magnet’s bucolic canticle “Corn Rigs” the ringer in that regard.

Twenty-five more in mostly stochastic order:

Aruán Ortiz - Inside Rhythmic Falls (Intakt)

Brandon Seabrook/Cooper-Moore/Gerald Cleaver — Exultations (Astral Spirits)

Cecil Taylor & Tony Oxley — Birdland, Neuberg 2011 (Fundacja Sluchaj)

Horace Tapscott w/ the Pan Afrikan Peoples Arkestra — Ancestral Echoes: The Covina Sessions, 1976 (Dark Tree)

Damon Smith — Whatever is Not Stone is Light (Balance Point Acoustics)

Frank Lowe & Rashied Ali — Duo Exchange: Complete Sessions (Survival)

Dudu Pukwana — and the “Spears” (Matsuli Music)

Mary Halvorson’s Code Girl — Artlessly Falling (Firehouse 12)

Burton Greene — Peace Beyond Conflict (Birdwatcher)

Albert Ayler — Trio 1964: Prophecy Revisited (Ezz-thetics)

JD Allen — Toys/Die Dreaming (Savant)

Charles Mingus — At Bremen 1964 and 1975 (Sunnyside)

The Warriors of the Wonderful Sound — Soundpath (Clean Feed)

Kidd Jordan/Joel Futterman/Alvin Fielder — Spirits (Silkheart)

Roland Haynes — 2nd Wave (Black Jazz)

Quin Kirchner — The Shadows and the Light (Astral Spirits)

Thelonious Monk — Palo Alto (Universal/Impulse)

Black Unity Trio — Al-Fatihah (Salaam Records/Gotta Groove)

Gary Smulyan — Our Contrafacts (Steeplechase)

Joni Mitchell — Archives Vol. 1: The Early Years (1963-1967 (Rhino)

Elder Charles Beck — Your Man of Faith (Gospel Friend)

Sarhabil Ahmed — King of Sudanese Jazz (Habibi Funk)

V/A – The Right to Rock: The Mexicano and Chicano Rock ‘n’ Roll Rebellion 1955-1963, Episodio Uno (Bear Family)

V/A – Hillbillies in Hell: Country Music’s Tormented Testament (1952-1974) ~ Revelations (The Omni Recording Corporation)

V/A — The Harry Smith B-Sides (Dust to Digital)

15 notes · View notes

dimigex · 3 years

Text

Healing Hands Chapter Six (YamaSaku)

Chapter six is finally available! You can find the full story here on AO3 and FF as well, but here’s a snippet (more below the cut).

As Sakura navigated the darkened streets toward the hospital, she took stock of how much she'd had to drink. The truth in Kazuko's words rankled more than she cared to admit, both the implication that what they'd been doing was a mistake, and that Sakura needed to sober up before using medical ninjutsu. True, she'd drunk a couple of beers and as many shots over the night, but hours had passed since then. She didn't feel impaired, but his accusation was worth considering.

As irritating as it was, Kazuko had a point. Sakura could be needed at any moment for Anbu. If she were well and truly under the influence, someone would die on her watch. There was no one else to shoulder the burden of caring for the worst injuries. Sakura didn't have a backup waiting in the wings like Tsunade had. Vaguely, she wondered how her mentor had balanced her love of sake with her responsibilities.

Ignoring the question for now, Sakura slipped into the serene lobby of the hospital. The difference in the atmosphere between when she'd left earlier and now couldn't have been more pronounced if someone had staged it. The frenetic pace of doctors and nurses rushing into rooms had diminished to quiet footsteps and softly beeping machines. The staff were more likely to be gathered around the desk than the exam rooms, while their patients, no longer in need of urgent care, slept. No where near the urgent environment she expected to find.

Though Sakura knew that she wouldn't have been paged for a minor injury, she felt a stab of annoyance after the day she'd had. Hurrying through the halls at a clipped pace, she spoke to no one, intent on her destination. The walk had sobered Sakura further, and the memory of what had almost happened between herself and Kazuko kept trying to push to the forefront of Sakura's mind. She quashed down the questions as a problem to solve another day. Sakura couldn't deal with the fall out from Kazuko; tonight, she had an injured shinobi to take care of.

The near silence that permeated the shinobi wing made the skin on Sakura's arms rise in gooseflesh. On the other floors, there was a constant hustle and bustle of patients and nurses throughout the evening. Here, it was silent as death. When Sakura had left for the day, none of the beds had been occupied. Now, there was at least one critical patient. Brilliant fluorescent light beckoned from the end of the hallway.

Pausing, Sakura drew a deep breath and released her worries about Kazuko and what might be on the other side of that door. She had trained for this. Only the patient mattered; there was no room for more mistakes. After removing every ounce of emotion from her features, Sakura pushed the door inward.

There were three people in the room, but Sakura only had eyes for her patient. An unfamiliar woman stared back from the bed, surprisingly conscious; that was a good sign. A shock of bright green hair fell across her face, partially obscuring unfocused, golden eyes. She swiped the strands away and grimaced. Chiasa, one of the few nurses assigned to Anbu, stood beside the bed prepping an IV line. Bags of fluid awaited Sakura's approval.

"Haruno-sensei," the familiarity in the rough voice surprised Sakura. She turned to the third person in the room, frowning as gloved hands came up to remove the porcelain cat mask. Sakura missed a step, stumbling over open air when she recognized Yamato.

The spattering of blood across Yamato's chest plate warned Sakura that the man had been in battle. Even so, she wasn't prepared for the mess beneath his mask. Yamato's left eye was swollen almost completely shut, angry red streaks darkening toward purple on the skin. A gash followed the curve of his prominent cheekbone, ending in a busted lip. Dried blood flaked from his chin.

Sakura nearly reached toward the man, then caught herself. If Yamato had been the reason that she'd been called to the hospital, he would be the one in bed. Shaking off her surprise, Sakura tossed her bag onto the small table beside the nurse and dug out her stethoscope. "What do we have?"

"Concussive injuries," Chiasa answered, taping off the needle she'd inserted into the woman's wrist. Sakura spared a single glance for Yamato, curious why he hadn't been the one to speak. "Splintered wrist, probable internal bleeding."

"'m fine," the woman on the bed mumbled, golden eyes glaring over Sakura's shoulder at Yamato. She fought into a sitting position, body swaying with the movement. "'didn't need to come."

Stepping forward, Sakura placed a hand on the girl's shoulder and guided her back to the bed with as little force as possible. "I'll be the judge of that," she interrupted. "Now, do you know where you are?"

"Obviously at the hospital," the girl snipped. The anger previously directed at Yamato shifted to Sakura, and fire entered the woman's voice even though she looked one strong breeze from falling over. "I know that my name is Saiyo. Go ahead, and hold up your fingers. I can do that trick too."

"Saiyo," Yamato warned, but Sakura waved him away. This was far from her first time dealing with recalcitrant patients. She'd treated Kakashi after all. Rather than meeting Saiyo's sarcasm, Sakura accepted a pen light from the nurse. After a grudging nod, Sakura thumbed the woman's eyelids wider..Her pupils were sluggish, but they responded to the light's influence and shrunk as they should have.

Sakura nodded to herself, that too was a good sign. "How long has it been since she was injured?"

Chiasa remained silent, so Sakura turned back to Yamato. The man paused the drumming of fingers against thigh and glanced at the clock. "Approximately twelve hours."

Frowning, Sakura studied Saiyo. Except for the poorly splinted and wrapped wrist, the girl looked in far better shape than Yamato. At least, on the surface. The fact that Saiyo was conscious and presumably walking after the injury was another good sign. "Did she lose consciousness?"

"She is sitting right here," Saiyo groused, pushing back into a sitting position to glare at Sakura. The movement jostled her injured arm, and the girl winced. "You don't have to talk over my head. You can talk to me."

"Would you know if you'd lost consciousness?" Sakura asked, failing to keep the annoyance from her voice. She'd had one hell of a day already, and she didn't particularly feel like convincing an entitled brat that she needed medical care. "I assumed that your captain would have been able to view the situation more clearly than you might have."

Saiyo scoffed under her breath. "I'm Anbu, not some genin too busy mooning after a boy to do my job. I don't need someone to watch my back."

Memories of Sakura's genin days and chasing after Sasuke burst through her mind and mingled with the earlier, almost mistake of Kazuko. Hot shame washed through her stomach, quickly obliterated by anger. She forced a breath into her lungs and reminded herself that she'd taken an oath to do no harm, at least not at the hospital. She opened her mouth to respond.

"Enough," Yamato growled, voice sharp enough that Sakura involuntarily straightened like he'd been able to read her thoughts. She had heard Yamato use that tone with Team Seven, mostly directed at Sai and Naruto, but she remembered it well. The man let out an exasperated sigh. "Stop acting like a child, or I'll pull you off active missions until you learn to keep a civil tongue."

Sakura expected Saiyo to grow angry at the reprimand, but spots of color appeared on the girl's cheeks. She swallowed her retort, then erased the emotions from her face. If Sakura hadn't known the same tricks, she would have been impressed. Yamato ran a hand through his hair, and Sakura realized he wasn't wearing the head protector she'd always seen him with. Vaguely, she wondered where it was when he nodded toward Saiyo. "She lost consciousness briefly, no longer than a minute, I'd say."

Humming under her breath, Sakura wondered how much healing ninjutsu Yamato's team had at their disposal on missions. She and Tsunade had discussed the need of medical nin on every team that left the village, but Sakura was no closer to making that dream a reality. Obviously, Anbu needed that knowledge more than most, but everyone could benefit from it. How many shinobi did they lose in the field that even a medic still in training could have saved?

Turning her eyes back to Saiyo, Sakura examined the girl's wrist. The splint and wrapping were messy, imperfect by medical standards, but adequate for what they'd probably had to work with. A long piece of fabric lay next to Saiyo's hip, presumably a sling that Chiasa had removed before Sakura got there. She couldn't help but wonder who had stabilized Saiyo before the team came back to Konoha. Had Yamato done it? Was there anyone on the team besides Yamato and Saiyo? Sakura realized that she knew precious little about how Anbu missions worked.

Sakura shook the thoughts away and brought her attention back to the beeping machines beside the bed. Chiasa had gotten everything hooked up and prepared for Sakura's arrival so they could jump straight to treatment. Saiyo's blood pressure and heart rate were slightly elevated, but neither was surprising with the injured wrist. Her oxygen saturation was near perfect, pointing to healthy, undamaged lungs from whatever had happened. Sakura would check everything with chakra, of course, but Saiyo appeared to have gotten away lightly. Sakura almost laughed at the idea that a concussion and splintered wrist were considered insignificant in this line of work.

"I can't promise that this won't hurt," Sakura warned as she stepped closer to the bed. Saiyo ground her teeth together, either against the expectation of pain or to hold back another biting comment, then nodded.

Exhaling, Sakura focused chakra in the hands hovering just above Saiyo's damaged wrist. She eased the flow against Saiyo's chakra, felt resistance, then pushed harder. Saiyo grunted, her body jerking at the invasion, but Sakura hardly noticed. Her mind was already sorting essential information from unimportant distractions. She ignored the bruises, cuts, and aches in favor of checking Saiyo's internal organs for bleeding. Anything that felt out of place was a warning sign that Sakura couldn't afford to miss.

After ensuring that nothing substantial had affected Saiyo's internal systems, Sakura moved to the girl's wrist. The two larger bones had been realigned before being splinted, a feat that impressed Sakura and made it easy to encourage regrowth. What would have taken months for a civilian would be completed in a matter of days with chakra's help. The complex, tiny bones nearer to the fingers needed to be shifted ever so gently to the side-a sharp gasp from Saiyo tugged at Sakura's concentration but she forced herself to continue, picturing the carefully inked pictures that Tsunade had made her study.

Sweat popped out on Sakura's forehead as she realigned the pieces like a puzzle, but she hardly noticed. Maintaining the delicate flows of chakra required every ounce of her attention. The edge of alcohol in her system made it more difficult than it would have been otherwise, but it was nothing Sakura couldn't handle. One slip up here could be catastrophic; she had to maintain focus until the end.

Content that the wrist would heal on its own soon, Sakura focused her attention toward Saiyo's skull. Concussions were tricky to diagnose on the best day, impossible on the worst. The loss of consciousness, sluggish pupils, and slurred speech were enough to suggest that Saiyo had one. Even the woman's combative nature could have pointed to a concussion, but Sakura thought that was more personality than injury. Rather than looking for bruising indicative of a concussion, Sakura checked for active bleeding inside Saiyo's skull. The girl's brain would repair itself far better without Sakura's interference unless it was life or death.

Content that she'd done everything in her power, Sakura released her chakra and opened her eyes. For a moment, her vision doubled with exhaustion. She had the vague sensation that her knees might collapse, but she held herself erect despite the weakness that warned that she'd pushed herself too far today. Saiyo groaned and sank back against the pillow, face ashen.

"I've stabilized your wrist," Sakura began, running her tongue over too dry lips. Even talking felt like a struggle, though she knew the sensation would pass. "It should be good as new in a few days. There were no signs of internal bleeding, but I want to keep you for observation overnight to make sure we didn't miss anything."

Sakura braced herself for an argument, but Saiyo closed her eyes with murmured agreement. Sakura frowned. Chakra healing took some of its energy from the patient, but Saiyo had been overbearing only a few minutes ago. Now, she looked completely spent. "Saiyo? How are you feeling?"

When Sakura didn't get an answer, she glanced at the monitor. Saiyo's heart rate had dropped significantly, much closer to the range that Sakura expected of a physically fit shinobi. She doubted that removing pain from her wrist would have created such a dramatic effect. Had she missed bleeding somewhere? "Let's run-"

"She's fine," Yamato interjected, stepping closer. Sakura spun to face him and immediately regretted it when the room tilted at the edges. Yamato's demeanor had changed. He practically bounced on his toes with unspent energy now that he knew Saiyo would live. Sakura opened her mouth to question him, but Yamato spoke over the words. "She took a soldier pill, and they fade quickly. In a day or two, she'll be back to her normal, moody self. Thanks to you," the man added as an afterthought.

A low growl left Sakura's throat. "You didn't think that we might need that information?"

"How do you think she got here with a broken wrist and concussion?" Yamato snorted humorlessly in the back of his throat and shook his head. When he saw Sakura's expression, the man moderated his tone. "Anbu is a different world; we push our bodies past their limits all the time."

"And, I'm the one left picking up the pieces," Sakura shot back. Anger rolled through her in waves that she didn't fully understand. Regular shinobi used soldier pills sparingly, only in life and death situations. The stimulants inside each capsule could keep someone going for up to twenty-four hours, but then, their body would more or less shut down for the next two days to recover.

Embarrassment followed quickly on anger's heels. Sakura should have asked if Saiyo had taken anything, she should have surmised the effect of stimulants on the girl's blood pressure and heart rate. She'd been too tired to do a thorough examination before jumping to healing. Tsunade would have punished Sakura for such a slip up, making her do charting instead of seeing patients for weeks.

Unaware of the self-deprecating thoughts in Sakura's mind, Yamato's mouth curled into a condescending smile. She'd never seen that expression on his face before. "Anbu rarely have the luxury of a medic on the team."

"Yeah," Sakura agreed, internally grumbling over the old argument. Yamato would never convince her that things in Anbu didn't need to change, and she would probably never convince him that they should. Sakura was too tired to argue the point tonight, and she didn't know enough about the organization to critique it well. Not yet, but she planned to find out. She'd push Kakashi for more information as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

Turning back to Chiasa, who had been quietly making notes in Saiyo's file, Sakura nodded. "Go ahead and start the fluids, we'll try to flush some of the stimulants from her system. And, you'll page me if there are any changes?"

"Of course, Haruno-sensei," Chiasa murmured, already reaching for the fluids that she'd laid out before Sakura arrived at the hospital. The woman's quiet, efficient manner put Sakura at ease.

"Thanks," Sakura began, pausing when a sound drew her attention. She turned to find Yamato replacing the cat mask over his face. The loss of familiarity left her uncomfortable. True, she only saw a portion of Kakashi's face, but somehow just the shadowed brown of Yamato's eyes was different, like he'd pushed a barrier between them. She arched one eyebrow. "And just where do you think you're going? You were injured as well."

The man shook his head, adjusting the black compression glove on one arm. "I'm only here because of Saiyo. And, unlike her, I actually am fine."

Sakura rolled her eyes. "I'll be the judge of that."

Yamato shook his head again, then bent to scoop his pack from the ground. Sakura hadn't even noticed it there until now. "I have been doing this long enough to know when I need the hospital and when I just need a hot shower. Today is the latter, and I have a report to make."

The man dipped his head in an almost acknowledgement to Sakura's silence, then raised his fingers to chest height. Before she could think of a convincing argument, Yamato shunshined from the room. Despite his injuries, Yamato was probably right. His body would heal on its own, and Sakura didn't have much chakra or energy left to put into another healing. She looked at Saiyo, already lulled to sleep by the exhaustion of healing and her body coming down from the stimulant.

As much as Sakura wanted to analyze everything that had happened, she exhaled that urge in a long, measured breath. She needed rest; tomorrow would be soon enough to sort through all these problems.

(Don’t forget to check out the rest of this chapter and story at the links above on Fanfiction and A03)

#Dimi Writes #My writing #Healing Hands #YamaSaku #Tenzo #Yamato #Sakura #Introducing OC Saiyo #Medical nonsense that I made up #Slow Burn #Glacial actually #We're thirty three thousand words in and they've hardly interacted #trust me #They will #The chaos is coming soon

7 notes · View notes

concussed-to-pieces · 3 years

Text

The Mettle Of A Man; Part Thirteen

Fandom: Fallout (4)

Pairing: Eventual Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Enjoy!

Part One: ArcJet

Part Two: The Prydwen

Part Three: Orders

Part Four: Finding Brandis

Part Five: Weston Water And Oberland

Part Six: Meeting Preston And Matthew

Part Seven: Radstag And Radstorm

Part Eight: The Return To Sanctuary Hills

Part Nine: Domestic Ruminations

Part Ten: Institutionalized

Part Eleven: Two Weeks, Three Days

Part Twelve: Haylen’s Warning And The Glowing Sea

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains extreme mental duress and graphic depictions of gore. Stay safe!]

M7-97.

That couldn't be right.

M7-97 .

Quinlan must have gotten something incorrect. A line of code must be askew. Maybe he had used the wrong cipher.

M7-97 .

" Danse, they know you're a synth! Please , you have to run! " Haylen had begged him, tears streaming down her face. If this was a joke, it was a disturbing one, and certainly in poor taste.

M7-97 .

Danse's stomach wouldn't stop tying itself in knots. He was distracted, dangerously so.

M7-97 .

Was Vega leading him into a trap? Was he being set up?

Was he really a synth? His memories swirled uncertainly, sterile and damning. Featureless gray buildings, scavenging through the ruins of the Capital Wasteland, alone, alone .

The meager breakfast he had eaten in the mess hall threatened to make a reappearance. Was he really a synth? Danse felt like he couldn't breathe, lightheaded from warring with his panic. He leaned against the double doors as Vega set up the location pulser, the knight fumbling for a moment with the fiddly gear.

"Wait, Vega." The paladin said abruptly when she was about to push the activation button. She turned to look at him and Danse's heart clenched in his chest.

He went to remove his helmet, the gorget seal hissing loudly in the stillness of the Sentinel site. Here amongst the towering stacks of carefully packaged warheads, the paladin made a split-second choice. If she had been sent along with him to end him, he wouldn't resist. But he needed to say his piece.

Rushed on by fear, nausea and the devastating knowledge that he would never see her again, Danse began to speak. "I just wanted you to know how immensely proud I am of you, Knight Vega," he choked out, half-expecting her to blow his head off now that he had offered her the opportunity. "You've done so much for the Brotherhood, for me , I...I'm at a loss for words."

Instead of killing him where he stood, Elizabeth removed her own helmet, her brilliant smile making Danse's heart trip violently. "Thank you, Danse." She replied softly, a gauntlet over her chest. Not in salute, but in sincerity.

Danse's finger twitched on the trigger of his rifle, but he forced himself to unclench his hand from the stock. No, not like this . She had offered him her vulnerability in turn, though hers seemed to be unwitting. He wouldn't sully their last encounter by being the one to fire first.

"When you arrived at the police station, I didn't know whether we could trust you. But as I said before you departed for the Institute, you've proved yourself time and again in my eyes. I am honored to have fought alongside you, and I'm honored to call you my friend," Danse's voice trembled, "Elizabeth."

"Gosh." Vega blinked at him, seeming concerned. "You really need that R and R, Danse. Look, this isn't the end of the world! We'll only be apart for a little while."

"Apart?" Danse asked, confused. He could have sworn that she was here to either kill him or simply keep him occupied until the rest of the Brotherhood arrived to put an end to him.

"Yeah, you're supposed to stay here to count and secure the bombs. Elder Maxson wanted me to report back double-time once I activated the pulser, according to that scribe at Echo." Backhand shrugged. "I dunno', seems kinda' dumb for me to hoof it if they're sending vertibirds, but I guess they trust you to make sure nothing stupid happens in the meantime."

She was leaving him alone? Danse's brain reeled with a million plans half-formed, a million courses of action that he could take. They're separating us , he realized. If she was being removed from the situation ahead of him, that allowed him tactical breathing room to devise a strategy. He wouldn't have to fight her. Wouldn't have to get her tangled in his mess. Wouldn't have to kill her . "Of course," he murmured. "Sorry, I...it's been a long day."

Backhand waved him off, rummaging through her satchel. That familiar bandanna emerged from the cavern of her bag and Danse forced himself to remain still as she got within melee distance. Her fingers surprisingly nimble in their gauntlets, she wound the 'lucky' bandanna around his neck and tucked the loose ends beneath his left ear. The fabric was worn and faded, a nondescript color that may have once been olive drab. It was technically much too big to be a simple bandanna, but he had no other name for the large square of cloth. A scarf, perhaps?

"There." She hummed, appearing pleased with her handiwork. "Now you'll have a little luck with you until we meet again."

Danse reached out almost against his will, the servos in his gauntlet whirring softly when he drew a finger from the cryo burn on her forehead down to the one on her chin. "Take care of yourself in my absence, Knight Vega." His throat ached.

"I will. Don't worry about me!" Backhand promised him with an easy grin. "I just hope you won't get bored to death out here all alone." She brought her hand down on the pulser, slipped her helmet back on and then threw him a salute. "Ad Victoriam, Paladin Danse."

And Paladin Logan Danse, pride of the Brotherhood of Steel, gave her the most razor-sharp salute of his career. "Ad Victoriam, Knight Vega."

…

He was going to be sick. Elizabeth had departed not five minutes ago and Danse dry heaved from nerves as he shoved his helmet back on.

He didn't have time to be sick.

M7-97 .

There was no way she had known. She would be safe. She could claim ignorance.

M7-97 .

Danse knew he didn't have long before the vertibirds arrived. Half of him was so sure this was all a mistake, a misunderstanding that he could easily clear up with a simple explanation. The other half of him was Haylen's anguished voice pleading Danse you have to run, they'll kill you!

And every second he wasted arguing with himself was a second that possible death drew closer. The paladin could feel his legs shaking in his armor frame, his whole body starting to tremble as the urge to flee threatened to swallow him whole. But no, he was a Brotherhood soldier.

Danse paced the floor in front of the double doors, making a point to leave the safety on his laser rifle. Whatever his fate, he would meet it peacefully. He would not open fire on his brothers and sisters, even if they were indeed arriving to slaughter him. If he truly was a synth, he reasoned desperately, then he needed to be destroyed. There could be no allowances or exceptions.

Had there ever been a real Danse?

He jerked to a halt at that, his heart dropping. Was he a replacement , or had there never been a 'real' Danse to begin with? The notion that the real Danse might have been disposed of ages ago to allow him to infiltrate the Brotherhood was...oh God, it was awful , Danse wished he had never thought of it.

M7-97 .

He slammed a fist down on the button for the lift. Vega had left via the same path, so he knew that it must eventually lead outside. That…

He shouldn't try to escape if he was a synth. He needed to be destroyed . If he wasn't one and he fled, it would just make him look even more guilty.

But...but he didn't want to die. After everything that he had survived, everything that he had overcome, all the suffering he had endured--

Oh God, he didn't want to die. Was this some malevolent failsafe programming, or was this just his human self-preservation instincts kicking in? Danse wanted to tear his hair out. He was second guessing every damn thing his body was doing, hyper-aware of the thunder of his pulse, the way his pace of respiration felt stilted and unnatural.

With a grind of gears the lift finally arrived at the bottom of its track.

Danse heard the armored footsteps approaching through the tunnels and he braced himself, hoping against hope that he was wrong, that everything was wrong. He couldn't be a synth. That couldn't be true. His entire existence couldn't be a lie. The emotions that ran rampant in him even now, the times he had longed to be less expressive, as sturdy and unwavering as his armor, the fear that tried to choke him...just a walking, talking falsehood?

Danse's stomach dropped out when a knight and numerous scribes emerged from the end of the tunnel, the armored individual brandishing a heavy gatling laser. The paladin heard the weapon spin up in warning and he realized he wasn't even getting a shot across the bow or a chance to surrender. All doubt was removed from his mind.

Danse, his body moving without conscious input, flung himself to the side. He dropped his rifle in his rush and it was obliterated by the deadly laser fire that dogged his footsteps while he lunged for the elevator. Hammering the button to raise the lift once he was onboard, Danse stumbled into the far corner of the platform.

" Abomination! " The knight screamed after him, making Danse cringe against the wall of the shaft. " Fuck you, what did you do with Danse?! " Lasers tore through the platform beneath Danse and the paladin staggered, almost losing his footing. " How dare you, freak! "

Whatever Danse would have said in reply caught in his throat, his eyes blurring with pained tears as the lift platform teetered and shrieked to a halt. The knight continued to aim upwards from beneath the platform, heedless of the damage that could be done to him should the whole thing give way. Danse jumped and grabbed the lip of the shaft, the gears under his pauldrons clicking loudly as he hauled himself up and over onto the small landing. Double doors greeted him and he shouldered them open hurriedly, hearing a resounding clang! as the elevator grating pulled itself apart and collapsed behind him.

The doors led to the outside of one of the exhaust pylons and Danse quickly swept his head back and forth, squinting in the irradiated light as he took in the landscape from his elevated perch. A lone vertibird sat empty beside the entrance to the site. They must have sent a vanguard squadron to... dispose of him before the rest of the fleet moved in.

The scaffolding creaked threateningly beneath the weight of his armor and then gave out, sending Danse plummeting to the ground. The paladin gritted his teeth on impact, feeling the shock rattle his legs and spine. He didn't have time. He needed to get away.

M7-97 .

His radio buzzed with static, solidifying into what resembled a repeating distress signal as Danse fled Site Prescott. He quickened his pace as soon as he dared to, too concerned about distancing himself from the rest of the Brotherhood to worry about turning off his radio. But then, a specific portion of the staticky distress message caught his attention.

"... remember that church steeple sticking out that we spotted a week ago? Go there, turn southwest and walk until you find a cave… "

Danse checked his compass, sighed, and then turned the radio up just enough so that he could determine if he was getting closer or further away from the origin point of the signal.

Calling it a cave smacked of charity instead of reality. It was more of a hollowed-out landslide of debris, and it looked on the verge of collapsing beneath the heft of its own weight. Danse crouched down, listening intently. He could still hear the faint sound of more vertibirds high above, but he didn't hear any motion inside the cave.

"... must have had a better suit or something… " The message continued repeating without a hitch.

Emboldened, the paladin crept forward into the cramped space. His sabatons scored the dead earth beneath him, dislodging chunks of cracked asphalt with every ponderous step. All he could hope is that he wasn't sauntering into some deathclaw's den, or a nest of radscorpions. Danse loathed entering tight spaces in his power armor.

His headlamp bounced off the walls, the light watered down and sickly from the heavy radiation storm that seethed overhead. Brain fungus cluttered the debris around him, bioluminescence glittering feebly in the gloom.

The man who had set up the distress signal (a raider, if Danse had to guess based solely on his voice and the bedraggled body on the ground in front of him) appeared to have expired from the radiation. His suit of power armor stood empty, and after a perfunctory examination Danse quickly spotted the problem. The fusion core was untouched, inserted improperly and thus wasn't powering the suit. A rookie mistake, one that had cost this raider his life.

On the spur of the moment, Danse made another choice that he knew would have serious repercussions.

Stepping out of his own armor, he hastily put the fresh core into his utility pouch and then extracted his half-spent one to slot into the raider's suit. He suddenly remembered Backhand's bandanna draped carefully around his neck and he fumbled with the cloth, tearing it free and shoving it into the pouch alongside the fresh core.

Radiation seared at his skin through his jumpsuit. Danse rushed to don the ramshackle armor, his body immediately noticing the difference in protection. The right leg on the armor was rusted through, but Danse didn't have the luxury of time on his side to change it out. At least the frame was still sound.

Paladin Danse emerged from the other end of the cave, the raider armor shrieking in protest as he knocked the grit out of the joints. The rubber gaskets around the neck and gauntlets were worn to almost nothing, and Danse could feel the irradiated rain seeping into the suit.

He raised his head, squinting through the hissing droplets that marred the face shielding, and finally caught sight of the overpass in the distance when it was brought into stark contrast against the sky by a jagged flash of yellowed lightning.

Danse didn't actively think for quite a while. He simply put one foot in front of the other and intermittently checked his compass, doing his best to avoid the meandering packs of ferals that dotted the perpetually gloam-shrouded landscape. This armor was barely capable of shielding him from the radiation; he wasn't overeager to test its combat capabilities.

Unfortunately, a territorial deathclaw didn't give him much of a choice. Danse knew he was severely outmatched, and he certainly knew he wouldn't be able to outrun the swift creature. So it was down to him finding stable high ground, his service pistol cracking in the green twilight as he squared off with the massive beast.

It roared and charged at him, bounding up the hillside faster than Danse could backpedal. He quickly found himself beneath the creature, the claws that were its namesake raking through the welded-together pauldrons while Danse pressed the muzzle of his pistol to the beast's unprotected stomach and pumped it full of bullets. The deathclaw roared again, fitting the top of Danse's helmet into its mouth and biting down.

The shriek of metal rang in Danse's ears and his jaw locked up as a portion of the helm gave way, his nose immediately broken under the assault.

He prayed he hadn't run his magazine dry just yet, because reloading in this position might prove difficult. His left gauntlet grappled beneath the deathclaw's chin, crushing the mutated beast's throat until it finally released the grip it had on his helmet. Danse braced the point of his elbow against the ground at his side and just held down the trigger until the weapon clicked emptily.

The deathclaw was still fighting (albeit a bit less staunchly) and Danse took the opportunity to release his gun, slam his gauntlets down on the creature's prominent horns and twist its head violently until the neck snapped.

It went limp on top of him and Danse laid there for a moment, simply trying to catch his breath. He had been wholly silent through the encounter, and his heart sank as he determined that no human would have faced down a deathclaw so quietly.

M7-97 .

A vertibird flew by overhead, a very familiar munitions crate dangling from the main body by way of a cargo cable.

Danse wriggled out from beneath the deathclaw's body once the flying vehicle had passed, managing to shed the helmet after he rose. He knew he must look grisly; he had felt his nose break and he could only imagine what else had shattered.

But the overpass that marked the edge of the Glowing Sea loomed nearby, a Lovecraftian sentry tall and motionless in the constant yellow-green lightning of the radstorms. The same urgency that had fueled Danse before returned once again as he heard the distant roar of more vertibirds. They would be searching for him.

Danse lumbered forward, not really picking a direction so much as trying to move away as fast as he possibly could. He was limping in the armor but he didn't dare to stop and assess the damage. If he stopped, he was dead.

So he didn't stop.

Danse ran through the night, the driving rain pooling at the gorget gasket before his next step would tilt his hips and dump the water down into the frame. He burned through the rest of his core and paused only momentarily to switch to the fresh one, agony spiking hot behind his eyes when he peeled his body free of the shredded pauldrons and slammed the new fusion core home in the backplate. Exhaustion knotted his muscles as he forced himself back into the suit. The metal latched down like the deathclaw's talons, perforating his shoulders anew and all but bonding him to the inside of the frame.

And he didn't stop. One foot in front of the other, body wracked with shivers from being soaked to the skin, his mind terrifyingly empty, devoid of any thoughts, Danse simply fled.

The second core burned out just as the clouds were beginning to pink up at the horizon and Danse abandoned the armor in a grove of sticks that might have once been a picturesque copse of birch. Without armor the going was admittedly slower. Danse knew he had lost too much blood to keep this up for much longer without causing severe damage, possibly long-term effects--

Did things like that even matter anymore? He was a synth .

M7-97 .

Just thinking about that reality again had Danse hiccupping and retching, the man staggering to grab hold of a tree as his legs tried to give out. The brittle trunk split under his ungainly weight and Danse found himself tumbling forward over a steep bluff, the paladin's body finally crashing to a halt in a nest of shrubs at the base of the cliff.

With all the wind knocked out of his lungs, Danse welcomed the darkness of unconsciousness that rose to greet him.

After that, it was a blur. Two tiny hands grabbed underneath his arms, Danse's large frame obviously too heavy to be budged by the owner of said hands. The taste of blood dripped down his throat from his broken nose, making his stomach churn. Danse couldn't even muster up the strength to open his eyes.

" Easy there, Matt! He's hurt. Wait for your brothers and I ."

Part Fourteen

#fallout 4 #fallout four #paladin danse #paladin danse x sole survivor #fallout fandom #fallout fanfic #paladin danse/sole survivor #paladin danse x f!sole #paladin danse imagine #fo4 companions imagine #fo4 companions #fo4 paladin danse #canon-typical violence #spoilers #Eventual romance #slow burn #brotherhood of steel

10 notes · View notes