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marshmallow-phd · 3 years

Text

Gravity

Genre: Angst, Unrequited Love

Pairing: Junmyeon x Reader

A/N: This was basically just a therapy write.

What is worth? It is neither tangible nor seeable. It doesn’t have a body or a shell. Yet, the endless chase to catch it, to hold it captive, is a never ending disease that eats away at the brain and tears apart the heart. It’s only descriptor is feeling. A judgement. Something either is or isn’t. When it's an object in question, the call for worth is passive, innocent. It’s wanted or it's not. The deterioration comes into play when the worth is applied to a person.

Kim Junmyeon was worth the world.

With a smile that could chase away a storm and a heart too good and pure for the human populace, he was truly worth more than the world. He was worth more than you deserved.

Not only was his face kind, but it was handsome. Beautiful, even. Candid photos were museum worthy masterpieces. There was a gentleness, a softness to his eyes and cheeks that contradicted the sharpness of his jaw and the strength of his body. His laugh was infectious and his mind as vast and deep as the ocean. The sum of his whole was worth so much.

But you were not worthy of such a person. You weren’t as stunning as a sunset over the mountains or as extraordinary as a new discovery. You were simply… you. Staring from afar, admiring but never touching.

You wished you could be worthy. You wished you could be special enough - good enough to be with him. Pretty enough would be something decent to settle for. But you were invisible. A person on the sidelines. Out of the spotlight. You were an admirer - not one to be admired.

“You’re doing it again.”

You blinked, your attention torn away from the spot where Junmyeon was standing, laughing and chatting with a few of his seniors. Kyungsoo, who sat to your left at the small table in the entertainment building’s cafe, didn’t even look up from the script he was currently reviewing. He’d only been given it the day before and was still considering if he wanted the part that was being offered to him.

Your gaze dropped to the opened yet untouched notebook lying in front of you on the somewhat sticky surface. Someone must have spilled their syprup-y coffee and didn’t do the best job at cleaning it up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Without moving his head, Kyungsoo looked at you over the rim of his glasses. Even though you were sure you were nothing more than a blur to his eyes at the moment, he could always see right through you. “If you keep staring at him like that, you’re going to give yourself away.”

The ultimate nightmare. The humiliation of being found out. The sweet but awkward rejection that you knew would follow. With his laugh still ringing in your ears, you forced yourself to tune Junmyeon out.

Pushing his glasses up his nose with his middle finger, Kyungsoo straightened and closed the script. “We can go somewhere else, if that would help.”

You wanted to argue no. That you weren’t a coward. That you weren’t going to run and hide simply because you looked at him like he was the night sky while you were stuck on the ground. You used to have better control of yourself. You used to be able to hide it better. But lately, it had only gotten worse.

And you were a coward.

“Yeah. Maybe one of the practice rooms is empty.”

“There’s usually one.”

After gathering up your things, you followed Kyungsoo out of the cafe, stealing a final glance. Junmyeon didn’t so much as twitch in your direction. It wouldn’t have been surprising if he hadn’t even realized that you were there in the cafe for the past half hour.

Kyungsoo settled into one corner of the worn navy blue couch while you squeezed into the other. Not speaking a word, he went back to reading the script. That was a nicety of your friendship. Comfortable silence was more than readily available when needed. He didn’t push or give unasked for advice. He was an ear to listen and a presence to take in when you didn’t want to be alone.

You stared down at the notebook in your lap where your next story ideas were supposed to be filling the pages. But nothing was coming out. Not even the vague pictures you’d had earlier this morning. The only things being called to the paper were the sentences held in the invisible tears you refused to shed. Words of wishes and frustrations swirled around inside the tiny droplets, every letter as heavy as lead. Your cruel mind kept echoing at you the conversation that had constricted the air in your lungs.

Two days ago, you’d accidentally overheard a drama staff worker jokingly say that Junmyeon and his current co-star seemed awfully close, more than merely friends. Stomach lurching, you ran to the nearest bathroom. Nothing came out but almost fifteen minutes of deliberate breathing had gone by before you emerged again. Kyungsoo was quick to dismiss the comment after barely three words from you. The effect, however, still lingered.

Despite the history of your intrusive thoughts, you wanted to believe that you could be good enough. That you were worthy of being beside someone like Junmyeon. His co-costar was stunning, even in real life. Someone who didn’t need photoshop to draw out gasps of awe and astonishment. Someone you most certainly couldn’t compete with in any race.

You weren’t asking for much. Just to be able to hold his hand, your fingers interlaced between his own. The fantasy you allowed yourself to indulge in at times wasn’t a grand gesture or a modern fairytale. You wanted simplicity. The smaller moments that could mean so much. Mundane, to some eyes.

Warm sun rays leaked through the closed blinds over the living room windows. A clock on the wall ticked away the meaningless minutes. Sometimes soft music hummed in the background, sometimes there was nothing but silence. Junmyeon would lay across the length of the couch with you wrapped around his side. His fingers would absentmindedly caress your shoulder or arm. In his other hand was a book, held open by his thumb and pinky. Your own hand drifted through his hair while he read aloud.

The two of you had dozens of endless conversations about books. About the ones you loved and the ones you hated. About deeper meanings and the reflections of life. His love of literature - from the celebrated classics to the obscure unknown - had been what initially drew you in. Everything else was what made you stay.

A muscle in your hand cramped. The peaceful scene faded from your eyes. The page was now filled with barely legible, ink-smeared words. You’d written the entire scenario out, along with your heart, without even realizing it.

In a panic, you ripped the paper from its spiral hold, crumpled it up, and tossed it to the trash can across the room. It missed.

“I doubt whatever you wrote was that bad,” Kyungsoo murmured. He read the final few lines of the script and closed it.

“It wasn’t,” you admitted bitterly. “But I shouldn’t have written it.” You described the scene to him while your eyes stayed trained on the loose thread twirling between your fingers.

He sighed. “You’re never going to tell him, are you?”

“I can’t.”

“You can. You’re just stopping yourself.”

You scoffed. “Why would I deliberately set myself up like that? Break me the rest of the way?”

Kyungsoo stared at you, long and hard, his expression blank to those who couldn’t read the tell-tale signs that his thoughts were in overdrive. “You’re really hurting, aren’t you?”

You sniffed, though no tears were yet forcing their way to the surface. “Most days.”

“Then walk away.”

“I can’t.” Your voice broke - just like your heart. The world blurred when you shook your head. “I can’t… simplify it. But-- It’s like I was this stupid lump of rock drifting aimlessly through space, content with my life. Then suddenly, I came across this brilliant star that shined so brightly and… we collided. And now I’m stuck in his orbit. But he just keeps on spinning while my whole world had changed completely. He’s… my gravity. I don’t know anything else anymore.”

“Maybe it’s time to find your own orbit.”

Afraid it might crack again, your voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t know how.”

The door creaked open and your heart leapt. Junmyeon stuck his head inside. Had he overheard everything?

“There you are! I turned away for a second and suddenly you two weren’t in the cafe anymore.”

He’d… He’d seen you? In the cafe?

“It was too loud,” Kyungsoo lied, covering up for you like he always did.

“It’s always too loud for you,” Junmyeon teased. Then his face morphed into that leader-esque expression. “We need to head to rehearsal. You’re welcome to join us,” he nodded to you.

“No, that’s okay,” you said quickly in response. “I have a writer’s meeting.” No, you didn’t, but space felt like the right choice at the moment. You tried not to focus on the lack of disappointment coming from the direction of the door.

“Maybe next time.” Junmyeon slapped the side of the door. “Let’s go, Soo.”

You were actually the first one on your feet, muttering goodbyes to both of them and then walking down the hall perhaps a little too fast.

You didn’t allow your mind to think the whole way home. Every action was done in automatic mode. Only the minimal amount of awareness was used. But when the apartment door clicked behind you, when the near darkness wrapped you up, when the silence crept in and the empty couch mocked you… you broke.

Knees buckling from under you, the cold hard floor came closer and you didn’t leave that spot just inside the room as the tears and sobs crashed out in waves.

This was what you hated the most. The breakdowns that came with no excuse. They were built up by your own mind, by your intrusive thoughts. You tortured yourself with what you could never have. The attacks were random and it was only recently that you had learned to hold them in long enough until you were safe within your own walls. One time, you hadn’t made it. Kyungsoo had been there to pat your shoulder.

Kyungsoo. He was right.

That clarity was coming through as the tears dried and your breathing evened out again. You needed space. You needed to separate yourself from what wasn’t good for you and not see him. Not even have the temptation to.

This was going to hurt like hell.

The office somehow looked smaller with the bare walls. Since the day you moved in, you tried to liven it up, give it character, make it reflect the interests you loved. How were you supposed to write if this place felt like a stifling corporate desert, dry of any creativity?

Not that you ever actually wrote in this twelve by eight space. This place had been reserved for meetings and other usually boring necessities. You didn’t know the next time a budget meeting or an email check would be conducted here. You could be back in a few months and move back in as if you never left. Or someone else could take over. Only time would tell.

The box that currently had your attention was nearly full. You’d have to come back for the rest. There wasn’t much left, anyway. You took another look around to see if there was anything else you could do at the moment. The monitors were black, the tower underneath - so much smaller than the one you’d had as a kid - was powered off, and the chair that was aligned just so to your favored adjustments was pushed into the gray desk. Saying goodbye to this place really did hurt.

But you needed to do this.

And yet, you felt like you were drowning, being dragged deeper into the black water. Your lungs were screaming for relief.

“You’re really leaving?”

Your shoulders stiffened. At first, you didn’t look up at him. You weren’t sure what to say to him. Being here… it was the last place you expected him to be today. Kyungsoo would have told him, but you wouldn’t have waited around for him to appear.

“Hi, Junmyeon.” You folded up the top of the box, overlapping the pieces so it would stay shut in transport.

“I thought you liked it here?”

“I love it,” you confessed. “But I- I need to go home for a little while.”

“Are you homesick?”

“Something like that.” Definitely some version of sick.

He nodded. “Will you be gone long?” His eyes drifted over the holes in the walls leftover from the frames that used to hang in front of them.

“I don’t know.” You shifted your weight from one foot to the other. This was…. You should go. Pushing your fingers under the box, you started to lift it to take it home.

“Do you have to go?”

The question stalled you. Confused, the box went back down on the desk. “Why are you here, Junmyeon?”

He shrugged, though it didn’t shake off the stiffness in his shoulders. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, his arms all the way to his wrists covered up by the sleeves of his shirt. Lately he had been rolling them up. You wondered what had changed today. “You’re our friend.”

Friend.

Friend. Friend. Friend.

The word rang over and over like a declaration of war. Our friend.

The smart thing to do would have been to nod, say goodbye, and leave. But - instead - you opened your mouth.

“I will always be your friend.”

That didn't make him smile like you would have thought. “So, then why do you have to leave?”

You rubbed your eyebrow, fighting within yourself. You lost.

“Have you ever had a friend so head over heels for someone that won’t even look at them twice? But they don’t care? Because as long as the person they’re looking at is happy, then they’re happy. Even if your friend is completely miserable in the process. Because they no longer care about their own self. They just keep looking at the other person, doing anything that entails that they’re still happy.” You swallowed thickly to try and keep your voice steady. By your sides, your hands were trembling at this roundabout confession. “And you want to shake them. You want to tell them to get out. Because as long as they stick around, they won’t look at one else. No one else exists. Well, this is me. Getting out.”

The frown on Junmyeon’s face deepened as he let your words sink in. “Who is it? Will you tell me?”

No. Because this was enough of an admittance. Because it was time to find your own sense of gravity.

So, without a word, you picked up the box and left the office.

Waiting for you when you came back was the scene you had written in the practice room that day, flattened out but still wrinkled as it laid on the desk.

#exo #kim junmyeon x reader #kim junmyeon #kim joonmyeon #suho #suho x reader #exo oneshot #exo drabble #exo angst #exo unrequited love #kpop

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kylorengarbagedump · 3 years

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Defy Your Authority: Chapter 1

Read on AO3. Part 2 here.

Summary: You’re a Lieutenant, stationed on Orinda. You’re content with your trustworthy crew, but issues with a certain ship (spoiler alert: it’s the TIE silencer) end up trapping you on the Steadfast, instead. Your relationship with Kylo Ren isn't how you left it. How many more messes can you stand to clean?

(Yes, this is the sequel to Fix Your Attitude.)

Words: 4500

Warnings: None. Yet.

Characters: Kylo Ren x Reader

A/N: Umm... hi!! I don't have much to say other than I'm very excited to post this, and I really hope you enjoy it! I love you all so much. I'm genuinely lucky and grateful to have you in my life.

You weren’t ready.

Since the alert had come in that the First Order would be sending a transporter to Orinda, your hands had been jittery. There’d been no indication, no hint as to what your team should be expecting when they arrived. In the four months since you’d arrived at the fuel post, you hadn’t received a single visitor from the brass.

“Hey, Chief.”

The voice called you as you were chest-deep in a pile of fuel-cells. Grunting, you wrenched yourself free, patting the reactor dust from your uniform. Certainly there was some in your hair, too.

“Hey, hi Tonis, what’s up?” You tried to restrain your anxiety to the perimeter of your mind. “Can, uh, can I help you?”

Tonis, your third engineer, sighed, wrangling his hands together as he looked to the ground. “Do you know what’s going on with this transport unit arriving?” His thin lips twisted in a frown. “They’re saying that they might be shutting the post down.”

“Oh, jeez.” You shook your head, grabbing a rag from the terminal and wiping your hands. “No, no. Nothing like that. I’m sure.”

“Okay,” he said. “Good. I really, really, really don’t want to be moved. Again.”

Grimacing, you looked at your reflection in the terminal facade. “I know.”

“Orinda’s really great,” he said. “All the different ships we get to work on. And it’s so quiet. And our team is so great--”

“I know.” You mussed your hair, as if shoving dirty fingers through it would improve its appearance. Incredibly, it did not. “They’re only sending three people. I’m sure it can’t be that big of a deal.”

“But that’s the thing!” he said. “Don’t you think that a transport unit with only a few passengers must be here for something super-official?”

Your chest seized, and you cleared your throat, turning back to him.

“Maybe.” You ignored the hot burn of your cheeks. “Guess we’ll see when they get here.”

The terminal blipped, a familiar pattern that indicated the atmosphere had been breached. It’d been awhile since you’d felt like you had the power to summon anything of importance with a single thought. The reminder tweaked your heart.

“Or… I guess we’ll see now.”

Tonis squealed, running through the post. “Hey! Hey guys! The First Order’s here! The First Order’s arrived!”

Sighing, you looked into the terminal again. Four months hadn’t changed your appearance too much. Not that it mattered. Or it might. But you wouldn’t worry about it. Only a little.

You steeled your nerves and walked out of the hangar into the dusty outcropping of the fuel outpost. Flat land stretched for miles in diameter from your station, a rolling pitch of blue mountains in the far distance, the wind whipping across the plains, rustling the dry grass. Shielding your eyes with a hand, you gazed up and spotted the transporter, a blooming black spot in the cloudless sky, quickening the pace of your pulse with every passing second.

It was just a transporter. He wouldn’t be on it. There was nothing to freak out about.

Tonis had gathered the rest of your massive crew--all three of them, him included--and they surrounded you, faces taut with anticipation.

“What do you think it is, Chief?” That was Mirna, your second engineer, a short, wide-set thing, with buzzed hair and a gruff voice. “You think they’re shutting the place down?”

“She already said she doesn’t think it’s that,” Tonis replied.

“Well, yeah, but then, why are they just sending three people?” said Lin, your mechanic.

“There’s plenty of reasons they could send three people,” Tonis said, as if he hadn’t just been agonizing over that very issue just minutes ago.

Mirna snorted. “Like what?”

“An announcement,” Lin said. “Maybe they’re canvassing all First Order planets.”

You nodded, chewing your cheek. “Sure. That could be it.”

“Or maybe it’s a survey!” Tonis was almost wiggling with excitement like the little nerd he was. “Does anyone else love filling out those weird surveys?”

“No, nerfherder,” Mirna teased, grinning. “Just you.”

“Could be an escort.” Lin shrugged. “Maybe they’re here to pick someone up.”

Mirna laughed. “Oh, come on,” she said. “Who in the stars could they have an interest in on this planet?”

Blood blazed your face. “It’s a mystery.”

You hadn’t told anyone since arriving what had brought you there or why you’d come. You hadn’t told them when you’d first landed that you still had the cum of the Commander of the First Order leaking out of your cunt. You hadn’t told them that just hours before, he’d held you in his arms, brought you into his mind, and shown you--with a breathless, crushing tangibility--how utterly and completely he loved you.

You hadn’t told them, either, that in the days, weeks, months following your arrival, you hadn’t heard from him at all.

With a dying wail, the transporter hovered and landed, spitting up a ring of dust that smacked you in the face. You sputtered, wiping your eyes, the rest of your crew apparently victims too. Frowning, you crossed your arms, brow cocked as the ramp whined and descended. Something akin to fear needled your heart in the empty space between the sound of footsteps and the emergence of two Stormtroopers stomping to the ground.

Something that was definitely fear gripped it as those two troopers were followed by a man you’d hoped to never, ever see again.

“Engineer.” General Hux had somehow lost none of his smarmy, pink-cheeked smugness--his refusal to say your name was out of petty spite at this point. And his face was just as punchable as you remembered. “I see you are, for once, prepared for our arrival.”

“What sort of facility chief would I be if I didn’t stay on top of our arrival queues?” You hid your hands behind your back to hide their quaking. “Though I believe my rank is Lieutenant, now, sir.”

“Lieutenant,” he replied, with the same amount of disdain he’d probably afford a crying child. “I imagine it’s the lack of distraction.” He smirked. “I loathe to think of the productivity you would’ve had on the Finalizer with a similar environment.”

“Oh, as do I, sir.” You offered him a gleaming smile. “I can’t imagine a punishment worse than being in your good graces.”

“Chief,” hissed Mirna. “That’s a General of the First Order. What are you doing?”

Cursing internally, you pinched yourself, stood straighter. Your team would have no idea why you felt so comfortable mouthing off to a man who, otherwise, might’ve had you thrust into the bowels of space by now--and to be honest, you didn’t have much of an idea why at this point, either. Your presumed protection was hardly a current presence in your life.

You shook your head, wagged out your hands. “Let me try again, sir.” Clearing your throat, you continued, “General Hux, sir. To what do I owe the honor?”

Hux smirked. “As much as I hate to interrupt, Lieutenant,” he said, continuing to let the word drip with more venom than a snake ever could, “I’m here to order you to come with me onto the Steadfast.”

“The Steadfast?” Obviously the name of a ship, but not one you were familiar with. No news bulletins had made their way to Orinda in the time you’d been stationed. “Why?”

“The Supreme Leader’s TIE fighter has ceased functioning. Every engineer we’ve brought to it has failed to diagnose the issue.” His jaw tensed in real, actual reluctance. “We were at the border of the Rim, and unfortunately, I thought of you.”

You blinked. He wanted you to work on Snoke’s TIE fighter?

And then another question: Snoke had a TIE fighter?

“Uh…” Frowning, you glanced around at your crew. You couldn’t stand the thought of leaving them for days on end. “How long will I be gone?”

His face betrayed nothing but pure disgust. “As long as it takes you to fix a TIE fighter.” He watched as you paused in thought. “I wasn’t offering you a choice, Lieutenant. We’re leaving now.”

With that, he turned on his heels, marching up the ramp. A long, slow breath left your lungs, and you turned to your team, scanning their faces for any reaction. To your surprise, everyone but Tonis seemed rapt in excitement, eyes wide and chins wagging in awe.

“I had no idea you were such a big shot!” Lin grinned. The other two nodded in agreement.

Blushing, you rubbed your arm in embarrassment, looking between them. “No, no,” you said. “Nothing like that.”

“You have to tell us the story, one day.” Mirna was smirking.

“Uh… Right.” You coughed. “So, hopefully I’ll only be a day or so, max,” you said. “Mirna, you’re in charge while I’m gone.”

“You got it, Chief,” she said. “Tonis, my first order is for you to please calm down.”

He shot her a glare. “Good luck, Chief!” He offered you a salute, which was both strange and unnecessary. “We’ll be thinking of you!”

Warmth spread in your chest. “I’ll be thinking of you guys, too. Don’t make too big of a mess, okay?”

“Yes ma’am!” they replied in unison--and then broke into laughter.

You shook your head, finding yourself laughing with them. “Okay. See you guys soon.”

Bowing your head, you trudged up the ramp into the transporter, taking a seat far away from Hux and the two Stormtroopers. You wondered why he’d bothered to bring them to a tiny outpost like Orinda, but you supposed that self-importance and paranoia knew no bounds in the higher ranks of the First Order.

As the door closed to the transporter, your heart wrinkled. In the past few months, despite your open ache, Orinda had become your home, your crew had become something akin to your family. You hoped the issue with the TIE fighter was something stupid, like a busted hyperdrive. They were simple to repair, but most engineers wouldn’t mess with lightspeed travel--the mechanisms were so delicate that even a simple mistake could result in splitting the ship.

The transporter rose into the air, and in seconds, it burst into the sky. A windowless cargo meant you could only imagine the faces of your crew as you disappeared into the horizon. You sighed, watching your feet as they jostled with the jerking of the ship. You weren’t sure what the Steadfast was like, but apparently Snoke had moved his operations there. Though you still had no clue what Snoke looked like, you’d never imagined him to be the type to fly--but perhaps a Supreme Leader required multiple skillsets.

The awkward ride finished without a single word being exchanged between you and Hux, which was fine by you, and possibly finer by him. When the ramp lowered, he speared you with his gaze, waiting for the troopers to exit before standing and ordering you to follow him with only his eyes.

You tromped down the ramp into the hangar on the Steadfast--it looked almost identical to the one on the Finalizer. The ceilings stretched high, like a giant’s mouth, the magnetic shields glowing teeth at the lips of the bay. Ships buzzed above you, racing in and out of their docks, the floor crowded with soldiers and officers alike.

The rush hit you--sure, the time on Orinda had been fantastic, engaging, rejuvenating. But it would never match the thrill of working in the presence of fleets and fleets of warships, surrounded by the heady spell of urgent, prestigious labor. You sucked it through your nose, held it in your chest, unable to stop your eyes from lingering on every busted ship they saw. In the distance, a team huddled around the smoking wing of a TIE fighter--you bit your lip to prevent yourself from racing over, from tearing it apart for them.

Another thing you weren’t able to stop looking for was any hint, any presence of the Commander--but in the bay, you didn’t even catch evidence of the Command Shuttle. It was a huge assumption to guess he’d be on the Steadfast to begin with, but part of you hoped he’d trailed his precious Supreme Leader to any place he was ordered. It figured that the one time you might have been within thinking distance, he’d managed to make himself scarce.

Another twine in your heart snapped, joining the collection that’d been unfurling since you’d departed the Finalizer.

Yes, he’d said he would find you. You still believed him now, even.

But really. What was taking him so damn long?

Hux led you to a wide dock toward the very front of the hangar. The crews you spotted along the way seemed detached, working without words, communicating with gestures and mirthless expressions. Tonis’ silly salute would never happen here. You frowned. The lack of thrill was worth your autonomy.

“Lieutenant.”

A snap of your head, and you blinked. You were in front of your charge.

This TIE fighter was unlike one you’d ever seen. Instead of the flat panel wings, this one bore talons, sharp knives capable of cutting space and possibly any ship in its way. Red-paned transparisteel formed the cockpit into a muzzle, imitating an animal instead of a sphere. And it wasn’t a ball suspended on plates, but was rather tucked tight into the body of the ship, creating a seamless, dynamic transition that to you, seemed so new, so modern. It was almost--sexy?

You looked to Hux. “Are you sure this is the one that isn’t working?” Lips parted in awe, you stepped up to it, placing a hand on the solar array. “It’s gorgeous.”

“The Supreme Leader has been unable to fly it for cycles, now,” said Hux. “I’m sure.”

“All right.” You rolled your eyes. “Got it.”

What you needed was a post-flight report. You strode over to the nearest terminal and entered your credentials--thankfully, as a Lieutenant now, they were universal to the entire First Order system. Only one ship was logged underneath the access: TIE/vn space superiority fighter: SILENCER.

“TIE silencer?” you mumbled. “Where do they come up with these names?”

You investigated the reports in the past several cycles that detailed the attempts by engineers to get the thing working: thrusters aligned, check. Solar lines flushed, check. Refuel port cleansed, check. Heat calibration reset and replaced, check.

And yet with each new repair--engine test: fail.

Engine test: fail.

Engine test: fail, fail, fail.

Screwing your lips in thought, you landed on the post-flight report, hoping it would provide you with insight. If he knew what was good for him, Supreme Leader Snoke would be thorough.

You opened the report, and paragraphs of information flooded the screen. Your jaw dropped. Every single system had been left with a meticulously in-depth account of its status before, during, and after flight. The level of specificity contained within each sentence astounded you. It was almost unbelievable that a single person could remember this much, let alone regurgitate it with any level of accuracy. You groaned, lost in Basic.

Hux cleared his throat. “How long do you anticipate this taking, Lieutenant?”

“As long as I--...” You stopped yourself with a grumble. It would be much easier to hear it from the tauntaun’s mouth, instead of pouring over and cross-checking every single detail. “I’m not sure, General. Is there any way I could speak with the Supreme Leader?”

A strange, smug look passed over his face. “Certainly,” he replied. “I’ll take you.”

You blinked. That was easy. Almost too easy. “Uh… okay.”

Hux turned on his heel, clipped stride cutting through the hangar. You hadn’t been prepared to meet the Supreme Leader when you woke up this morning, but you supposed anything was possible when working for the First Order. Swallowing, you shut down the terminal, and followed him into the halls.

Returning to a Star Destroyer, in a way, felt like home--the glossy black tile passed like a familiar path beneath your feet, and you spared fleeting glances to the Stormtroopers who passed you. The halls of the Steadfast maintained their similarity to everything else on the Finalizer--though that did nothing to assuage your anxiety about the memories you’d had on that ship. Or who may or may not be on this one.

“Do you work on the Steadfast, now, sir?”

Hux was silent for a moment, gaze trained forward. “Yes. The Finalizer was decommissioned.”

“Wait, really?” Your heart thumped. The only datapad message you’d received from your friends had come in the first few weeks after your departure. You just assumed they’d been busy. “What happened?”

“A Resistance attack left it crippled,” he replied. “Leadership and surviving crew were transferred to the Steadfast.”

Terror seized you, your pace quickened. “Sur-surviving crew?” you asked. “Sir?” More silence. You stumbled to catch up with him, fighting the tremor in your voice. “Sir--”

“Engineers Foster and Loren were transferred to this vessel unharmed, Lieutenant.” He leered at you. “Satisfied?”

You heaved a massive sigh, hands falling to your knees. They were here. You’d have to catch up with them, soon.

“Yes, sir, thank you--”

By the time you’d finished, he’d already managed to make it what seemed to be fifty paces ahead of you, and you scrambled to keep up with him.

As you did, a grey-haired man emerged from the corner in front of you both, and Hux stiffened, cursing under his breath. Raising a brow, you tried to meet this man’s gaze, only to bump into the general, who’d stopped, limbs pinned to his sides.

“Shit!” Your face burned, and you jumped back, snapping to attention. “I mean, uh, sorry, General, sir.”

The look Hux offered you was similar to one a parent might offer a simpering child. Right before they murdered that child in a fit of blind rage.

“General Hux,” said the grey-haired man. “Just the one I was looking for.”

“Allegiant General Pryde.” Hux’s chin jutted to the ceiling.

The Allegiant General Pryde turned his attention to you, glimpsing your uniform before meeting your eyes. “I’m afraid we’re not acquainted, Lieutenant…”

You gave your name. “Sir.” Clearing your throat, you continued, “I’m Chief of Operations on Orinda.”

“Ah.” His gaze lingered on the fuel cell filth smattering your chest. “Of course.” Something within his eyes categorized you in league with rodents--and something else within them told you he crushed rodents for sport. “Interesting.” His attention whipped back to Hux. “General. Regarding the Council meeting…”

“I plan to present the Supreme Leader with my plan, sir.”

“I know you do,” Pryde replied, “but you failed to run it by me.”

Hux’s jaw tensed. You wished you were anywhere other than this extremely awkward hallway meeting that had absolutely nothing to do with you.

“Forgive me, Allegiant General,” Hux said, “but I didn’t think a basic unit efficiency research required your approval.”

“Everything requires my approval, General,” he said. “Lest we forget the errors of Starkiller Base.”

That was a low blow. You gulped. They both looked at you, and you cleared your throat again, throwing your hands behind your back. The energy radiating from Hux could be classified as skin-scorching.

“Of course.” Hux’s tone grew tighter with each word that left his lips. “I’ll remember that next time, sir.”

“Good.” Pryde glanced between you. “What brings a facility chief from her station all the way to the Steadfast?”

“The Supreme Leader’s TIE fighter, sir,” Hux replied, still staring into the air. “She may be the only engineer capable of repairing it.”

The Allegiant General frowned. “Really. How many resources did you expend picking up a single person from a remote outpost?” he asked. “Do you not consider this to be something I should know?”

“It was a brief excursion,” he said. “I took two Stormtroopers and a single transport unit.”

“Was that unit’s excursion approved?” He circled Hux, a silvered predator, sizing up his prey. For once, you almost felt bad for the ginger bastard. “What if Resistance staged an attack while you were gone? If we needed that unit for more than a handful of bodies?”

Hux’s lips pursed, chin dimpling with tension. “I don’t know, sir.”

“And how do you think the Supreme Leader will feel knowing you acted without approval, all to retrieve a single engineer?”

Silence drifted like fog over the three of you, thickening as this grey-haired power-laden dickhead glared at General Hux. But Hux’s back had aligned, parallel to the wall, every flicker of frustration fled from his frame. The tiniest hint of a smirk curled at his mouth.

“I think he’ll be just fine with it. Sir.” Hux’s brow quirked. “We’re on our way to speak with him now, if you’d like to accompany.”

Pryde grinned, a serpent’s twist to his smile. “Your confidence has failed you in the past, General,” he replied. “Lead the way.”

You trailed behind the Allegiant General and Hux, fingers starting to quake. Now, you’d not only be meeting the Supreme Leader still smothered in space dust, you’d be meeting him accompanied by the two biggest assholes in the First Order--second only to one other, perhaps.

Unfortunately, that particular asshole was a ghost to this ship, and there wasn’t anyone in particular you felt comfortable asking about him. If Hux had been superceded by this new jerk, the last thing you wanted was another opportunity for someone with rank greater than your own to question you about your personal relationships.

Dread pooled in your belly. Supreme Leader Snoke did know about your personal relationship with the Commander. In fact, Snoke had been the one to insist you be his conduit, among other insulting things. You imagined him bringing it up: Ah, yes, the engineer, the distraction… and how have you been, without his cock inside of you?

You shook your head. No, it didn’t make sense for him to bring up his apprentice’s dick at your first meeting. Or any meeting, for that matter. You hoped.

The two men led you through the rest of the journey in silence, animosity prickling like durasteel barbs in the air between them. At least your own team didn’t regard you with vibrodaggers behind their backs--as far as you knew, anyway--and the realization, against the backdrop of your current situation, had you aching to leave. The discussion with the Supreme Leader would be swift and succinct; you’d get the information you needed, diagnose the problem, and be on your way back to Orinda.

In front of you, a massive turbolift sang its arrival, blast door whirring open. You followed the two men inside, heart tingling. Maybe part of you had been hoping that your long-awaited reunion would have occurred during your time aboard--as you thought it, you tried to stymie the resentment that you’d waited this long at all. The rational part of your mind reasoned that he was a busy man, that lack of contact didn’t indicate lack of thought.

But every other part of your mind was staving off bubbling despair. Four months had felt like four years, and you’d only grown more desperate, more anxious for his embrace--then furious that he didn’t appear to return the sentiment.

You knew how he felt. So it didn’t make sense, then, why he hadn’t acted on it for even a single, solitary night in the past sixteen weeks.

When the blast door opened, you crossed the threshold into an obsidian sanctuary. The floor gleamed, a black lake of glass sweeping into high ebony ceilings that twinkled with artificial stars. The only other illumination came from two enormous spheres that hung, suspended in air at opposite ends of the room, their surfaces a swirl of white-grey light, imitation suns with colorless coronas. At the far end of the room was a hovering stone throne, six dark figures crowding it in a crescent.

Your heart stammered--you’d seen them before. In memories that hadn’t belonged to you. All of them were outfitted in clothing that seemed familiar, helmets that hid their identities, and each of them possessed a weapon meant explicitly for assassination. The only conclusion you could draw was that they were the Supreme Leader’s bodyguards.

Whoever they were, to you, they were ominous.

The two men in front of you strode forward, and you followed, catching your reflection whispering by your shoes: your hair was mussed with evidence of engine exhaust, your uniform still glowing with smears of ionization. Internally, you cursed yourself. Yeah, this was exactly how you’d wanted to look when meeting the Supreme Leader of the First Order--like complete shit. Stomach sinking, you sidled behind them as they stood at attention.

“Supreme Leader,” they said simultaneously.

As if on command, the wall of shadowed soldiers parted to reveal the throne.

But no one was there.

You blinked. “Oh.”

Hux’s head swiveled between the strangers in front of you. “Where is he?” He turned to Pryde. “These are his receiving hours--”

“Yes,” replied the Allegiant Asshole. “But perhaps he’s departed early for the Supreme Council meeting. We’d be better off--”

The turbolift doors wailed behind you, and like synchronized chronometers, you, Hux, and Pryde spun to meet the new arrival.

Your brain went blank.

Kylo Ren crossed the shimmering sable floor in a confident stride, his robes replaced now with padded armor that clung to the contours of his powerful, thick chest, his broad shoulders covered with a hooded cape. His fists, still bound in leather, flexed at his sides--and his face...

More beautiful, more arresting than you could have conjured in any memory, his lips still pink and plush, his nose still a long line, his hair still rolling in waves, like black silk-velvet at his shoulders. You met his eyes as he advanced, finding them guarded, resurrecting every fear and insecurity, tempering them with hidden warmth.

“Generals.”

The voice was lightning through your limbs, its owner a perfect match to the soft baritone you’d replayed in your dreams for the past one hundred and fifty two days. All of your systems leapt to life at once: brain spinning, heart soaring, adrenaline coursing. Sweat soaked your neck, your figure thrust whole into a furnace.

“Sir!” Both bowed their heads.

Gazing at him, then, you realized what was happening. This was his throne. You were working on his TIE fighter. Kylo Ren, your lover, your obsession, your galaxy was now the de-facto leader of the actual galaxy. You weren’t in love with the First Order’s Commander, anymore.

You were in love with its Supreme Leader.

Shock anchored your mouth open. Your eyes welled with latent tears. You grinned in disbelief.

“Dude!” You laughed. “What the fuck!”

#kylo ren smut #kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #kylo ren fanfiction #kylo ren #defy your authority #fanfiction problems #fya2 #SLAPS THIS ON TUMBLR AND RUNS AWAY

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thoughtsonhurtandcomfort · 3 years

Text

Safe Haven, part 1

(this is the continuation of 12C!)

Tag List: @deluxewhump @whumpinggrounds @yet-another-heathen @its-mysweetlittlesecret-blog @killtheprotagonist @kixngiggles

Content Warnings: immortal whumpee, lady whumpee, references to captivity and lab whump, malnutrition, dehydration, exhaustion, escape, caretaking, implied trauma, implied nudity

Author’s Notes: I really really hope you guys enjoy this one...I hope it’s as cathartic to read as it was to write. :)

I decided to start this next bit under a new title. The parts for the last one were getting excessive, and also this way even if my plans for the rest of it don’t work out, 12C is a complete thought.

As for the ‘escape plan’, I had more details of it in my mind but as I was writing it they felt...boring? So I cut the crap and kept it simple. Just trust that there was a plan and I’m just not a good enough writer to make it interesting. Besides, I wanted to get to the cute shit. :))

----

“You’re sure you know the plan?”

“Yes.”

“And...you’re sure you’re strong enough?”

“...I have to be.”

“That isn’t a yes.”

A huff lacking any real frustration. “Yes, Liv.”

“Okay. Two nights from now. Hang in there.”

----

The wheels of Liv’s cart are loud as they roll down the empty hallway, muffling out her sneakered footsteps. The sound also muffles her half-full water bottle falling from one of the shelves with a smack, and even if it weren’t for the cart, she’s got her headphones on, music turned up loud.

Liv comes to a stop at the door to the storage room. It’s unlocked, like always. She holds the door open with one hand and pushes her cart in halfway with the other. It’s then that she ‘notices’ her bottle down the hall, several yards away. Frustrated, she leaves the cart where it is and trudges to go pick it up.

When she returns, she only spends a couple of minutes in the storage room, restocking a few cleaning supplies so she won’t have to tomorrow. As she leaves the room and continues down the hall, she gives no indication that her cart has suddenly become heavier.

She gets into the elevator and heads upstairs to finish her final tasks of the night. This includes disposing of the garbage and hazardous waste she’s gathered throughout the night, putting utensils in a machine to be sanitized, and dumping linens from a hamper down a chute into a laundry room.

“Curl up tight,” she whispers as she tips the hamper. There’s a soft thud as more than just sheets and towels slide down the chute.

Liv finishes putting her things away, puts the papers from her clipboard in a file folder outside her manager’s door, uses the bathroom, and finally clocks out and heads to the parking garage. Calm, collected, seemingly lost in her music.

Heart pounding. Thoughts racing. Hopeful and terrified.

Her old but beloved little car sits alone on this floor of the dimly lit concrete garage. She throws her things into the passenger side before sitting heavily with a sigh in the driver’s seat. After a moment she turns on the car and begins the winding path up towards the exit.

As she rounds a bend she slows down a little...and remains slow for several moments until she hears her back door open and shut and a rustling as someone lies across the seat and burrows under a waiting blanket. She picks up her speed again, rolling down her window so she can swipe her ID card to get out.

Liv drives into the dark of night. It’s just past two in the morning, the roads empty, the traffic lights in town all blinking yellow. From the back seat she can hear weak, muffled breaths. When she looks at her rearview mirror, she can just make out the bundled heap trembling by the light of street lamps.

She waits until she’s a couple miles beyond the facility’s property before speaking, her voice hoarse from how dry her throat is.

“You okay back there?”

“...not sure,” comes Emmeline’s answer, fear and exhaustion palpable in her voice. “Do you think they saw anything?”

“If we did everything right, no...but I guess we’ll find out.”

Liv puts on an air of confident nonchalance that is so far from how she feels, but it’s for Emmeline’s sake. The risks have become so much more than a slap on the wrist. If they’re caught Liv will be fired and almost certainly arrested for theft of company ‘property’. But Emmeline...not only will she have to go back there, but she’ll be kept under such tight lock and key that any second chance of escape would be impossible, and Liv would no longer be there to even try.

This was their one shot, and all Liv can do is try to keep her panic at bay and hope they didn’t screw it up.

And take care of Emmeline, she thinks, glancing again at the mirror.

The drive home takes its predictable twenty minutes, give or take a few. Liv pulls into her spot beside a nondescript brick apartment building and shuts off her car. She closes her eyes and gives herself a moment to breathe and pull her thoughts together.

It’s quiet from the back.

“Are you awake?”

“Mmhmm…”

That translates to barely.

“Not much further...then you can rest…”

The weight of that statement is too much for Liv’s tired mind to truly process, but it still briefly occurs to her just how big it is, just what it means. For the first time in months, Emmeline can finally, truly rest.

She goes to the back seat and helps Emmeline to her feet. Emmeline remains resolutely wrapped from neck to ankles in the blanket. Despite it being the old, scratchy one Liv keeps in her car in case of emergency, to Emmeline it’s so much more than she’s been allowed.

Standing there barefoot in the parking lot, Emmeline slowly looks up at Liv, strands of limp, messy hair hanging around her face. The single light on the side of the building illuminates her drawn face and although she’s weak, malnourished, exhausted...there is a grateful reverence in her eyes that no matter what happens, Liv will never forget.

Liv swallows and pushes down the lump in her throat. “Come on,” she whispers, putting her arm around Emmeline’s blanket-clad shoulders and guiding her towards the door.

----

Her apartment is tidier than usual; Liv made sure of that, even though she’s pretty sure Emmeline won’t care. Considering where she has spent the last several months, a jail cell would seem like an upgrade. But if Liv is anything, she’s self-conscious.

Emmeline looks around, blinking blearily after having barely made it up the single flight of stairs. She’s swaying on her feet and Liv ushers her to sit on the couch before she passes out right there in the middle of the living room.

Liv is running on adrenaline and fumes at this point. It’s all too surreal, like an out of body experience. Even after long hours spent thinking and planning, she never expected to get this far. But now Emmeline is here, in her apartment, sitting on her couch. Existing outside of the lab, real and tangible.

And she needs you. Get it together.

“I know you probably want to sleep,” Liv begins. Emmeline is still looking around the room like she can’t quite believe it either. “But you haven’t eaten, so...I want to get something in you first, if that’s okay?”

“Okay,” Emmeline whispers.

Liv moves slowly to the kitchen and busies herself with preparing something light and easy: canned soup, crackers, a mug of herbal tea with honey. Like in the car, she allows herself a moment to take a few deep breaths and will her hands to stop shaking before she picks up the plastic tray and carries the food back into the living room.

Emmeline hasn’t moved an inch, not even to relax back against the couch cushions. It isn’t quite what Liv expected...but then, what did she expect? For everything to be better the moment they got here? It isn’t all going to be okay overnight, she realizes. Give her time.

“Here…” Liv sets the tray on the coffee table and sits at the edge of the couch, leaving a few inches between them, not wanting to crowd Emmeline. “Um - chicken noodle soup. Saltines. Chamomile vanilla tea.”

Emmeline blinks slowly at the items before her. “I’m not dreaming. Right?”

“I hope not. Eating canned soup in my apartment isn’t a very exciting dream.”

A faint smile appears on Emmeline’s face. “To me it is…”

Liv holds the bowl of soup while Emmeline eats small spoonfuls of it and nibbles on crackers. She only eats about half before moving on to the tea, cupping the warm mug in her hands and humming with pleasure when she takes the first sip.

“Could I - “ Emmeline begins, but stops abruptly, ducking her head and taking another sip.

“Could you…?”

“Take a shower?” she asks almost inaudibly.

“Of course you can,” Liv answers automatically. “You can have whatever you need.”

Emmeline hesitates, still so frail and uncertain. “Just that is enough...thank you…”

Strengthened by her meal, Emmeline is able to make her own way to the bathroom. Beneath the blanket she is wearing a pair of nurse’s scrubs, stolen from the laundry room at the lab just in case a glimpse of her was caught on camera, though Liv meticulously designed their plan to avoid that. She sheds the clothes and Liv bundles them and the blanket into a plastic bag to discard tomorrow.

Emmeline disappears into the bathroom and a minute later the water comes on.

Liv is left sitting on the couch, finally alone with her fears and doubts.

I can’t believe I did that…

If we get caught we’re so fucked…

Does she even want to be here?

What the hell do I do now?

She grabs the tray of dishes and hurries to the kitchen, where she actually washes them instead of pushing it off to tomorrow, just to distract herself. When that task is done too soon, she goes to change into pajamas and find something for Emmeline to wear.

She’s unfolding and refolding the clothes for the third time when the water shuts off. Just as Liv is standing to bring her the clothes, the sound of the shower curtain moving aside is followed by a cry and a loud thud.

Liv darts to the bathroom, everything else forgotten. She enters without knocking, her heart in her throat.

Emmeline is sprawled on her side on the floor, grimacing. One leg is hooked over the edge of the tub and it quickly becomes apparent that she slipped.

Not attacked. Not passed out or dead. She just fell. It’s okay. It’s okay.

At the sound of Liv entering the room, she rolls onto her back with a groan, revealing a bruise on her hip that slowly starts to heal as soon as the pressure is removed from it.

“Ow…”

“Shit...I forgot to put the bath mat in,” Liv mutters, embarrassed. No wonder Emmeline slipped. She crouches beside her and offers her arms for Emmeline to hold onto.

“Not your fault,” Emmeline answers quietly as she slowly gets to her feet. “I got dizzy…”

The moment Emmeline is standing she sways into Liv, leaning heavily against her before her legs can give out again. Liv freezes, acutely aware of the pressure of Emmeline’s body draped against hers, soft and clean, so weary, so in need of comfort.

All of those evenings Liv spent watching her suffer, wishing she could hold her, touch her gently, stroke her hair...now she has the chance, not a camera or another soul in sight, and she can’t move, can barely think. Not when Emmeline has her head tucked against Liv’s shoulder, breathing soft breaths against her neck.

Liv reaches blindly to her side until she finds a towel hanging on a hook beside the shower. She puts enough space between them to wrap it around Emmeline’s shivering form but remains close enough to steady her. By now Emmeline looks like she might fall asleep where she stands.

“Sorry,” Emmeline whispers, her drooping gaze fixed on Liv’s shirt. “I got you wet…”

“Shh. Don’t worry about it,” Liv answers quietly. “Come on…”

She guides her the final few feet into the bedroom and helps her into soft cotton pajama pants and a t-shirt. Then she pulls back the covers - freshly washed sheets on a freshly made bed, another thing she made sure of - and motions for Emmeline to get in.

“A bed?” Emmeline breathes. She runs her fingers over the sheet with a look of wonder.

“Mmhmm,” Liv affirms, lips pressed together. She’s afraid if she opens her mouth to speak she might cry from the sudden well of emotion at finally being able to give this to Emmeline, this comfort and safety she so deserves.

Emmeline slowly lies down on the bed, letting out a long sigh of relief when her head comes to rest on the plush pillow. Liv pulls the covers over her and tucks them around her snugly. She barely resists planting a soft kiss to Emmeline’s damp hair. Barely.

“Goodnight,” she whispers.

Emmeline is already fast asleep.

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imagine-darksiders · 3 years

Note

Hey there, I’m not sure if you still take requests or anything but agh, I’ve been going through a really rough depressive episode since Christmas and your blog brings me such joy. I was wondering if you’d be kind enough to write something about War saving reader from demons or something along those lines? Or even just something fluffy? No pressure of course, if you’re not up to it that’s fine :)

Sorry this took so long, hope you’re doing a bit better now, though if not, maybe this will at least cheer you up for a few minutes <3 <3

War X Reader.

---

When you ran into the formidable Red Rider in the ruined streets of your old home city, you knew without a doubt that you were gaping up at a veritable force of nature, rather than a man.

War turned out to be everything the name suggests.

Physically, he's enormous - taller than you by at least a few heads and broad as an ox, cloaked in red and covered from head to toe in weathered battle armour the colour of gun smoke. His pale face – half hidden by a crimson hood – seems to be etched with a permanent scowl that only ever shifts if he's snarling or unleashing a blood-curdling battle cry. Not once in all the time you've been travelling with him have you seen him crack a smile.

Although, you suppose, a Horseman of the Apocalypse might not have a reason to smile, nor an inclination to.

'Oh well,' you muse as you follow the gruff and stoic behemoth through the inner-city graveyard one foggy night, 'He's better company than the demons, at least.'

War certainly wouldn't have been your first choice of travelling companion, just as you're sure you aren't his. Yet, as circumstance dictates, if you want to stay alive, you'll just have to put up with his imposing presence and general lack of social graces.

All of a sudden, you're halted in your tracks when an enormous, metal gauntlet catches you roughly in the stomach, the fingers splayed wide against your shirt.

Slightly winded, you open your mouth and a wheeze shoots out. “What?” you choke, throwing War a nervous glance. He merely stands there in utter silence with his head turning on a slow and constant swivel whilst a pair of icy, blue eyes scan the graveyard, searching. After a few seconds, you swallow down a lump and hesitantly ask, “You see something, big guy?”

The Horseman's broad chest puffs out at the nickname, though you can't tell whether it swells from indignation or pride. However, instead of offering clarity, he reaches up with his free hand and tugs his sword – Chaoseater – from its place strapped to his back, and at the same time, he begins to push firmly at your belly, forcing you backwards. “H-hey!” you yelp, “What're you doing?!”

Before you can protest further, your spine hits something cold and solid and you whip your head over a shoulder to see that you've been unceremoniously herded up against a large, mould-caked headstone. Sending a quick, mental apology to the owner laying buried just below your feet, you crane your neck around War's bulk in an attempt to see the cemetery beyond him, only to have your vision promptly obscured by the appearance of familiar, billowing smoke. In another second, the mass of darkness has taken on a much more tangible form and you suddenly find that the minimal space where you're sandwiched between a Horseman and a headstone has been invaded by the Watcher.

“What's the hold up?” his wispy voice hisses in your ear and forces you to fight back a shudder at the chill his trailing, vaporous tail leaves when it brushes against your legs.

“Dunno,” you reply in a whisper, “I think War sees something.”

The Horseman in question lets out a low grunt. “Not see.. Smell,” he clarifies, which is as descriptive an explanation as he's inclined to give, apparently.

Scoffing, the Watcher mutters, “All I can smell is this rancid human standing next to me...”

“If you don't want to smell me, then why are you hovering so close,” you shoot back, swatting at the wisps of smoke that escape from the top of his head until he draws back to a less suffocating distance. Still, with your curiosity peaked at War's strange admission, you tilt your head back and sniff idly at the air. “It just smells... earthy? Uh, and kind of sweet, I guess, like-”

“- death...” the Nephilim finishes.

You fall silent for a couple of seconds, using the time to share a bemused glance with the Watcher. “A graveyard that smells like death, huh?” you smirk, noticing that all six of the sprite's eyes are now glimmering with amusement,“Wonders will never cease.”

While he may be far from a fan, the Watcher still takes great delight in seeing you poke fun at War, and of course, he can hardly resist jumping in with a jab of his own. “Next, he'll complain that a forest smells of wood,” he sneers.

You're not quite fast enough to bite back a laugh as it bursts out of your throat.

“Quiet.” War's growl causes your mouth to snap shut and the Watcher bristles irritably, preparing to remind the Horseman of his place when the blood red hood twists to one side and you briefly catch a glimpse of War's striking, blue eye. He doesn't look angry at you though, or at least, no angrier than usual. Instead, if you didn't know any better, you'd swear you can detect the barest sliver of confusion as the Horseman peers down at you and asks, “Do you hear that?”

Furrowing your brows, you cock your head and listen intently to the eerie ambiance of the graveyard.

To begin with, there's nothing especially out of the ordinary, only the creaking of rusty hinges as the wrought-iron gates swing to and fro in a gentle breeze and the skittering of leaves against the cobblestone path somewhere nearby, or the soft 'ssshk,' 'ssshk,' 'ssshk,' that breaks up the monotony of near-silence -....

“Wait a second,” you murmur, holding a finger up and going completely still, straining your ears to hear the shifting, shucking sound coming from somewhere very close by. So close, you can feel the vibrations through your.... feet?

The Horseman locks eyes with you and all at once, your heart plummets into your shoes when, at the exact same time as War and the Watcher, you realise exactly where the bizarre sound is coming from and all three of you drop your gazes to the heaped dirt you've been standing on.

There isn't even a split second to react before a cold, clammy hand suddenly shoots out of the loose soil below you and latches itself around your ankle, gripping with a supernatural strength that causes your bones to grind painfully together. Although you know that screaming is the absolute last thing you ought to do in the middle of a demon-infested city, the unexpectedness of being grabbed it sends a bloodcurdling shriek jumping up your neck and out of your mouth, drowning the graveyard in a noise like an especially shrill dinner bell.

Sensing the impending battle, the Watcher swiftly disappears back into War's gauntlet as the Nephilim lunges towards you and curls his fist into the front of your shirt, wrenching you towards his chest without thinking too hard on the consequences of doing so. The motion does rip you free of the sinewy hand that flails in the air afterwards in search of its lost victim, but in doing so, long strips of your skin are left behind, embedded underneath the vicious claws of whatever had a hold of your ankle.

Gritting your teeth against the sting, you spin about, feeling your back hit the Horseman's sturdy chest and he keeps you tucked under him for a moment, his lips curling into a snarl as the two of you stare down at the emerging arm that braces itself against the soil. Then, in a fashion hideously similar to that of those old zombie movies you used to watch, the earth begins to rise as the monstrosity buried beneath it heaves itself up and out of its premature grave.

The sweet stench of rot hits your nose full force now, but you hardly even register it, too busy gaping at a grinning skull that emerges from the tumbling dirt, its empty eye sockets and parting jaw filled with soil and worms, all of which are flung in every direction when the living skeleton wrenches the rest of its body onto solid land.

Your startled yelp is swallowed as War promptly tries to swing you behind him, letting go of your arm in the process and inadvertently sending you crashing to the ground at his heels. Not that you can complain about the rough treatment however, for not a second later, the skeleton throws itself at him and lets out a shriek of outrage that cuts through you as sharp as any knife.

The Horseman, apparently having recovered from the unexpected attack, simply lifts his gauntlet and engulfs the monstrosity's skull when it leaps within range. In a rather anticlimactic turn of events, the skeleton's assault is cut short and now it resorts to scrabbling furiously at War's metallic fingers. You forget that for a man as large as he is, the Nephilim can move extraordinarily fast.

However, before you can marvel for much longer at War's impressive catch, you stiffen, splaying your fingers over the ground underneath you and twisting your head around to watch a few, nearby pebbles skitter up and down in place.

“U-um, War?” you gulp, now painfully aware of a continuous and thunderous rumble coming from deep under the earth, as though an enormous train is careening along on its tracks somewhere far below you.

At the sound of your timid voice, the Horseman spares a glance over his shoulder and sees you sprawled out on the ground, your attention turned to the graves lining an iron fence several metres behind him. Casting the skeleton dangling from his fist a last, fearsome grunt, War flexes his gauntlet. There's a sickening 'crack!' and the creature's flailing limbs fall perturbingly still. He tosses it dismissively to one side and you hear the clatter of broken bones hit the stone nearby as the Horseman turns fully and blinks down at you, his eyes going immediately to the bloody welts left in your ankle.

Sensing his gaze, you whip your head about and almost gasp at the wrathful expression he's subjecting your injury to. One side of the Nephilim's mouth and nose scrunches up until he's giving you a very uninterrupted view of his gleaming teeth and you find yourself swallowing loudly, your heart throwing itself against your ribcage so violently, you'll hardly be surprised if it manages to break out of its bony prison. Your eyes fly nervously to War's hand as he forces it out of the tight fist it had curled into, regarding him closely when he raises it, draws back in hesitation for a moment before at last reaching down towards you.

He doesn't manage to get far though, because just then, the rumbling you'd been feeling reaches a crescendo and there's a sudden cacophony of howls and bellows all around you, filling every corner of the dark graveyard like a terrible orchestra playing its funeral march.

War tears his eyes off you and raises his head, leering hard at another skeleton that bursts out of its tomb, though it’s soon followed by a second, then a third, and after that, you stop counting because the knowledge of how many undead are suddenly surrounding you makes you feel queasy and light-headed.

A veritable plethora of skeletal monsters, each varying in shape and size, turn their skulls in your direction, their hateful, burning glares washing over you with the force of a tidal wave and you wonder if you're the object of their ire because they're envious of your life, or hungry for your flesh.

Regardless, neither leads to a favourable outcome for you.

You're almost embarrassed at the sob that manages to push out from between your tightly closed lips, but staring into the faces of creatures you know had once been human is a little more than you're equipped to handle.

Behind you, War's immense shoulders bristle when he realises that the majority of skeletons have their sights set undeniably on the vulnerable human sitting near his boots. In response to the clear threat, something angry rushes to curl itself around the Horseman's heart. At the very epicentre of his swirling rage, he becomes aware of only one thing. Those skeletons are standing between his charge and safety – and that, War will not permit.

Like a murderous river eddying around a fern, the Nephilim steps out in front of you and plants his feet firmly on the ground, an immovable barrier of flesh and metal standing protectively between you and the salivating undead.

Once again, you find yourself with a grave at your back and the Horseman to your front.

Then, all of a sudden, something changes.

Still subjecting the skeletons to his loathing glare, War falls back a few steps, moving himself around and to your rear where he proceeds to crouch over you, his chest pressing uncomfortably against the top of your head until you get the message and bend forwards as well, twisting your neck about to shoot him a wary glance but finding his eyes are still trained on the circle of creatures surrounding you. He plants one hand into the soil, digging in with the clawed tips of his gauntlet whilst with the other, he raises Chaoseater high above your heads where it lingers, poised and waiting - for what however, you have no idea.

As the bloodthirsty blade begins to hum in anticipation, you try to twist your neck around to peer up at War, hoping that your horrified expression accurately conveys the question you want to ask. 'What the Hell are you doing!?'

He doesn't look back at you.

With the skeletons prowling towards you like a pack of circling, salivating dogs, he can’t afford to lose focus.

You're not ashamed to say you let out a hoarse cry when, without warning, they all charge as one.

The skeletons are just a few feet from being right on top of you but as they close in, one of your hands flies up to cover your face and in the same moment, War suddenly brings Chaoseater down hard, plunging the blade's tip into the ground mere inches from your toes.

No sooner has it breached surface soil than a dozen more blades burst up from within the earth, each resembling the Horseman's treasured sword.

The skeletons don't stand a chance.

Like a shockwave, the ethereal blades that have been conjured from seemingly nowhere continue to erupt out of the ground and take the charging undead by surprise.

Femurs, rib cages and tibias are obliterated in less than a second, skulls are thrust from the ends of spines as Chaoseater's earth-bound friends impale the skeletons from below, a place where they never would have guessed an attack could come from.

You can feel the heat of the blades closest to you, hot enough to singe some of the hairs off your legs, no doubt.

Then, just as soon as they appeared, they begin to retract back inside the earth, and when the dust settles and you lower your arm to look, all that's left is a scattering of bones, strewn about the vicinity. Blank, featureless skulls stare back up at you through unseeing eyes, dead – for what you really hope is the last time.

“Ho-lee crap,” you breathe shakily, flopping back onto your elbows and knocking your head against the underside of War's chest, adding, “Ow,” at the latter.

“You're hurt...” The rumble of the Horseman's voice rolls gently over you, prompting you to glance up, only to find a pair of bright, blue eyes blinking back down at you.

Lifting a hand, you rub absently at the spot where you'd bumped your skull into his armour. “I'm all right, that didn't actually hurt.”

“No,” he insists in a growl and roves his gaze down to the scratches on your ankle. You follow his glare, blanching at the sight of the gouges left behind in your skin and grimace, bracing your hands on the ground in an attempt to pick yourself up. You hardly manage to get one foot underneath you before a large, metal hand promptly grabs the back of your shirt and lifts you effortlessly into the air. “Hey!” you squirm, trying to stretch your toes to find purchase on the ground, “Put me down, War. I can stand up by myself!.”

The Horseman makes a skeptical sound at the back of his throat, but he does lower you – albeit hesitantly – until your shoes meet the dirt once more.

Any confidence in the strength of your legs is short-lived however the moment his hand withdraws.

You take a step, only to find yourself immediately punished for the action when a white-hot bolt of pain lances up from your ankle and you cry out, teetering sideways and trying to hop desperately for a few seconds on your good leg.

Just then, there's a deep sigh of exasperation and War's gauntlet is at your side in the next second, sliding around your waist and nudging you upright again.

“Here, sit down. Let me see it,” he murmurs, and you hesitate to say he's gentle when he turns you around and attempts to guide you to the ground once more.

“Are you sure it's a good idea to stop?” you ask, leaning out of his grasp to glance around the shadowy cemetery, “I mean, that wasn't exactly a quiet fight...”

The implication hangs in the air between you and after a moment, War draws his head up and blinks, the strategist in him concurring with you. “That is... a fair point,” he mumbles and if you weren't so grateful to him for keeping you alive, you'd be insulted that he sounds surprised by your common sense.

In keeping with the typical, straight-forward bluntness you've come to expect from him, War wastes no time in bending down and extending his arms, aiming to scoop you off your feet. “Come,” he declares, “I shall carry you to Ulthane. He will know best how to treat a human's wound.”

The Horseman’s permanent frowns deepens though, when you hop away from him on your good leg, splaying your hands out to stop him from proceeding. Undeterred however, he gives you a warning glower and huffs, “Keep still.”

“W-woah, hold on now,” you protest, stumbling back as he once again tries to reach for you, “Seriously, War, thank you. But I can walk, I'm not a baby who needs to be carried!”

“You are injured.”

His tone implies that he's angry, but the way he's now staring at your leg makes you consider whether he's angry at you, or something else entirely. “Wait, what if... what if you need to use your sword?” you point out, “You won't be able to if your arms are full of me.”

You can tell that he's far from happy, but he tilts his head, pondering you for a moment longer before huffing brusquely and averting his fiery gaze. “Very well,” he grumbles, adding, “But if you fall again, don't expect me to catch you.”

The Horseman's acquiescence, if nothing else, at least reassures you that you won't be a total liability. Satisfied for the time being, you nod and turn about, starting to hobble off towards the cemetery gates, confident that the enormous Nephilim will overtake you in a few, steady strides. You make it all of five steps before your ankle turns to jelly and seems to lose all of its bone structure, collapsing out from under you and as you topple sideways once again, arms flailing, you idly wonder whether the damage is only skin-deep.

Luckily, whatever jarring impact you might have made with the stone path is prevented by a strong set of arms that emerge like a pair of safety nets and sweep underneath your knees and shoulders, letting you fall harmlessly into a secure hold. Gasping, you tip your head back and sheepishly risk a glance at the Horseman, meeting his disapproving frown. At the sight of it, you try and push against his broad chest to put some distance between yourself and his ire, but he soon silences you with a throaty growl that reverberates through your head.

Pursing your lips, you reluctantly give up on your meagre effort of trying to escape the warrior and instead let yourself flop gracelessly in his hold. “Hmph.. I thought you said not to expect you to ca-” War whips his head down to glare at you so fast, you instantly allow your mouth to click shut and decide – perhaps wisely - not to finish that sentence.

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captaincravatthecapricious · 3 years

Text

No Way To Get Help

@malevon

Well... this was supposed to be about Jon, but it's about Tim instead. Under the wreckage of the wax museum, Tim isn't dead.

cw nausea, depression, mentions of suicide and suicidal ideation (canon typical levels for Tim end of season 3), ambiguous mentions of injury, hospitals

Four more fics to go, and only one more prompt to send in, so if you have something in mind, get it in quick! I hope you know the drill by now! Thanks @celosiaa for the wonderful card!

The silence is deafening. Or would be if Tim wasn’t partially deaf already. He hadn’t been wearing his hearing aids. What would have been the point? He knows the plan. Daisy and Basira are ….were? Hardly chatty. He didn’t? Doesn’t? Didn’t? Want to hear a single word that Jon had to say.

God. Tenses.

Is anyone still alive? Is it just him?

He should clarify. The silence is deafening after the explosion. After the circus music that was somehow louder, possibly because it was at least partly inside his head. There is probably the sound of rubble settling, and the groaning of burning building, and rushing emergency vehicles. But… he can’t hear a goddamn thing. Just that eternal ringing in his ears. He has never been sure if that was tinnitus or just what silence sounds like. Never thought it worth asking after he learned that people with tinnitus have higher rates of suicide. And… well… if this stupid plan was nothing else, wasn’t it just some grand suicide scheme?

One that looks to have spectacularly failed.

Just him… probably alone. In the dark.

Then again, if he’s alive, maybe the others are too? Does he want that?

If he’s honest, he would rather just be dead.

Not that that is a revelation.

Then again, he could be dead in a minute.

He can’t feel his legs. Well… he can. He wishes he couldn’t. He wishes he couldn’t feel anything. There is so much pain that it just… it’s too much for him to even register as pain anymore. He just feels… cold and crushed. Probably shock because there are actual fires burning around him. He can smell it. The burning plaster and plastic and wood and smoldering concrete… if that is even a thing? Thick air. He’s coughing. And that hurts more.

He can’t hear it, however.

He can’t hear anything but that goddamn ringing in his ears.

He thinks he might be crying.

He can’t hear his own heaving sobs.

Just that high-pitched whine of utter silence.

Do you know what that sound is, highness? Those are the shrieking eels…

That’s it.

The only words his brain can find, as he grows ever more numb. He has no doubt that darkness is eating at his vision, or would be if there was anything but darkness around him.

Not even the words from the book. Lines from the movie. Which isn’t a bad thing… He doesn’t even know his own feelings about his favorite book and his favorite movie.

(That’s not true. He was always a fan of the movie, but… he and Danny read the book to each other so often… He has the work paperback in the pocket of his bomber jacket. Wanted to die with it. Ideally buried with it, but it’s not like he left a note. Aside from that damn tape).

The whine continues. He doesn’t know how long it’s been.

Do you know what that sound is, highness? Those are the shrieking eels…

That had been the first thing he had thought of when he first heard the worms.

He curses the worms to the darkness. If it hadn’t been for them… he could have lived in blissful ignorance about the darker nature of his job… well to some degree. Sasha would still be here. Jon wouldn’t have…. FUCK. He doesn’t want to think about Jon while he’s willing himself out of existence. But….

But Jon. That little fucking moron. Who he HATES. Who he wants to hate.

Does he hate Jon?

Is Jon even still alive?

If he’s dead, does he want to keep hating a dead man? One who …wasn’t any worse than him.

Which isn’t to say blameless, or not a twat at times…. But. But not a monster. And Tim can’t really blame him for not trusting anyone.

Jon… was in the wrong, but so was Tim. They have both been utter dicks. Which has always been Tim’s least favorite plot. God back in publishing… a Lifetime ago… he always hated books that hinged on characters fighting, not talking things out, not Understanding and that rift causing endless misery. Has he really become something that he hated… still hates with every fiber of his being. The number of books that set his teeth on edge from the first misunderstanding. He actually hates most Rom Coms for that reason. Which… surprised just about everyone he’s dated.

He possibly groans. He isn’t thinking clearly.

He can’t hear himself groan.

He really should give it up, and let himself pass out. He hurts. He’s tired. If he wakes up… that’s a problem for later. If he quietly slips away… well… maybe he’ll see Danny there. Maybe he’ll see Sasha. Hell, maybe if he sees Jon there, they can work something out. If there is an afterlife… they’ll have all the time in the world. (Or rather all the time in the next world). And if not… well. Eternal rest sounds pretty damn good.

…But. But Jon. If Jon is alive down here… He should be close.

And… Tim can’t let him die alone under this building. He can’t lose someone else to the Circus while he sits idly by. And Damn it, maybe he doesn’t want to meet Jon in the afterlife just yet, maybe he wants a break? (And maybe he just loves him too much to completely give up on him… even though he knows he is far too late. Too many bridges burned. “We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered.” A line from Jon’s favorite play.)

Tim tries to move his fingertips. And almost screams. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.

He thinks he might scream. But he can’t hear a sound.

He braces himself and tries again. Stretching his arms out as wide as he can. Moving dust and ash and rubble. He almost passes out. Or maybe he does pass out. Time has no meaning in this place.

He finds a hand. Cold. And limp. And his heart stops, first for fear that this is another mannequin. Then for fear that this is all that is left of someone who was… could have been… is? Something to Tim. Everything to Tim.

Tim thinks he might vomit.

He feels out a little further as his head swims. He feels the stretched and puckered skin of undoubtedly Jon’s right hand. Unresponsive. Possibly dead.

Tim coughs. Choking on the soot and heat and fumes in the air. A massive weight both metaphorical and painfully tangible on all of him. Aching pain breaking him into little shards, which turn right around and skewer him.

Tim loses consciousness. Old and cracked and dry paperback of The Princess Bride in his pocket. Limp hand of his… friend? In his hand.

Tim wakes up in hospital.

His lungs hurt. And everything feels distant and fuzzy. Probably being pumped through with a lot of painkillers. Probably for the best, or he might be more upset for waking up. He wants to ask after Jon… but he can’t get his mouth to open.

And suddenly he’s thinking about Westley. Mostly dead. Revived. Head flopping around on his neck. Danny had lost his shit laughing at that… it always made Tim feel sick after… everything. The imitation of life… couldn’t quite shake the image of… that night. Christ if he was on less drugs, he would probably puke.

He would shake his head if he could move.

“You just shook your head, that doesn’t make you happy?”

He is also struck by the thought that this is Kill Bill in reverse. Nearly died getting his revenge, and then ending up in a coma. (He watched those movies on Bad days. When he downs enough whiskey to drown a horse. He can’t say he really remembers much of them, but they were always cathartic.)

He tries to look at his feet. But he can’t even lift his head.

He closes his eyes again.

When he opens them, he sees Martin. Worn and tired. Looking older than ever, more haggard than Jon.

Shit! Jon. Is Jon here? Is he dead?

He still can’t move.

He looks at Martin again. Martin is… talking? Tim can’t make out anything. Just the dull murmur of meaningless sound.

…But.

Martin is holding a book.

A sooty, singed book.

Martin sitting between two hospital beds, holding Tim’s old copy of The Princess Bride, facing Tim presumably so if Tim were to come around, Tim could read his lips.

“I said, ‘What do you mean, “Westley dies”? You mean dies?

My father nodded. ‘Prince Humperdink kills him.’

‘He’s only faking though, right?’

My father shook his head, closed the book all the way.

‘Aw shit,’ I said and I started to cry.

‘I’m sorry,’ my father said. ‘I’ll leave you alone,’ and he left me.”

Martin is also crying. Just like Billy in the book.

“’Who gets Humperdinck?’” Tim whispers. Painfully aware of how dry his throat is. It’s no more than a cracked whisper.

And then he’s coughing.

He can barely hear himself, but he swears he is coughing out a lung.

Martin has dropped the book. Staring in wide-eyed shock for a moment, before yelling something. Scrambling up. Probably getting a doctor. Tim wishes he hadn’t gone.

He looks are where Martin had been, but ends up getting a good look at the bed next to him. And sees one, very still and very pale Jonathan Sims. Very bandaged, and frighteningly still. Tim can’t see breathing.

And then he’s being poked and prodded and tested and Martin is talking to him. And everything hurts. Until it doesn’t and he’s lying still and Martin is smoothing his hair down and holding his hand and telling him that he’s been unconscious for a month. That Jon is all but brain dead. That Elias is in police custody.

By the time Jon wakes up, five months later, Tim has decided to give him another chance, he and Martin are sharing a flat, there is another room ever hopeful that Jon will want to join then if- no, when he wakes up.

Also. Jon’s hair may or may not be dyed green.

Maybe.

No, Tim has no idea what everyone is looking at him like that for.

#the magnus archives #tma #magnuspod #tim stoker #timothy stoker #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #cw suicidal ideation #cw nausea #cw injury #cw hospitals #fic #my fic #my writing #my art #my words

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journalxxx · 3 years

Text

By Hook or by Crook (3)

August 12th, 2277

Izuku lay on his bed staring at the screen of his phone. He'd already typed in the emergency number, but he hadn't started the call yet. He honestly wasn't sure if this qualified as an emergency or not. Probably not. But it was kind of a big deal. Kind of massive. For him, anyway. He wasn't even sure if his father could respond in the first place. A couple of months ago, he'd said he'd be likely to resume his normal phone calls soon, but maybe his throat hadn't fully healed yet. And what if that polite colleague picked up instead? Izuku certainly couldn't tell him about… all that.

He hadn't told his mother either, or the doctor. He didn't want to cause trouble, neither for himself nor for Kacchan. But he really, really felt the urge to tell someone. He'd been waiting for this moment for so long, and it had gone so inexplicably wrong.

His thumb tapped the green button.

It took less than five seconds for the call to connect.

"Izuku. What is it?"

"Hi... Dad..." Izuku started, but he found himself trailing off. He hadn't heard his father's voice in so long and, while still recognizable, it was very different. Rougher and somewhat distorted, as if he was speaking through… something metallic?

"What's going on?" His father pressed when the silence stretched. It suddenly occurred to Izuku that the man could be misinterpreting his hesitation as the kind of situation that may warrant an emergency call.

"Ah… N-nothing much, actually. I'm not dying or anything. Mom's not dying- no one's dying." He blurted out, hurried explanations rushing out of his mouth bypassing any form of brain check. "This isn't really an emergency. More like… an emergence. Of my quirk."

The silence from the other side of the receiver was deafening. Wow. Inconveniencing his still convalescent father for no serious reason, and topping it off with a pun. Izuku wouldn't be surprised if he decided to hang up on his face.

"...Sorry. I shouldn't have called." He apologized. "D-Does it still hurt to speak? Ah, never mind, we can talk about that next-"

His father's sigh came through as a brief burst of static. "Where are you now?"

"At home. In my room."

"Alone?"

"Yeah."

"...Why don't you tell me what happened then?" The softer timbre of his father's voice lifted a weight from Izuku's chest. And the tale of the afternoon's events spun almost by itself.

Lately, it didn't happen often that Izuku and Kacchan hung out without the rest of the gang. His friend was a natural-born and enthusiastic leader, and he enjoyed having people around to let him play that role. But that day someone had homework to catch up with, someone else had the flu, a third one was grounded… So it had been just the two of them. They had headed to the usual spot by the small river, to stave off the heat. Which didn't seem to especially bother Kacchan, who had been trying to blast an anthill to smithereens with his quirk. He had casually remarked, as he often did, what a pity it was that Izuku would never develop one.

Izuku didn't know why he hadn't let that comment slide, like every other time. Arguing on that point never helped, it always made things worse. But this time he had answered back. That his quirk would manifest one day, sure as hell. And then he'd joked that they'd have a match to see who could exterminate the most ants in one minute.

Kacchan hadn't liked that. At all. He never did take well to amicable competition.

Do you see this? Huh? Look, take a closer look. Kacchan had said, holding his palm mere centimetres away from Izuku's face, so close that he could feel the heat from the small explosions popping off from his skin. This is what a quirk looks like. Looks like you still can't tell the difference between a quirk and nothing, nerd. 'Cause you have nothing. Nothing's all you'll ever have.

"This friend of yours- sorry, what's his name again?"

Izuku was startled by his father's interruption. "Kaccha- I mean, Katsuki."

"Why was he so aggressive? Did you two have a quarrel before this?"

"Oh, no. He's just… he's just like that."

"...He's just like that?" His father repeated. It was a bit difficult for Izuku to read his tone now that his voice was so muffled and unfamiliar. "This is a common occurrence? Him using his quirk to hurt you?"

"Oh no, no no! He didn't do that! He never does that, he knows it's bad!" Izuku hurried to elaborate. "He just uses it to… show off a little. Sometimes he blows up stuff. Things can get a bit rough when we play, but he never burns people with his quirk. He's very good at controlling it!"

"...And this is your best friend we're talking about." His father didn't sound terribly convinced. Izuku felt the necessity to make things absolutely clear.

"He's a cool guy, dad. Really. He's great. He's smart, and talented, and strong, and brave… He just has a bit of a short temper. His mom's like that too."

There was a long pause. "...I see. Go on."

Well, even if Izuku knew that Kacchan wasn't going to hurt him (not much, not with his quirk, at least), at that moment he was still pretty upset. And Kacchan kept waving his explosive hands uncomfortably close to him, and he kept going on about how Izuku would never get a quirk, and it was… it was just so unfair, that's what it was. It was unfair that Izuku would have to wait for God knows how long for what his father had assured him (multiple times) would eventually happen, while Kacchan always let his anger run away with him. Izuku had felt a heady burst of resentment, and he had grabbed Kacchan's wrists with both hands, trying to shove him away, and that's when it had happened.

He had managed to send Kacchan staggering into a nearby bush. But at the same time, a sharp pain had spread in both Izuku's hands. It wasn't the searing of an explosion, it was more as if his palms had been stabbed by a big needle. He had checked, and found two small, circular marks on them. They were like scars, but very old ones, already closed and healed, definitely not bleeding.

He hadn't had time to process the fact. Kacchan was already back on his feet, shouting and marching towards him, reaching for him with his arms thrown out before him, fingers clawed in the familiar position they assumed when he summoned his quirk…

But nothing had happened. No explosions. Not even a spark or a flicker of flame. Kacchan had stopped in his tracks, flabbergasted. He had tried again, to no avail. And Izuku, on his part, had felt it. That awareness. That visceral perception that something had changed inside him, that there was something new in him. Something he could summon himself. He had flexed his fingers, and done it.

A small explosion. Right there, in his own hand. It hadn't burned at all.

Give it back! Kacchan had screamed at him when they had both emerged from their quiet stupor. Izuku had stepped backwards in fear, tripping down on something. He had raised his hand to defend himself from the impending assault, and shot off another blast, a bigger one. Too big. The recoil had hurled his arm backwards, bent his wrist painfully, sent it crashing against a rock. It had hurt a lot.

Give it back! Kacchan had yelled after he'd stopped laughing, laughing at how hopeless Izuku was even with a stolen quirk, laughing at how the useless nerd had managed to injure himself even before Kacchan could touch him, and probably more severely too than Kacchan would have dared.

GIVE IT BACK! Kacchan had howled while dragging him into the shallow river. He'd pushed him down, pressed his hands into the stream, cunningly exploiting his own weakness. The water washed away the sweat from Izuku's palms before he could even try to ignite it. He was harmless, pathetic, impotent, even with Kacchan's impressive quirk.

He had given it back after he'd promised Kacchan that he would, as soon as he let go of-

"What?"

"Uh? What?" Izuku echoed obtusely.

"You gave it back?"

"...Yes. Of course." Izuku blinked. "What… what else could I do? I promised him-"

"You could have just kept it." His father sounded surprised. Very surprised. "He was using his quirk to threaten you and hurt you. Why would you give it back to him?"

"I…" The notion that he could have just lied and ran away with Kacchan's quirk hadn't even entered Izuku's mind. "I didn't even know how to use it. All I could do with it was hurt myself. I-"

"You could have learned how to use it, over time. You could have obtained the quirk you so deeply desired. You could have deprived a bully of a dangerous weapon. You could have made him understand what it feels like to be on the weaker side of a confrontation."

Izuku heard those words, but they didn't fully register. "...I couldn't."

"Why not?"

"...It's Kacchan's quirk. It's his. I couldn't keep it." Izuku said simply.

Another long pause. "...What happened then?"

"Kacchan just left. He was very angry, he said he'd- that I'd better never use that 'trick' again on him. I came home too, but my wrist was swollen and achy, so mom brought me to the doctor. It's fine though, I don't think it's broken." Izuku recounted, wiggling his bandaged arm subconsciously.

"Did you tell your mother what happened?"

"...No, I… No." Izuku hesitated. "I just told her I slipped on some wet rocks."

Izuku himself couldn't quite put his finger on why he'd wanted to hide the accident from everyone except from his father. Something about how easy it had always been to talk to him, how he was always ready to listen to everything Izuku wanted to say, even things he clearly didn't care about. He may have been present in Izuku's life for only one or two hours a month, but Izuku truly felt that, for those one or two hours, his father's attention was solely focussed on him. Something about the distance too, maybe, which made him more akin to an imaginary friend than to a real parent that could dish out tangible punishment, worry and contempt. Something about this aura of wisdom and confidence and calm that his polished words and deep tone always radiated.

"Who else knows about this?"

"Uh… No one, I think. Just Kacchan and I."

"And when did this all happen, exactly?"

"Earlier this afternoon. At around 2 or 3, I think?"

"I see." His father's voice sounded distant. "Sorry, Izuku. Do you mind if I put you on hold? Don't hang up, it'll only take a minute."

"Oh, of course."

There was a soft click, and the speaker went silent. Izuku remembered with a flash of guilt that his father was probably working at the moment. He hoped he hadn't caught him at a bad time. Maybe that had to do with the fact that his voice was so weird. Maybe he was wearing some sort of disguise or protective gear?

Click. "I'm here."

"Sorry if I bothered you for something like this. You're busy now, aren't you?"

"I have nothing urgent on my plate. Actually, I'm glad you rang. This could have turned into quite the problem if you had waited another two weeks to inform me."

"Uh? Why?"

"Do you understand what happened today, Izuku?" The gentleness of the question somehow alarmed Izuku more than if his father had been scolding him.

"I…" He gulped. "I think I stole Kacchan's Explosion. With my quirk. That was a quirk, right?"

"Yes. That was our quirk."

Izuku's brain screeched to a halt.

Our.

"Your… Isn't your quirk Fire Breathing?"

"That is one of my quirks, yes."

There was silence as the pieces fell into place in the kid's head. There may very well have been an earthquake, and he would have barely noticed it. "You can… take quirks too?"

"Yes."

Izuku had so many questions that it took him several seconds to even decide where to start. "W-Why have you never said so?"

"Because that too is classified. The very existence of our quirk is classified." His father paused, then resumed almost tiredly. "I see I should have warned you about this regardless. Truth to be told, I was expecting your quirk's first appearance to unfold… differently. I guess it doesn't matter now."

Izuku sat up as he kept listening, hanging on his father's every word.

"Our ability allows us to take other people's quirks permanently, and use them as our own. As you have already discovered, we can give them back as well. Another very important perk is the capacity to store many quirks inside us at the same time. A great many." His father stopped again. "Do you know what this means?"

Izuku shook his head negatively, forgetting that his father couldn't see him. His silence conveyed the message anyway.

"This means that our quirk is powerful. Astoundingly powerful. More powerful than Fire Breathing or Hellflame or Explosion or Fiber Master or Foresight. Because it can be all those quirks at once."

Izuku's mind was reeling. It was... unimaginable. He thought of all his favorite heroes, all the top heroes, all the most incredible powers and skills… all concentrated into a single individual. He thought of Endeavor, Jeanist, Yoroi Musha, Gang Orca, Nighteye…

All Might...

"The downside of our quirk is the cost it has on the owners of the quirks we appropriate. They are rendered quirkless, unless we decide to grant their abilities back." His father went on. "You can imagine the implications of this."

He could. He could imagine having the power of taking All Might's quirk - not only becoming a hero like All Might, but practically becoming All Might himself… at the cost of mutilating the original.

The mere notion made him dizzy.

"That's… that's not right…" Izuku stuttered, drawing his knees to his chest. "It can't be used in that way…"

"Most people would agree with that sentiment, yes." There was a sort of… disappointment, of weariness in his father's voice that Izuku had never heard before. It unsettled him deeply. "Most people would claim that it's a quirk that handicaps and feeds on others, that can only be fuelled by theft, prevarication and selfishness. An inherently villainous quirk, if you will."

"That can't be true." Izuku objected, curling up on himself even more. "It… depends on how you use it. All quirks do. I'm not going to use it like that, ever-"

"That wouldn't be enough to discourage those cynical voices, I'm afraid. Power terrifies people who don't have it, Izuku. A type of power as overwhelming as ours, all the more so. They wouldn't need to see you abuse your quirk to condemn you, the mere fact that you could do it, if you ever decided to, would be enough to draw suspicion and distrust on you."

"W-What does it mean?" Izuku's breaths left his mouth in a rush as his eyes started to burn, the telltale signs of an impending burst of tears agitating him even more. "What do I have to do?"

The man took his sweet time to reply, and for a terrible moment Izuku thought that even his father might be at a loss as to how to deal with the situation. "As things stand, I would encourage you to act as if your quirk never manifested, in order to avoid negative attention."

"But Kacchan already knows. He'll tell someone, his parents at least…"

"I doubt it. If he's as clever and proud as you describe him, I think he'll understand the dangers of doing so. He'll realize that you could take his quirk for good at any given moment, and he'll choose not to anger you. Or he may simply refuse to acknowledge your superiority over him, and behave as if nothing happened in the first place. I can imagine many reasons that would lead him to keep your secret without you even asking him to - in fact, I would strongly advise you not to, and shove the whole thing under the rug. It would be for the best of everyone involved."

Silence fell again. Izuku's head buzzed with fear, confusion, doubts. It didn't make any sense, none of it. "I… can't use my quirk? Never? I will never be able to use it?"

"There are certain powers, certain weapons, that instil so much fear in humans that one can only either bury them deeply and pretend they don't exist, or bear them unhesitatingly lest the fearful tear their wielders apart. It is an unavoidable reality of life."

Tears rolled down Izuku's cheeks freely. "Y-You… you said you have more than one quirk. You used yours. Are you… doing it secretly? Is that what the whole 'classified' thing is about?"

"...My circumstances are unique." His father answered, after a slight hesitation. "I certainly do not flaunt my original quirk carelessly, nor do I have it printed in bold letters on my personal documents. The government is aware of my ability, but gaining my immunity from their wrath was no small feat. I honestly cannot imagine someone like you going to such lengths to achieve the same result. Not as you are now, probably not as you will be in the near future."

A few things were starting to make sense now, things that Izuku had always brushed aside as amusing or perplexing eccentricities of his father's. His unrelenting reticence about his job, a job likely tied to or issued by the government, a job that kept him separate from his family and that robbed him of time and leisure, a dangerous job he probably wasn't all that proud of. The kind of dirty, ambiguous job Izuku saw in movies and read about online, the kind of job where law and ethics sometimes parted ways. The kind of shady, hushed-up, unrewarding job that might make anyone envy a shining, pristine, beloved symbol like All Might.

"...I'm sorry." He sobbed, because he was, even if he wasn't sure what for. For being unable to walk the same path as his father, maybe, or for the grief the man's work surely caused him.

"There is no reason to panic." In a moment, his father's tone had recovered his trademark, comforting composure. Its effect on Izuku's nerves was immediate. "Luckily, today's incident was trivial and self-contained. As long as you don't reveal your quirk to anyone else, your life will go on unchanged."

Unchanged. As if Izuku hadn't been waiting his whole life for it to change. As if the quirk he thought he'd welcome as a blessing hadn't turned out to be some sort of nightmarish curse. It was a cruel joke, but it was no one's fault. He'd just have to adapt to it.

His father seemed to read into his wordless discouragement very easily. "I'm sorry, Izuku. I'm afraid I have to go now, but we'll talk more about it soon. Don't lose your sleep over this, there's no need for concern right now. Can you promise me you'll stay put at least until next month?"

"...Yes, of course."

"Wonderful. Have a good night, Izuku."

Izuku stared at the wall blankly, the call ending with a low beep. For the first time in his life, talking with his father had made everything feel remarkably worse.

October 1st, 2277

"How are things between you and Katsuki lately?"

"Same as usual. We… don't really hang out much any more. Or at all. He just keeps ignoring me all the time." Izuku mumbled, his spirit instantly dampened by the subject.

"That may be for the best. At least you won't have to put up with his inopportune mood swings, no?" His father offered encouragingly.

Admittedly, there was some truth to that. Izuku did feel a little less stressed, a little less constantly on edge every time the two of them happened to cross the same street or bump shoulders in class. It was reassuring to know that Kacchan wouldn't do anything worse than staring daggers at him, and his varying cohort of backers never took the initiative when it came to openly hostile behavior. It was… fine, in a way. And yet, Izuku missed their strange, complicated sort of closeness anyway. Kacchan really had been the first person Izuku had ever considered a friend, and he was sad to see this friendship, as unpleasant and troublesome as it could be at times, degrade into a quietly rancorous acquaintance.

"...I guess." Izuku glossed over. "I would like to talk things through with him though. I know you think I shouldn't, but-"

"If Katsuki hasn't brought up the matter yet, he probably has no intention of ever doing so. There's no point in being pushy with him. No doubt he's had a lot on his mind these past months, after all."

"Yeah, I know." Guilt squeezed Izuku's stomach in a tight grip. It was very self-centered of him to keep obsessing over his quirk, he should just be happy that Kacchan was safe and sound, all things considered. "I'm not even sure I could manage to talk to him alone. His parents always walk him everywhere he goes, and I think the police are still keeping an eye on him."

"It's understandable, and all the more reason for you to stop fretting about all this. Your secret is safe, and so is he. A fortunate conclusion all round."

"Mh." Izuku couldn't fully share his father's optimism, but he supposed the whole situation was at an impasse anyway. His eyes fell on his notebook, closed atop of a pile of school textbooks, and he decided it was time to tackle another tricky discussion. "...I've been having a little trouble with my quirk research lately."

"Oh? Have you stumbled upon an especially puzzling one?" His father took the bait, his interest immediately piqued.

"Yes. Ours."

"...Ah."

"I've been looking for any kind of information related to quirk-stealing abilities. I've found mentions of similar ones, from copycats to erasers to temporary absorption… Nothing quite like ours, though." Izuku hesitated. "I have found some rumours though. Here and there, in forums and old uh… clickbait-y articles."

His father's progressive de-escalation from proper replies to monosyllables to complete silence was a familiar pattern, and not a concerning one per se. At the very least it meant he was willing to give Izuku a chance to make his point, so he continued.

"It's all very vague. There are no details about the ability to give quirks back, or about palm marks. But all the hearsay is centered around this… this mysterious figure who lived around the era of the advent of quirks and who is said to have been able to steal them."

"I know all about those rumors."

"Do you?" Izuku had never pegged his father for the kind of man who'd spend his time digging for gossip around the internet… but then again, the last months had proved he knew less than he thought about the man. "They say… they say he was a criminal. The most dangerous villain who ever lived, even. It's all a bit exaggerated and unrealistic, I know, since there's no mention of anyone like that in history books-"

"It just goes to show how fantastically threatening our quirk would seem to the average person." He replied casually. "It is literally the stuff of legends of our modern age."

"Do you know if there's any truth to it? Or if they're just stories?"

A pause. "...It is true. It's part of the reason why I've been so insistent on you keeping quiet about your quirk. You'd better avoid being connected to those rumors if you plan on having a peaceful life."

Izuku balked. That was uncharacteristically forward on his father's part. And it was a disconcerting piece of information to boot. And it raised a further, even more disquieting possibility. "Did that villain have the exact same quirk as us? Was he… related to us? A grandparent, a great-grandparent…?"

"The real issue here, Izuku, is that it doesn't matter." His father said sternly. "The issue is that anyone who is aware of those voices - or worse, anyone who knows them to be true - will react in the same way you did. They will suspect or presume you to be a descendant of that criminal, and you'd have no way to prove them wrong."

Izuku wanted to ask if his father was speaking from experience, if his subtle bitterness and extreme caution were the result of the blatant prejudice he had had to deal with personally. He couldn't quite gather the courage to do so, though. "Very few people know about this though, right? It wouldn't be that much of a problem day-to-day…"

"It depends on the kind of people you'd have to deal with in your daily life. It would be enough of an obstacle to prevent you from pursuing your dream career, for example."

"What? You mean becoming a hero?" Izuku frowned. "Why?"

His father sighed deeply. "Picture this, Izuku. The government of a country was once almost overthrown by a dangerous villain with a certain quirk, and it has been trying to suppress any information about that evildoer ever since. The same government also handles the designation and retribution of all heroes in the industry. One day, a young man with the same devastating quirk as the aforementioned criminal appears, and he applies to a hero academy - an institution which, among other things, trains its students to fight, strategize, be reasonably charismatic, refine and master their quirks to their fullest capacity. What do you think the government would do when faced with the possibility, however remote, of accidentally grooming this young man into another nation-wide calamity?"

Izuku felt as if the whole world was crumbling beneath his feet. There was… there was only one rational conclusion, wasn't there? "...They wouldn't take that chance. They wouldn't let him become a hero. They wouldn't want him to use or train his quirk at all, to be on the safe side."

"Exactly-"

"But- but…!" No, it couldn't be the only way this would unfold. Surely they wouldn't be this gravely biased, surely there had to be some way to prove his good faith, surely… "What if I used my quirk differently? In a way that would never harm anyone? I could… I could just borrow quirks instead of stealing them! Borrow them during an emergency and give them back as soon as it's over-"

"I'm afraid our quirk isn't well-suited to that kind of application." His father countered plainly. "While we do acquire an immediate, basic and instinctive understanding of any quirk we take, it is rarely sufficient to deploy it efficiently and safely right off the bat, unless the quirk is particularly simple in its mechanics. You experienced this first-hand when you sprained your wrist with your first sizable explosion. It takes practice to become proficient in each ability we receive, and without enough time to learn beforehands, you'd be more of a liability than an asset on the field."

The cold, ironclad logic of that long speech gutted Izuku more neatly than a knife. The boy squeezed his eyes, focussing on the problem, thinking, thinking, thinking… "There has to be some way though. There has to be…"

Silence stretched as he struggled against frustration, fear, discomfort, disappointment. He only needed to think, to come up with an idea, a single good idea to demonstrate that this amazing quirk of his wasn't necessarily a menace-

"...There could be." His father said, oddly tentative.

Izuku perked up, hope and gratefulness springing in his chest. "How?"

"You could simply pretend to have a different quirk. Take someone else's, just the one, and pretend it was your original quirk. Become a hero using that, and only that."

That wasn't what Izuku wished to hear. Not at all. "That means I'd still need to steal from someone, dad. I-I can't-"

"There are ways to acquire quirks that don't involve outright robbery, you know." The man sounded mildly peeved now. "Just think about it. A friend blessed with a quirk they don't like or get much use out of, donating it to you out of sheer good will. An old relative on their deathbed, willing to pass on their ability before it gets lost along with their life. An acquaintance debilitated by some illness or chronic condition that renders them unable to draw on their power, entrusting it to you rather than letting it stagnate within themselves."

Izuku pondered on those words. Even though they were all quite specific and uncommon situations, they sounded sensible… on paper. As purely theoretical possibilities. On the practical side, however… "I don't think I'd ever want to take a friend's quirk, no matter what. Being quirkless is… I wouldn't wish it on anyone, honestly." He didn't bother adding that he had no such close friends that would ever consider sacrificing their quirks for his little pipe dream. "And I really wouldn't want to pester old and sick people for something like that. I'd feel like I'd be taking advantage of their suffering…"

"Not even that, uh…?" His father sounded thoughtful. It was odd hearing him so unsure of his words, for once not the impeccable source of complete answers and well-spoken certainties. "Duplicity does not come naturally to you, nor does greed. It is unfortunate that you were endowed with a quirk whose maximum potential hinges on both."

"...What do I do then?" Izuku asked, feeling his hope and energy melt like snow under the sun.

"With strict morals such as yours, I'm afraid your hands are tied." The man paused. "Do you trust my judgement, Izuku?"

It was a rhetorical question, obviously. His father had been right about Izuku eventually getting a quirk. He had been right about Kacchan keeping his secret. He had always been right about anything they had ever talked about. There was no doubt that, if there was anyone in the world who could analyze the current predicament, predict its developments, advise for the best course of action, it was his father.

"Of course."

"Then keep holding your cards close to the vest. Maybe things will change one day, and you'll find more options available to you. But for now, you would gain no advantage from exposing yourself to public scrutiny. You would only attract suspicion and enmity. Keep your quirk hidden and play it safe. Your very life and safety may depend on your discretion."

March 2nd, 2280

"It… rewrites DNA?"

"Exactly. Every time it is used, both on yourself and on others. Despite their seemingly complex functions, quirk factors tend to be encoded and clustered within a relatively small number of genes. Our quirk allows us to detach them from all chromosomes in the body at once, transfer them and reallocate them - think of bacterial plasmids, albeit with a higher degree of complexity."

Izuku hummed, tapping the head of his pencil against his chin as his father's information seeped into his brain. "If DNA is the means through which quirks are transferred… I guess one does not need a… a whole, living human being as a source." Izuku let his thoughts trickle through his mouth unbidden, aware that his father never minded his rambling observations. "...What about a corpse? A very… fresh one, I guess? One which hasn't started decaying yet, not even a little bit. Could you take its quirk from it?"

"Alas, no. For the same reason why we can't collect quirks from detached limbs or single cells, for example. The donor must be a living organism. It is a stringent requirement. The moment the person dies, their quirk becomes unreachable for us."

"The moment the person dies…" Izuku toyed with the concept in his head. Vague memories of wandering internet searches and dramatic soap operas resurfaced. "Isn't that… difficult to establish though? Like, there's cardiac death, brain death… Total death? What applies here?"

"'Total death', I suppose." Izuku's father answered with a trace of humour. "There is a markedly... spiritual side to our quirk - to many quirks, in fact. The death I'm talking about is the loss of what makes a human being truly alive. Call it however you want - soul, mind, life force, spirit, personality, will. The essence of their being."

A pause, then the man spoke again. "I'm afraid that's as precise an explanation as I can give you. I wish I knew more about it myself. It is a tremendously fascinating subject." Izuku nodded in agreement, absently scribbling a small Quirks tied to souls??? on a corner of the receipt for the ice-cream he had bought on the way back from school.

"Izuku? Are you taking notes?" Izuku flinched as his father's tone suddenly turned severe. Had he heard the pencil scratch on paper? Curse his unreasonably sharp ears- "I told you a hundred times never to write down any information about our-"

"I know, I know! Sorry! It's just a habit!" Izuku rummaged through the drawer to find an eraser and immediately remove the offending line. "I wasn't writing on my notebook, it's just a scrap of paper I had lying around. I'm getting rid of it… right now..."

A long-suffering sigh crackled through the speaker. "...Still. I'm quite surprised that you're already considering ransacking graveyards and morgues in order to obtain quirks. It didn't occur to me to try my hand at desecration until I was much older than you."

"I'm- I'm not considering it!" Izuku sputtered, failing to find the eraser and electing instead to just rip the corner off the receipt and swallow it. "That would be incredibly disrespectful! Also a crime!"

"Right."

"I'm just… brainstorming. Keeping an open mind for unseen possibilities." Izuku sighed, not bothering to hide the familiar sting of annoyance. "You know, it wouldn't hurt if you were a little more forthcoming about how you obtained your yet-unspecified number of quirks. Surely you don't expect me to believe they all come from nursing homes and emergency rooms…"

"Izuku." There it was again, that cautionary edge that tinged his father's voice increasingly often as of late. On the bright side, Izuku was growing sort of accustomed to it, finding it easier to simply power through it.

"...I've been reading up on Tartarus lately." He threw out there, twirling his pencil in his fingers. "Not that there's much to read about it. They keep a close lid on any information regarding their security procedures and systems, which is fair. I do wonder though, what kind of measures they may have in place to restrict such a large number of dangerous quirk users."

His father didn't seem to have any comment on the topic, so Izuku decided to lay it on a bit thicker.

"They used to cut hands to punish thieves in certain countries a long time ago. It doesn't really happen any more, it violates all sorts of human rights. Coincidentally, there are rumors of multiple lawsuits for human rights violations being brought up against Tartarus." Izuku paused emphatically. "I'm sure that if the government knew of a way of 'amputating' quirks from incarcerated villains, it would be a strictly classified matter."

His father let out a quiet laugh. "So your current working hypothesis is that I'm obtaining my quirks from those who make poor use of them or are deemed unworthy. Your mind works in truly admirable ways. I'm starting to worry that one of these days you'll show up right on my doorstep."

"So it's true then?"

"Even if it was, do you think I would be at liberty to say?"

Izuku dropped his head on the desk and exhaled in frustration. Deflections, deflections. Even a frank denial was too much to hope for. There was no winning against his sphinx of a father.

"Have you given some more thought about what to do after middle school?" The infuriating man asked with the most casual of tones, as if they'd just been chatting about the weather. He wasn't even trying to be subtle with his diversions any more.

"Yes, and I haven't changed my mind." Izuku muttered, recognizing a losing battle when he saw one. "I want to try the admission test for the hero course at U.A."

A sigh. "I don't even know how I can be any clearer. Heroes aren't going to accept in their ranks someone with your-"

"I'm not going to use my quirk." Izuku interrupted him, with more pluck than he actually felt. "I… I've been wanting to apply since way before my quirk appeared. I'll apply as I would have applied if it hadn't. As quirkless."

Izuku heard some odd tinkering noises coming from the speaker. "I wish I could put this more kindly, but that is a fool's errand."

"It isn't against any of their regulations. There are no precedents, but-"

"Spare me the innocent talk, you're too smart for that." His father's voice cut through him with unusual vehemence. "They don't need regulations to politely dismiss people they presume worthless. A quirkless applicant would be the very embodiment of that worthlessness. You know it as well as I do."

"So you aren't even going to let me try?" Izuku hated the way his voice almost cracked on those words. He hated that he couldn't truly find it in himself to resent his father for being always, unfailingly right.

"...Whatever gave you that impression?" His father sounded genuinely taken aback.

"The fact that you're shooting me down like a trained sniper?!"

"Don't misunderstand me, I'm merely supporting my argument. I have no intention of stopping you. I don't think I even have the right to, really. I'm not exactly a prime example of involved parenthood."

Izuku's jaw hit the proverbial floor. That was… unexpected. "So… you aren't going to stop me. Even if you think it's stupid."

"One has to fall before he can learn how to walk." The man replied with mock solemnity, then he continued more seriously. "If I forbade you to attempt the test, all you'd gain from it would be a long-standing aversion to me and the lifelong regret of not knowing what you could have become, had you been given the chance. Neither of us would benefit from that. If I let you pursue your silly dreams to their inevitable failure, however, you may actually learn some valuable lessons about the importance of realistic objectives and the pointlessness of moot idealism."

That was... less unexpected. Izuku's shoulders dropped. Well. Questionable pep talk aside, at least he'd obtained an outspoken permission. He'd take what he could get. "Thanks, dad. You always know what to say to brighten my day."

"I try my best." His father chuckled. "If you could indulge my obsession for common sense for another moment… what are your spare plans in case of rejection? What other careers are you considering?"

"I… haven't quite worked out a plan B yet." Izuku bit his lip, blatantly caught out. "I-I still have a whole year to decide though. I'll pick some other possibilities before the end of school."

"There will always be plenty of paths open for you, Izuku. Way more than you know." His father sighed, a hint of sourness tinging his voice. "I only wish you would consider them.”

#my hero academia #boku no hero academia #all for one #deku #izuku midoriya

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ace-in-a-shopping-cart · 4 years

Text

Day 13

Prompt: Everyone is born with a superpower, but when soulmates are together, their powers are nullified by each other.

Word Count: 1,304

Main Taglist: (Send an ask to be added or removed!) @starlocked01, @spoopy-turtle, @lizluvscupcakes, @more-fandon-than-friends, @i-cant-find-a-good-username, @vindicatedvirgil, @star-crossed-shipper, @justaqueercactus, @gayboopnoodle, @sanderssidesweirdo, @the-sympathetic-villain, @8-writes, @lizzy-lineart, @battlebunnyteardropsinthesun

Soulmate taglist:(Send an ask to be added or removed!) @elizabutgayer, @melodiread, @tsshipmonth2020, @mikalya12, @8-writes, @lizzy-lineart

Note: Logan is able to summon small items while Virgil is able to make shadows tangible.

Virgil threw the incorporeal ball up, letting it bounce against the ceiling before falling back down into his hands. “No, you’re not listening to me. We told you that if you had any complaints that the tenth was the last day to say so.”

“But we didn’t have any complaints then.”

Virgil briefly muted himself as a growl of frustration left his throat. “Well then, Barbara, I think you might be out of luck. You’ve gone past the return policy date so it’s no longer valid. I have no way of helping you.”

“I want to speak to your manager.”

Virgil could have laughed at that cliche line. “Alright, just give me a moment to transfer you.” He put her on hold and called his superior. “We’ve got another customer trying to claim a return policy after the sixty day guarantee.”

Emily sighed. “Alright, send them my way.” Virgil did just that before leaning back in his chair with a sigh of his own.

He sat there, staring at the ceiling for a few minutes while he wondered if this was worth it, before he stood with a groan, hands on the small of his back. He opened the door to his office and made his way to the break room. Logan Croft was there, making another pot of coffee.

“Greetings.” Logan said as Virgil opened the fridge.

“Hey. How’s work going for you?”

Logan shrugged. “The plans are coming along nicely. At this point, we’re just waiting to be told that we have the funds for it. How about you? You don’t seem to be doing so well.”

Virgil pulled out a pudding cup and grabbed a spoon. “Eh. Just had another entitled Karen on my hands but nothing too bad.”

“As you’ve once said, ‘Oof’.”

Virgil doubled over laughing at Logan’s monotone. “Sorry!” He said when he got his breath back. “That was just the best comedic timing you’ve had in awhile.”

Logan gave him a closer look. “You’re also exhausted aren’t you?”

“Yeah, that too.”

Logan sighed. “What time did you get to sleep last night?”

Virgil shrugged. “I don’t know, about three?”

Logan looked ready to hit him with a spoon. “Virgil, you know that isn’t healthy.”

Virgil just shrugged. Roman came in and sighed. “Is there coffee left?”

“Yes.” Logan answered simply.

Roman poured himself a cup, adding milk and sugar before taking a sip. “Ugh, it’s still only lukewarm.” He dipped a finger in the liquid before his hand started glowing and the liquid bubble slightly.

Logan sighed. “I would ask that you refrain from using your powers during work hours.”

Roman just shrugged and walked out, tossing a, “Whatever,” over his shoulder.

Virgil frowned before deciding it was best to ignore that. “So, you got any dirt on anyone lately?”

Logan’s whole expression changed as his face got more animated and he leaned in conspiratorially as Virgil stuck his spoon in his mouth. “Yes, I do! I heard that Emily and Sara found that their powers don’t work around each other! It also seems that Remus also started another prank war with Patton while Janus is trying to give Patton daily puns.”

Virgil smiled, the thumping of his heart reminding him just how large of a crush he had on this nerd. “Oh really? I heard that Roman and Remus are actually siblings.”

Logan gasped. “Really?! Have you heard anything about Remy yet?”

Said person stood in the doorway. “Are you two gossiping again? What have I told you about that?”

Virgil’s back straightened. “Not to do so without you.” He recited.

Remy smiled, coming over to pour himself a cup. “Good. So, spill.”

They spent the rest of their fifteen minutes exchanging office news before Virgil had to go back to dealing with the humans.

The next day, it seemed he and Remy got to the break room first as Logan was nowhere in sight. Virgil sidled up to Remy. “You got anything new?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure you and Logan are soulmates.”

“What?!” Virgil had to struggle to keep his voice down. “Where did that come from?”

“Have you ever used your powers around him? Has he ever used them around you?”

“He always says not to use them during office hours so I try not to use them around him.”

Remy shrugged, pouring his pumpkin spice creamer in despite it being the middle of May. “Not even in an emergency? Not even when it was raining and he could have easily summoned an umbrella for himself?”

Virgil paused, his mind racing through every encounter he’d ever had with Logan. There were times when his shadow ball dissipated when Logan abruptly showed up at his door but Virgil had always attributed that to losing concentration. Logan had also looked like he’d tried to summon things occasionally in the way that he held a hand out as if a marker or pointer was going to fall into it, holding the hand out to the side for an umbrella that never showed up. Logan always claimed that his powers were finicky, probably needing the object to be in the same place he’d left it for it to work.

“Okay, so we’re soulmates. What now?” If Virgil had been paying attention to the door, he would have noticed Logan come into earshot just as he said that. He would have noticed Logan’s crestfallen expression, the way he put a fresh bouquet of flowers onto Yeonjoo’s desk, the way he walked off, heart broken. Instead, he was focused on his conversation with Remy and didn’t notice him.

“Well, I’d assume you go talk to him, or at least ask him out.”

Virgil nodded, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Yeah, ask him out. Do you know if he has anything scheduled for lunch?”

Remy splayed his hands out. “What do I look like, his secretary?” He sighed. “No, he doesn’t have anything scheduled.”

Virgil smiled, giving him a small hug around the shoulders. “You’re the best!”

He ignored the pit in his stomach as he fielded calls, eyes glancing at the clock every five minutes. When it came time for lunch break, he popped out of his chair and rushed to Logan’s office just as the other man was putting on his jacket.

“Do you want to go to lunch with me?” Virgil asked in a single breath, the question coming out as more of a string of letters without spaces than a genuine sentence.

Logan blinked. “One more time, but slower.”

“Do you want to go to lunch with me?”

“Oh, I would have assumed you’d want to go with your soulmate, not me.”

Virgil frowned before understanding what happened. “I thought you were taught to check your facts, mister.”

“Isn’t Remy your soulmate?”

Virgil shook his head, the pit in his stomach being replaced with a smile on his lips. “We were talking about my soulmate but he’s not it.”

Logan nodded, hope blooming in his eyes. “Okay, in that case, I guess I will come with you.”

Virgil linked arms with him as they left. Once they got to the usual place, Virgil spoke again. “Aren’t you even the slightest bit curious who my soulmate is? Or even why I asked to eat lunch with you?”

Logan shrugged, his eyes scanning the menu they’d both already seen a dozen times as they tended to come here often. “You will tell me in your own time. It’s also not uncommon for us to ask each other to lunch.”

Virgil leaned forward, using a finger to push Logan’s menu down so he could look him in the eyes. “You’re my soulmate, dummy. I’ve also had a crush on you for over a year now. Go out with me?”

Logan sighed, a smile spreading across his face. “Of course.”

#tsshipmonth2020 #analogical #soulmate au #virgil sanders #logan sanders #food mention #superpowers #remy sanders #patton sanders #roman sanders #remus sanders #Janus sanders #my ocs #ace writes

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sylvain-writes · 4 years

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Guarded Hearts and Safe Houses (Leonardo x Reader) Chapter 4/9

Rated: T

Gender Neutral Reader, canon typical violence/injury, light angst, strangers to lovers, supportive family

for @melodiousmelodrama

The way to The Lair is wet and cold. You should have worn rain boots. You should have listened when Leo said they lived in the sewers. You thank god he meant the water runoff and not raw waste, though you can’t imagine the guys living in filth. They were well-mannered and hygienic, as far as their stay at the apartment let you see.

You hear the others before you see them. Loud, heavy sounds of concrete shifting and crumbling. Debris and broken furniture arc through the air as they're tossed from one pile to another. The routine kicks up dust, but does little to repair the home.

“Raph,” Donatello whispers and Mikey jogs toward the mess.

A slab of concrete flies Mikey’s way. “Watch it, bro. I’m too pretty to get busted. Don’t wanna mug like yours to scare off the honeys.”

Raph ignores his little brother’s jokes and tosses another slab with a grunt.

“Here, here, lemme help.” Mikey picks up a few stones and skips one across the floor into the concrete pile. “Little bit o’ brick over there… what’s this-” he lifts a shard of wood for inspection before lobbing it toward a different pile “-a little bit o’ table over there.” He gives his brother a wide, goofy smile, “How am I doin’ so far?”

Raph continues to ignore him.

“Come on, Raphie, this is pointless.”

“It ain’t pointless." Raphael can't look at any of them. He stares only at the rubble spilling into the tunnel. "This is our home. We gotta have a home.”

You take a step forward, careful to stay out of the path of flying debris. “You can stay with us. Until this place is safe. Or until you find somewhere new.”

“Ain’t nowhere new gonna take us." Raphael says, despite your claim. You understand he means long-term. And you know it's true. Even your parents can't house them forever. You can't expect them to sleep on the living room floor and be comfortable.

"...'sides," he grumbles, "Leo ain't leavin', I ain't leavin'."

Mikey picks up a bigger piece of mortared brick and heaves it into Raph's designated pile.

Donatello gives a deep sigh as he watches them give in to the fruitless work. "Let's find Leo," he says to you, not letting himself be defeated yet.

You find Leo in the dojo, kneeling in meditation before a felled tree. The flowering branches and wide trunk must have made a beautiful focal point for the room, before the trunk had been cleaved in two.

Though it goes against your instincts to bother Leo in this place, Donatello urges you onto the large straw mat.

A slow, quiet approach seems most appropriate, and you kneel beside him, mimicking his form. You're sure he's sensed your presence, but he doesn't say a word.

Leo's eyes are closed, his breathing even. It takes you a minute to notice the moisture gathering along the seam of his eyelids.

You wave Donatello off with the gentlest of smiles and wait until he is gone, until you and Leo are alone, before you reach out. You lay your hand atop Leo's as it rests on his knee and you keep it there when he doesn't protest or pull away.

His chest jumps as his breath hitches, but his tears don't fall. His eyes don't open. The only conscious movement he makes is to lift his thumb to hold your hand closer to his.

Pulling Raphael and Mikey away from the rubble isn’t so hard once they see Leo is walking with you. He still doesn’t speak, and no one has mentioned the absence of their father.

“You should grab what you need," you say to the group. "There’s only a few hours until the sun comes up.”

Raphael kicks at a stone and shrugs his shoulders forward. “Gonna leave somethin’ for Splinter, right, Donnie?”

“There’s a message for him," Donnie says, the computer keys clacking under his fingers. "He’ll have to use the emergency cypher, but he’ll know where we are. He’ll know we’re safe and accounted for.”

Mikey shifts his weight and looks up, his wide eyes hopeful. “Can I bring some stuff from my room?”

You nod. “Whatever you want.” You'd never keep him from bringing along a piece of home.

Beside you, Leo tenses, but remains silent.

Raphael and Mikey rush to their room, climbing over rubble and broken furniture to get there. Donatello gives you a short bow and a word of thanks. “We might be a while,” he warns.

You can’t help but yawn as you wave him off. “Go, go. Take as much time as you need.”

“They know the way,” Leo says, his first words of the night. “I can bring you home if you wish.”

You look at him, ready to protest, but see the stoic expression he wears is only a thin mask to hide his pain. “Thank you.”

Leo helps you over dangerous areas of the tunnels, more cautious with you than his brothers were. It’s equal parts irritating and sweet. You handled yourself just fine on the way in, but you let him take care of you like this. It seems like he needs to feel in control of something and this is a little thing you can give.

“You should have worn more practical footwear,” he says when he sees your water-logged sneakers.

“Next time." Gripping his hand, you let him haul you over a pile of rubble.

He catches you at the waist, holding you close for a second longer than necessary before easing you down the other side. “Won’t be a next time.” His words sound final. “I’ve been wanting to move the Lair for a while now. There’s a subway station…”

“Oh yeah?”

“It’s been abandoned for quite some time. I’ve had my eye on it. Didn’t want to move the guys because… well, because the sewers have been our home for as long as we can remember. But I should have acted sooner. I should have told them what I found. I could have avoided this whole-”

“Can I see?” you interrupt his self-depricating rant, knowing that to let him continue on that path wouldn’t do anyone any good. “The subway spot. If you think it’s safe. Can I see?”

Leo turns to face you, to really look at you for the first time since dinner, and offers a slow nod. “Ok.”

The station is a mess. Full of cobwebs and old crates. There’s an abandoned train still on the track. Most of the train's doors have been rusted open. The seat cushions are dry rotted and falling apart. But there’s promise. There are options. And when you turn to Leo, you can see hope.

“I think you should tell them about this place.”

Leo doesn’t argue. He wasn’t going to keep it a secret any longer. Especially not now, when they need this place more than ever.

“I can fix it up with you before you do, if you want. If you think it’ll help.”

Leo doesn’t say anything at that, but stacking old crates against a wall, so you follow his lead.

You leave the heaviest lifting for him, taking it upon yourself to clean out the cobwebs and clear off the platform.

The place will need furniture. And the guys could stand to tear out the train seats to fit each car with a bed and other things to make their rooms more liveable. But you can tell it’s going to be good. They could make it something great.

You look over the station with a feeling of accomplishment. Leo, however, isn’t yet satisfied.

He looks at his phone and swears under his breath. “It’s almost 5. I have to get you home.”

The news comes as a surprise. You didn’t realize you’d been working all night. Each crate stacked and cobweb swept clean had energized you. You’d felt a renewed sense of productivity, a sense of purpose. You were moving toward a tangible goal for the first time in a long time. This wasn’t the same old routine you’ve been walking through at your day job. This was building a new home for new friends.

You follow Leo through the path and up to a set of stairs to street level. There’s a small restaurant beside an alley.

“Won’t they see us? Hear us?” You glance around quickly to see if you've been spotted, but Leo leads you down the alley with an air of calm.

“Old man’s losing his hearing," he says. He makes giving you a boost to the restaurant's low roof look effortless. "His husband’s been bugging him to get hearing aids but he keeps pretending like he didn’t hear him make the suggestion.”

“Funny.”

Leo’s hard frown softens a moment, giving way to the briefest fond smile. “It’s cute.”

“You want that someday?”

“What, hearing aids?” Leo walks past you without giving you a chance to correct him.

You let him lead as your heart twists and sinks. Why had you asked? Even if he wanted love and companionship, they probably weren’t things a guy like him could have. Sure, he can charm the rings off Gram’s fingers. And anyone would admire the passion he has for taking care of his family. But he’s still a mutant turtle. One with rippling muscles and big, blue eyes, a husky voice, and a gentle touch. But, a turtle. Not many people would look past that. It’s likely Leo won’t let many people look past that, if he’d let people see him at all.

#tmnt x reader #leonardo x reader #tmnt leonardo x reader #leo x reader #gender neutral reader #my writing #guarded hearts and safe houses fic

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sophisticated-creepy · 3 years

Text

Daybreak was bright, crisp, and exhilarating, Lola feeling every fiber of her being humming with excitement as the brisk autumn sun kissed her face. She was inspired and playful, eager to attack the morning as she initiated day one of her research plans. The more she thought about the Hobblin’ Goblin for her story, the more she realized she didn’t know the essentials to his origins. She was completely attached to the idea of him being her “Mr. Goblin”, the imaginary friend and childhood companion, and never dove deeper into why he played his pranks, only that he did, and therefore, negated any notion for further investigation. He simply existed, and her imagination conceived the rest. Even Raphael, she discovered over breakfast, wasn’t fully aware of the iconic legend’s origins, and he was a history Professor.

“I guess I don’t know him as intimately as I thought,” she said, stunned to the awakening of her own ignorance regarding the goblin.

“Don’t feel badly,” Raphael had comforted. “I have no doubt you’ll turn this story of yours into an adventure yet.”

Taking her beloved’s advice to heart, Lola got into the proper mindset for delving into the task of research. Her deadline was fast approaching, and she wanted to make as much headway as possible in gathering her facts before putting pen to paper. Five hundred words held the capability to be irrevocably profound. This challenge was an opportunity to showcase depth instead of fluff, so today was all business, strictly pounding the streets for information, putting in the hard work of sleuthing, deducing, and discovering what exactly made the Hobblin’ Goblin tick.

Since the town was saturated in claims of the goblin’s mischief, Lola decided that she would first get as many personal testimonies from the victims of these pranks as possible. Then, upon more research, she would be able to see what connections in claims could help in unlocking the mystery of the Hobblin’ Goblin, allowing her assignment to look into the character of the people affected by the imp, and give her plot heart. Her own opinions were too biased in a light-hearted, flouncy sort of parody she perceived of the goblin’s personality, and while in some cases that may translate well in a fairytale aspect of playful misdemeanors, Lola wanted substance, something tangible to pull in the judges’ interests. As she gathered enough information, she would know in which direction to craft her words.

One such person she wanted to interview first was her former retail manager Stacy. Lola had spent a sizeable amount of time as an associate of the boutique Lotions and Potions, and had a few experiences of her own in her pocket to pull from if need be, but Stacy swore up and down that the place was actively haunted, sharing her stories daily of what went bump in the night. Stacy tended to lean on the side of over-exaggeration, but Lola wouldn’t discount any leads if the potential to find a nugget of inspiration rested somewhere in the spinning of a yarn, so onwards confidently she marched, notebook in one hand, coffee in the other, and entered the establishment filled with buttermilk and bubble bath.

The familiar chime sounding as she walked through the door brought a smile to her face, however, seeing Stacy on her hands and knees in front of a cabinet of decorative glass bottles had her frowning. A clumping of paper towels and a wastebasket at an elbow told Lola that, at least, nothing dire had happened.

“Do you need some help?” Lola asked, setting her belongings on the checkout counter as she fully entered the store. Stacy glanced up from her position, giving her head a slight shake, crookedly smiling at the former employee.

“You don’t work here anymore, Lola, it’s no longer your job to help clean up spills,” Stacy remarked, carefully scooping up a glob of lavender scented lotion mixed with glass shards.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t help out a friend.” Lola went to get the cleaning supplies on hand stowed in a nearby cabinet drawer for emergencies such as these. She handed the bottle of cleaner to Stacy while she herself took up a broom to gather fly away chunks of glass. “I didn’t mean to catch you at a bad time. What happened?”

“Oh, nothing out of the ordinary,” Stacy sighed, spraying down the ceramic tiled floor, cleaning up the last of the mess. “A bottle of lotion leapt off the shelf is all.”

“Really? That’s wonderful!” Lola grasped the broom tightly to her chest in delight, a beaming smile lighting up her eyes as she turned excitedly to the woman still crawling on the ground.

“Well, you don’t have to sound so excited about it,” Stacy informed. “I mean, product isn’t cheap, you know. I’ll be out of business if things keep flying off my shelves only to have them break on my floor.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Lola frantically apologized. “It’s just…I couldn’t ask for more perfect timing. May I record you?”

“Record me? What…?” Stacy watched flabbergasted as Lola rushed to her purse resting on the checkout counter, rummaging deep within the numerous confines before emerging with a portable tape recorder. Lola immediately rushed back over to her former manager, sliding to her knees, shoving the recorder up close to a bewildered Stacy’s face.

“How did the bottle fly off the shelf? Did you hear a noise prior to it falling, or after? Like, maybe a thumping, dragging sound? Was there an ominous presence before it happened? Did you see a shadow figure? Do you believe this was the work of the Hobblin’ Goblin?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Stacy laughed, rearing back on her haunches, straightening away from Lola’s tape recorder and barrage of strange questions. She couldn’t help but find humor in Lola’s exuberance. “Ease up there, gumshoe. Are you playing detective now, or something?”

“I’m in the middle of an investigation for the creative arts,” Lola declared seriously.

“Sounds important.” Stacy got to her feet, taking with her the wastebasket and cleaning implements, stowing the items behind the main counter, Lola a closely following shadow.

“So, about this incident with the lotion bottle…do you think it was a prank caused by the notoriously reputable Hobblin’ Goblin?” While leaning over the counter, Lola held her tape recorder out to Stacy. “Try to speak slowly and clearly. And enunciate,” she added, demonstrating her instructions in the same manner she wished her friend to speak.

“Why are you asking so many questions about the Hobblin’ Goblin? And why are you using a tape recorder? Do they even make tapes anymore? There is a thing called ‘digital’, you know.”

“First of all Stanley,” Lola began, indicating her tape recorder’s name, “has been with me since the beginning. He was there when I got scared by a bird that one time during an evening stakeout.”

“When did you---?”

“Secondly,” Lola interrupted, “I’m asking these questions because I’m working on a story about the Hobblin’ Goblin. Weird things happen in here all the time, and I wanted to get some of your stories and see if they line up with our local legend and his patterns for hauntings.”

“Well, that makes sense,” Stacy said with a smile. “I’d be glad to talk about the hauntings that happen here. I have plenty of stories to share.”

“Great!” Lola cheered. “Let’s get started with what happened right before I walked in.”

“Oh, that was nothing,” Stacy stated, waving her hand dismissively at the cabinet full of fancy lotions. “That was probably a case in gravity, if I’m honest. The truly weird things come about in the early mornings when I’m trying to get the store ready to open.”

“Tell me about these weird things.” Even with her recorder rolling, Lola still took handwritten notes to capture important details in the moment so as not to miss an idea that could be overlooked when reviewing the tape several hours later.

“For starters, it’s like I’m being watched,” Stacy described. “I can feel eyes on me, observing me, and it’s very unnerving. Sometimes I hear footsteps following behind me, and when I turn around to look, there’s no one there.”

“What kind of footsteps? Is there a limp? Are they heavy set? Quick?”

“More of a gentle shuffling,” Stacy clarified. Lola frowned while marking in her notebook.

“The Hobblin’ Goblin is supposed to walk with a crutch, so his step pattern should be different than ‘normal’ sounding footsteps,” Lola voiced her thought aloud. “Is there anything else out of the ordinary that you can think of? Maybe something that pertains to the goblin himself?”

Stacy thought hard, trying to recall occurrences of the abnormal befalling her boutique. “Sometimes I hear breathing,” she said at last. “And sometimes, things will fly off the shelves. I’ve had the record player cut off on me once or twice as well.”

All of Stacy’s stories sounded more of a casual haunt than specifically that of a trickster, the activity appearing more benign as opposed to mischievous. Lola wanted to stay as open minded and unbiased as possible as she asked her questions to help form her story, but she was honestly hoping for something more lively and extraordinary. “Can you tell me of anything…fun?”

“Fun?” repeated Stacy.

“I mean, has anything…I don’t know…silly…happened in the time you’ve experienced these haunts? The Hobblin’ Goblin is a light hearted trickster, he plays pranks. Do things go missing only to turn up in the most random places? Do the lights flicker as if to say ‘hello’?”

“I had a pen thrown at me,” Stacy shared. “I wouldn’t necessarily call that ‘fun’, but it was the most out of the ordinary incident to have happen to me.”

Lola perked up at hearing the news. “What were you doing when that happened?”

“Actually, I was talking with a customer about the Hobblin’ Goblin a few days ago,” Stacy recalled, the memory of the conversation returning to her mind. “When it happened, I just laughed, figuring he must not have appreciated what it was I had been saying.”

“What did you say?” Lola’s sparkle was back in her eyes as she eagerly listened to what Stacy had to tell.

“I said I thought that he was childish, and that there were a lot more scary things out in the world than an imp who merely liked to play tricks.”

“Oh, Stacy,” Lola admonished, clicking her tongue reprovingly. “That was cruel.”

“How was I being cruel?”

“You said his pranks were childish like it was a bad thing,” Lola pouted. “Goblins are generally mischievous, and you insulted him. I think you might even have gone as far as to hurt his feelings.”

Stacy laughed. “Why am I not surprised that you would defend the Hobblin’ Goblin?” The door chime announced a new arrival walking into the boutique as the friends were sharing a laugh. Stacy looked over Lola’s shoulder to greet the person, smiling friendly as she recognized the mail carrier. “Good morning, Joyce.”

“Good morning, Stacy. Morning, Lola,” the mail woman greeted. “I haven’t seen you in a while, little miss. How’s tricks? Staying out of trouble?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Lola jest. “Hey, Joyce, do you have any stories of being pranked by the Hobblin’ Goblin?” Lola turned her recorder towards the mail woman, prepared to document the newest insights into her subject matter.

“I have no time to deal with pranks,” Joyce stated. “I deliver the mail, and go about my day peacefully. I don’t call upon the Hobblin’ Goblin to play his tricks on me.”

“Meaning, she’s afraid of him,” Stacy snidely commented good humoredly.

“I respect the spirits, Stacy,” Joyce quipped in return with a smile, no malice exchanging between the two friends. “Why are you asking?” she then asked Lola.

“I’m doing research for a story about the goblin, and I wanted him to have some authenticity to his character,” she answered.

“I see. Just be careful where you go poking around,” cautioned Joyce. “You don’t want to inadvertently stir up trouble.”

“Actually, I think she does,” Stacy teased.

“More or less,” Lola agreed. “Thank you for your concern, Joyce. I’ll make sure I’m careful,” she promised.

“You’ve got a good heart, Lola, I’m confident you’ll be safe.” Reaching into her mailbag, she passed a handful of envelopes and a newspaper to Stacy. “You be careful, too.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” Stacy defended.

“Yet, but I know you also like to go looking for trouble. Have a nice day, ladies.” With a tip of her hat, and a wink of an eye, Joyce left the boutique.

“I should probably get going, too,” Lola sighed, shutting off her recorder and gathering her belongings. “I was going to see if maybe Mr. Jasons would be interested in sharing some of his stories next. Thanks for letting me bother you.”

“You weren’t bothering me in the slightest,” Stacy assured as she began filing through her mail. “Oh, hey, look at this,” she said, unfolding the newspaper to read. “The old train yard at the Miners Museum made the front page.”

“Neato,” Lola responded automatically, only half listening as she slung her purse over her shoulder, her mind already on her next objective.

“Oh, my God! Someone was attacked!”

“Wait, what?” Stacy’s declaration fully captured Lola’s attention. “What happened?”

Stacy’s eyes furiously scanned the front page, speed reading as much of the information as she could. “The police aren’t sure,” she shared after a breathless pause. “They say a security guard was pushed down while chasing away some kids during the middle of the nightshift rounds. He hit his head on the railway of the old mine train. He has a major concussion and a fractured skull.”

“That’s horrible,” Lola gasped.

“It continues to say that another guard found him in the train yard shortly after he fell. No evidence, however, of the kids, allegedly, playing around the site could be found,” Stacy concluded.

“Poor guy,” Lola sympathized. “Are they sure it was kids mucking about, and that he didn’t just accidently trip?”

“Looks like it,” she validated, continuing to rove the paper. “The second guard states the first guard, the victim, went to go chase away the kids playing by the mineshaft when they saw flashing lights from the security monitors. Here’s a picture of the scene.” Stacy turned the paper around for Lola to see the front page where a photo of the old steam engine and mine were pictured, and with it, just on the outer margins, was the backdrop of the Dead Forest. Lola felt a chill creep down her spine as she looked at the newspaper. Something ominous radiated from the main image, and she squinted critically at the photo, taking the paper to examine the image closer where a shadowed form blending into the tree line, a darker mass of shapes, hovered half-cropped out of frame. The anomaly warranted further investigation, and Lola knew just the person from whom she wanted a second opinion.

“Do you mind if I hang onto this?”

“You can keep it,” Stacy offered. “I don’t read much from the paper anymore.”

“Thanks,” Lola said distantly, her eyes glued on the blurry, pixelated blob. She began to turn and leave when Stacy summoned her back.

“Little witch,” she called. Lola blinked, focusing on Stacy. “Are you planning on flying out of here, or may I have my broom back?”

“Hmm? Oh! My bad,” Lola chuckled, embarrassed. “Sorry about that.” Lola leaned the broomstick she had been holding onto since helping clean up the broken bottle against a cabinet. “I didn’t even realize I’d still been holding it.”

“It’s hard for a witch to hide what comes naturally,” Stacy joked, giving Lola a look that spoke of amusement.

“Thanks for not blowing my cover,” Lola kidded back. “And thanks again for sharing your time and stories with me, I really do appreciate it.”

“Of course. Don’t be a stranger.” The two waved their goodbyes, and Lola stepped out onto the historic cobblestone, once more lost in the picture of her newspaper.

“There’s just something ‘off’ about this picture,” Lola murmured to herself. “I can’t put my finger on it, but I’m hoping Modesta can.” Folding the newspaper back into its original shape, Lola cradled the bundle into the crook of her arm along with her notebook, her coffee in one hand, and set her confident march towards her friend’s shop of Curios and Oddities.

~~~~~~~~~~

#newberry at night #adventure #fantasy #romance #love #magic #witches #ghosts #goblins #ghost stories

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houchlife · 3 years

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Top 7 Law Of Attraction Tips To Manifest More Of What You Want!

By Heather Mathews Author of Manifestation Miracle “Everything is within your power, and your power is within you.” ― Janice Trachtman Charlie, a stay at home dad, works out of his living room while looking after his three-year-old toddler. As a social media consultant, he depends on his laptop to make a living. The problem is that his beat up computer was as old as his kid, and it was always glitching on him. So Charlie kept focusing on getting a new computer – a 13-inch Macbook Pro in particular. Eventually, his old laptop gave out, which made him panic a bit. So Charlie went online to look for another one while having the shiny new Macbook in the back of his mind. After hours of searching, he couldn’t find a reasonably priced model. So he was about to settle on another type of laptop and was close to closing the sale. But at the last minute, Charlie decided to check the price listings for a used version of the computer that he REALLY wanted. And just like that, someone was selling a six-month old Macbook Pro for a price significantly cheaper than a store-bought one. So Charlie got what he wanted, and at a better deal than he had hoped for! Now, Charlie’s incredible stroke of luck seemed like a fluke to him at first, but then another awesome thing happened shortly after. You see, Charlie was also looking for a new job because he felt stuck in his current one. So he had his sights set on another company with a position in mind. The truth was that he wasn’t all that confident he was even qualified for the position, but he went over the job description again and again. Charlie even printed the job ad and put it on his refrigerator door so he could see it every day. A couple of weeks after his interview, he got a call from the company and said he got the job. On Charlie’s first day, his new boss told him, “Honestly, your skillset isn’t an exact match for what we were looking for. But I really liked how you did at the interview…and besides, we can train you for the other things you need to learn, anyway. You have a great attitude and that’s more important than being 100% qualified for the job.” Click Here To Discover the Lazy Person’s Secret To Get Everything You’ve Ever Wished For Is It Coincidence - Or Something Else at Work? It’s easy to brush off Charlie’s streak as plain dumb luck, but could he have WILLED his good fortune to happen? After all, the common element between getting his new laptop and the new job was that he focused on both things intensely. Charlie kept it in his thoughts all the time. More than that, he created a detailed picture of his desired state in his mind. He imagined what it would be like to hold his new laptop and how he’d feel working in the new job he was aiming for. Charlie visualized both scenarios so vividly that he could almost taste it. Whether he knew it or not, he was putting the basic principle of The Law of Attraction to work - and it served him well. As the name implies, this law decrees that “like attracts like.” There’s a global movement behind this belief, and it says that the kind of thoughts you send out to the Universe emit a certain frequency – be it helpful or harmful. And you have the power to control the wavelength you operate on, which in turn attracts circumstances that match your energy. So by focusing on positive outcomes and giving out positive vibrations, you can turn your thoughts into a tangible force of good in your life! On the other side of the coin, dwelling on the negative aspects of life and focusing your attention on the things you resent attracts even MORE negativity into your world. Like Charlie, you can think of something specific you want, and hold that image in your mind. Create all the details that bring the picture to life, then believe that you already have it. When you go about your day thinking that the object of your desire is already a matter of fact… …this sends out a clear, strong message to the Universe that you truly WANT and BELIEVE it. But this is just the tip of the iceberg; there are other ways to raise your frequency even higher. By following these 7 Tips to Create the Life You’ve Always Dreamed Of, you’ll naturally attract everything you’ve ever wanted – and MORE:

#1: Set aside time to focus on what you desire

The first habit is simple enough: give yourself at least 5-7 minutes daily to visualize the things you want to turn into reality.

You can do this by finding a quiet place to contemplate, then sit upright with your eyes closed. While keeping your desires front and center in your thoughts, breathe deeply in and out.

Focus on your breath and the sensations your body is feeling, and use that as anchor to keep your thoughts from straying.

If your mind does go on a tangent, gently bring yourself back to your breathing AND your desired future state.

You’ll get a lot of benefits from doing this for just a few minutes every day. For instance, many studies have proven the stress-reducing properties of meditation.

A study at the Massachusetts General Hospital showed that people who tried their meditation program experienced significantly less health problems than before.

They ended up not having to see a doctor or go to the emergency room, saving them about $2,300 in medical costs for EACH person!

On top of that of course, meditation also helps you keep your eye on the prize and give you the determination to make it happen.

Some people however, have trouble meditating and get easily distracted.

If you need a little guidance with this habit, I’ve got a special gift for you – but more on that later…

MORE ABOUT Motivational / Transformational

#2: Be grateful and practice gratitude

Ever hear the expression “Thank your lucky stars”?

Back in ancient times, people believed that celestial bodies played a huge role in someone’s destiny.

Today, many still believe that these same external forces affect our lives.

The Law of Attraction draws from this belief, and it states that we should be gratefull whenever the Universe sends something good our way.

This is another way of fine tuning your frequency. When you actively pay attention to the positive things that happen around you, it acts like a magnet that attracts similar things.

And by being thankful for your blessings, you’re sending a powerful message to the Universe that essentially translates to:

“Thank you, that was awesome! More please!”

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#3: Take a leap of faith

The main challenge that people have with manifesting their desires is dealing with the world of the intangible.

It can be daunting (and even discouraging) to imagine a future outcome that hasn’t happened yet.

It takes some faith to push past that hazy uncertainty, and not everyone has it in them to do so.

So you need to check your inner Doubting Thomas at the door for a moment and appreciate how other people have used the Law of Attraction to succeed.

Consider the great figures from the past: Albert Einstein, Nelson Mandela, Marie Curie, Vincent Van Gogh and Nikola Tesla.

All of them were shining examples of how they used their mind and willpower to create something valuable in this world.

They raised their own frequency and as result, had a different energy from the rest of humanity.

Even though they’re gone, their legacy lives on, and we can still feel its impact today.

It’s all because they took a brave step into the unknown.

Even though they couldn’t see how their work would ripple through the next several decades, they still powered through.

The skepticism that people have is the result of growing up.

As you get older and have more experiences, a certain amount of jadedness sets in.

That’s why you won’t find any of that in kids. Just think about how children play make-believe.

When they yell, “The floor is lava!” you can bet they’ll be scrambling for the nearest couch or chair to avoid getting “burned.”

On a certain level, they TRULY believe that the floor is literally molten rock.

They can see the hot, glowing lava, burning everything its path…

…and they do everything to stay out of its way.

That’s the power the mind and imagination in action.

Learn how to see the world on this level again. That way, you can see a bright future before it happens – then go on to make it a reality.

Click Here To Learn How to Force the Universe to Manifest Your Dream Life

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#4: Keep on keepin’ on

One of the realities of this world is that you can’t eliminate adversity.

It’s always going to be an uphill climb at some point, especially when you’ve just taken on a new challenge.

You’ve been eating right and working out, but the pounds aren’t quite flying off as you’d hoped.

You started a side income project, but your cash flow hasn’t been anything more than a trickle.

You’ve tried beating your depression with exercise, therapy and medication, but the dark thoughts still charge at you like a freight train.

That’s called RESISTANCE.

It will always be there, even as you dig deep and do everything in your power to manifest the reality you want.

Being a grown-up means expecting those external circumstances to work against you.

Your best response? PUSH BACK.

Keep your inner world together, and the outside world will follow suit.

Dumbledore once told Harry Potter, “Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it.”

Remember: the hero of the story is never a one-person army.

Harry had Hermione and Ron.

Luke had Obi-Wan and Yoda.

And you don’t have to fly solo in YOUR journey.

Think about the people in your inner circle – are they giving you the energy, motivation and inspiration to succeed?

If the company you keep sneers at growth and being better, maybe it’s time to look for other friends to round out your squad.

Seek people who lead by example and can show you how to overcome that resistance in your life.

Learn from them and let their enthusiasm rub off you.

While you’re at it, use technology to connect to like-minded folks who can help you in your quest. Open your phone or laptop and fire up YouTube, Vimeo or any other video streaming site.

TED talks, self-help lectures and tons of other empowering content are literally at your fingertips.

The Universe has too much abundance for you to ignore.

We’re part of a vast human network, and our collective energy affects everyone else in ways we can’t yet fully comprehend.

This network has always been around; the Internet merely accelerated it. Tap into it and unleash its power.

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#5: Tune out your Negative Ned (or Nancy)

There’s always that voice in the back of your head that kicks in when life gets tough.

It loves whispering things in your ear, usually at the height of your frustration and despair:

- “You totally blew that one, why do you even bother trying?”

- “You had one job and you screwed it up like always…I’m not even surprised.”

- “Getting back on the horse, are we? I give it a week before you go back to your old ways. Better to quit while you’re ahead!”

- “You actually thought he was complimenting you? Oh, bless your heart…it’s called ‘small talk’ and ‘being nice’.”

If you’re like the rest of the human species, you’re going to run into those nasty folks called insecurity, self-doubt and fear.

They’re going to take up space in your head and try to drown you out with their noise.

Rumi, a 13th-century Persian poet and scholar, knew this well. It his poem “The Guest House”, he spoke an ancient truth about the human condition.

He likened all our thoughts and feelings – both good and bad – as visitors who stopped by the guest house of the soul.

And this line struck me the most:

“The dark thought, the shame, the malice. Meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.”

Once I understood what it meant, I realized that I didn’t have to resist it. I could simply let my obnoxious guests do their thing, and see them out.

It’s not about covering your ears and going, “La la la la! I can’t hear you!”

Acknowledging their existence in your head is NOT the same as letting them win.

The world’s greatest achievers go through bouts of darkness and anger like everyone else.

The main difference is that they use their failures as material for an instruction manual called “What NOT to Do and How to Do It Better The Next Time Around”.

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#6: Ditch your story

You shouldn’t stop at managing your negative thoughts, however. You need to peel back another layer and go deeper.

Here’s the thing: you grew up on a set of beliefs, whether you’re aware of it or not.

Your parents, teachers, friends and pretty much everyone you knew growing up contributed to your programming.

You don’t know it, but you operate on this programming on a daily basis.

And it influences every decision you make – and how you choose to see the world.

Now this can be a good thing if you grew up around people who were positive, motivated and had a good outlook on life…

…but this is the real world we’re talking about, so NOT everyone had that kind of effect on you.

Somewhere along your journey, someone discouraged you in a subtle way, or put some sort of label that you can’t shake off.

Words like “Underachiever”, “Oddball”, “Loser”, “Nerd”, “Small Fry”, “Ugly Duckling” and “Black Sheep” come to mind…

…and each one is damaging in its own toxic way.

Sadly, most people carry this invisible weight their whole life.

But starting today, you can lay those bricks on the ground and walk away for good. You don’t have to carry that weight for anyone, especially not for THEM.

Stop living your story based on the false narrative that your negative programming created.

All those preconceived beliefs need to go if you want to attract happiness and prosperity in your life.

I’ve seen people achieve INCREDIBLE things – even the impossible – just by doing this one thing.

Lionel, a heroin addict from Michigan, was in and out of jail for the longest time.

But after overdosing within an inch of his life, he decided to ditch his old story.

Even after everyone gave up on Lionel and called him a “screw-up”, he turned it all around.

He let go of the labels that people had been putting on him for YEARS…

…and Lionel decided he didn’t have to be any of those things anymore.

Lionel created a NEW story for himself – one where he was finally free of his crippling addiction and lived a clean, sober life.

What kind of story do YOU want to live out?

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#7: Make your affirmations “pop”

You might have heard of people making declarations about themselves to manifest them as truth, and not just as an opinion.

When you affirm some truth about yourself, it validates the awesomeness within you.

Words of kindness heal the soul and help forgive past failures.

In short, it’s about LOVING yourself.

After all, you can’t give what you don’t have.

However, saying “Boy I sure love myself!” doesn’t quite do the trick.

To make your affirmations stick in your subconscious, it needs to have a little something extra.

Don’t stop at “I love me!”- take it up another notch to really drive the point home.

Try these on for size:

- “I love myself so much that I want to use my gifts and share them with the world. I want to take this love inside me and use it to lift other people up.”

- “By sharing the love I have, I possess the power to change myself for the better, and the world around me.”

- “I am love, light, peace and prosperity. Anger, hate and scarcity have no power over me.”

- Aside from loving yourself, you can also infuse a dash of humor in your affirmations. Who says you have to be so grim with his Law of Attraction stuff, anyway?

When you add a bit of levity while you affirm yourself, it shushes your Negative Ned (or Nancy) into silence.

Try coming up with statements like these:

- “I’m so awesome that I kick mediocrity in its big fat butt!”

- “I’ve come here to be awesome at everything I do and kick major butt. And I’m all out of butts to kick.”

- “Did you say something, self-doubt? Sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of my awesomeness!”

It’s all a matter of finding the right attitude and tone that suits you. Take a crack at making these affirmations, and you’ll soon find your true inner voice.

What matters is that you inject your affirmations with a serious amount of attitude, and above all, ENERGY.

Without that energy, you won’t give your messages enough “juice” to reach the Universe and show up on its radar.

Those who practice the Law of Attraction often combine these affirmations with their meditation sessions to hit two birds with one stone.

And the results are nothing short of phenomenal.

Now, about that gift I promised you earlier…

To make the MOST out of your meditation, I’ve got a series of audio tracks to help you manifest incredible benefits in your life.

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bellshells · 4 years

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Splitting Hairs ch.5

Bore da pawb! This is chapter five lads! Summary: Sev isn’t feeling great and overhears a heated conversation. Also, smut. Warnings: Swearing, smut, general angst.

Severus Snape x OC

Word Count: 3008

Previous Chapter: Next Chapter: Start from the beginning

He was in bed. But it wasn’t his bed. The feel of the cotton sheets was unfamiliar on his skin, but the slight floral scent was one he had smelled before, but not in a long time. He opened his eyes slowly, adjusting to the dim light with ease; he was used to the dark. He wasn’t in his room, but he had been here before. The dark wooden panelling of the walls engraved with pomegranates and elm trees were a welcome sight. It must be near day break, he thought. He could hear someone breathing softly beside him and instinctively he extended his arms, reaching for the sleeping body next to his. His hands met locks of thick red, he twisted the tendrils around his fingers and examined the change in colour as the emerging sunlight danced through the window. The person attached to the hair stirred and turned to him with a smile. “Good morning.” “Morning,” he replied, he wrapped them in his arms and pulled them tight to his chest. The person welcomed his embrace and clung tightly to his shoulders. “Did you sleep well?” “Like the dead.” He was amused by that and pressed a long kiss to their forehead. He looked down to where their face was now pressed against his shoulder, green eyes burning into his. “Lily?” He asked. He waited a moment before she hummed in acknowledgement. “This is a dream, isn’t it?”

Lily lifted her head and shifted to support her weight onto her elbows, a small sad smile settled onto her lips. “Yes, my love, I’m afraid it is.” She said softly. Severus closed his eyes again, afraid then when he opened them again, he would be awake, and Lily would be gone. “Can’t you stay? I really miss you.” It was barely a whisper, Severus was afraid if he were to speak any louder, his voice would break. Lily laughed gently and deftly moved stray wisps of hair from Severus’ eyes. “No Sevvy, I can’t. You know that.” She said and Severus grunted. “You need to wake up now.” Severus groaned and grasped at Lily, he pulled her even closer and rolled over until he was on top of her. She smiled up at him as she placed both hands either side of his face. “You need to look past the disapprobation,” She said decidedly and with an authority Severus hadn’t seen in years. “Look past and be happy.” “Am I to know what the means?” Severus mumbled, he brought his lips down to meet hers but before he could, Lily placed a finger on his lips and gave him a fierce look. “Look past.”

Severus woke with a start. He gasped for breath, the stale air of his room almost suffocating. He rubbed his eyes again and again, though they still stung with tiredness. Although he had slept a long while, he did not feel rested in the slightest. In truth, he felt rotten. Severus unwillingly pushed the covers from him and placed his bare feet onto the cold floor with a sigh. Was it really only Tuesday? At least he had two hours of free time this morning before his lessons commenced after lunch. Still, with the mock O.W.L tests fast approaching before Christmas, he knew he should be in his office to prepare. He was slow to dress, he was sluggish and in dire need of some motivation. Severus had a strange feeling deep in his stomach, it wasn’t the guilt he had become accustomed to, its pulsating pain was reminiscent of the grief he had carried with him since the end of the war. Severus longed to be asleep again. That dream had been so real it was almost tangible. ‘Look past the disapprobation’, Lily had said. Whatever that meant. It was so like her, even in dream form she couldn’t help but speak in riddles. She had always made him work for everything, and even in death it seemed she had not quelled that inane skill.

He made his way to his classroom with no real sense of urgency. He hadn’t seen anybody on the way, which was a blessing. It was also unlikely that anybody would knock on his door, his students were ever inclined to not seek out the potions master if they really didn’t have to. Severus tried to busy himself with preparing revision guides, it was one thing that he prided himself on. For those that were willing, he would produce every material necessary to ensure his students were prepared for any potion’s exam. But, if they didn’t care, neither did he. He soon tired of it though, there was nothing interesting enough to distract him from his foul mood. Severus mulled over the idea of going into the Great Hall for his lunch. He quickly decided against it and instead decided to find Minerva and have a quiet bite in her office. He needed to tell someone about his dream, and he knew Minerva would listen intently and reassure him that it was just his subconscious; that he had nothing to worry about. Yes, logical brained Minerva was his best bet.

Severus flew through the corridors in a flurry of black robes. He ignored every person he passed, whether they were staff or not. He had neither the time nor the patience to engage in conversation. He rounded a corner that took him passed Valentine’s classroom and slowed as he heard raised voices inside. “That’s just the thing though,” he heard the unmistakable timbre of Valentine’s slight welsh twang from the other side of the door. “You’re not in my position, so I would like it if you didn’t profess to be.” She sounded furious, he could hear footsteps coming towards him and he shrunk back, fearful that the door would fly open and he would be caught eavesdropping. “Elizabeth, I didn’t mean any offence.” Was that…the headmaster? Severus gasped as he heard Albus attempt to placate Valentine from the inside of the classroom. He pressed his ear against the wood, desperate to hear the pair. “It certainly doesn’t feel like that though. I’m doing my best Albus, surely you know that?” “I don’t doubt it my dear, I’m merely suggesting that you could perhaps…do more?” Albus’ voice was soft, almost patronising. “More?!” Valentine thundered, Severus heart beat quickly in his chest, what on earth were they talking about? “If you feel like you could do a better job than me, then by all means be my guest.” The door that Severus was unceremoniously leaning against was opened in a flash. Severus froze, his eyes wide with shock as Valentine and Albus stared back at him with an equal shock of their own. “Severus.” Albus said with a sly smile. He swept past Severus as he left Valentine’s classroom, he stopped to shoot a concerned look over at Valentine and Severus watched as she averted her gaze. Severus waited until Albus was out of earshot before he turned to Valentine and took a step toward her. “Valentine-” he started. She cut him off as she grabbed his wrist and pulled him forcibly into her classroom. “What are you doing now?” She asked breathlessly, “Never mind, I don’t care.”

She brought her hands to either side of his face and crushed her lips to his in a bruising kiss. Severus was so shocked he couldn’t speak, but he found himself kissing her back. He grasped onto her hips as he walked her backwards toward the line of desks in the middle of the room. They kissed quickly, hungrily as they came to a stop. With a flick of his hand the door slammed shut. He found it impossible to think about anything else other than the sensation of her lips on his as she invaded his mouth with her tongue. After the two kisses that Severus and Valentine shared, Severus felt no desire to pull away; and it appeared he was functioning on sheer adrenaline, his reflexes were automatic. He lifted her with ease and sat her down roughly atop a desk, her legs wrapped around his waist instantly. He could feel the warmth between her thighs on his groin, as he felt himself grow hard. Severus grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her neck to the side, exposing her neck. He kissed her roughly, nipping the sensitive skin with his teeth. Valentine moaned throatily in his ear and found his mouth with her own. Her fingers flew to the buttons of her blouse and started to unfasten them with shaking hands. Severus watched with dark eyes as with every button that came undone, more and more of Valentine’s flesh became visible.

Every fibre of his being screamed at him to stop. This was wrong. They were in a classroom. Anyone could walk in a see them. Did he want this? Why did he feel guilty? As quickly as these thoughts appeared in his mind, they were extinguished as Valentine started to attack the buttons on Severus’ coat. Feeling most unlike himself, he helped her unbutton the remaining ones as she slid the offending item over his shoulders until it hit the floor with a dull thud, his crisp white shirt remaining. She moved her hands up his torso and elicited a shiver from Severus, she attempted to remove his cravat; but Severus caught her wrists and thrust them down to her sides. Valentine moaned again as Severus gripped her hard and pulled him even closer with her legs.

On the inside, Severus was panicking. He had never been this close to a woman before, he had never touched the soft contour of a breast and yet, as he unclasped Valentine’s bra with little difficulty, he allowed himself a moment to be proud. He relished in the sight of her bare before him, he was so painfully hard, and Valentine rubbed herself against his trousers. Severus brought his hands up to her breasts and took a hard nipple between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing it. Valentine hissed in response and kissed him deeply, her teeth biting down onto Severus’ bottom lip, prompting a moan from him. “Let me touch you.” She whispered. He took a moment to deliberate before nodding in consent. Her hands drifted over his thighs, lightly brushing over Severus’ strained trousers. She unfastened the three buttons that constricted his throbbing cock. More fucking buttons, he cursed. At last he was freed, and Valentine pushed his trousers and underwear down his thighs and took hold of his member in one hand, whilst the other snaked its way around his neck and brought him in for another kiss. Severus’ head rolled back and his eyes fluttered closed as Valentine pumped her hand up and down his shaft. He had never felt anything quite like it before. Although he had recently become acquainted with his own hands, he couldn’t suppress the string of curses that fell from his lips as Valentine pleasured him. Her pace was relentless, she moved her hand deftly up and down his cock and Severus felt the familiar tightening in his balls signalling his approaching orgasm. He rutted into her hand, which tightened around the tip of his cock. The feeling was incredible, he panted hard into Valentine’s ear as he held a fistful of her hair. His legs became weak as with the last few pumps from her, he came. He spilled his seed into her hand with a staccato moan as he thrusted his hips forward pathetically once more.

Severus’ head lolled into Valentine’s shoulder as he recovered. Valentine muttered a spell under hear breath, he assumed to clean her hands as he wrapped his arms around her torso. He pulled away after a moment and looked into her eyes ravenously, he could see she was breathless, her cheeks tinged with pink as, without breaking eye contact, he kissed her breasts. He trailed his lips down her stomach and dropped to his knees. He could hear Valentine’s breath catch with anticipation as he slowly dragged his hands up her thighs, using his fingernails to lightly scratch her. Valentine sat back a little, resting her weight on her elbows and forearms. Severus could hear his pulse in his veins, he was so nervous as her snatched at her knickers and pulled them down in one swift motion. He felt slightly sick with worry, it was almost like his mind had finally caught up with his body and was completely assessing the situation. Merlin, he thought. He had just been masturbated by the one person he was trying (and failing) to keep at a distance. And now, she was before him, legs spread and waiting.

If nothing else, Severus wanted to be a gentleman. He continued with his poorly thought out plan and kissed up the inside of her thigh until finally his lips met her cunt. She was dripping for him, and the sight of her alone was enough to make him hard again. Her flesh raised as he peppered small kisses to her clit, and she whispered his name. Satisfied with the response to his actions, he licked it. He moved his tongue in slow, torturous circles as her hands found his hair, sticking his head in place. He suddenly became exceptionally aware that he didn’t have a clue what he was doing. He didn’t know what she liked, but he was desperate to make her come. He tried to think back to anything, any muggle film or book he had seen or read that detailed any information about sex acts. Of course, he knew the logistics, but the practise was something else entirely. He licked along her folds and slowly penetrated her with his tongue, flattening it whilst inside her and she shuddered beneath him. Her grip on his hair tightened as he swirled his tongue around, shaking his head back and forth- his nose rubbing on her most sensitive part. Valentine writhed beneath him, she began to buck her hips to increase the friction and he thought she might pull the hair from his scalp. He ignored the pain and continued, worshipping her, his hands tight around her thighs as he fucked her with his tongue. “Severus,” she breathed, “I’m going to- fuck-” with one more swish of his tongue, she unravelled. Valentine bit down onto her hand to suppress the long moan that escaped her. She shook around him as her juices flowed freely, and Severus lapped at her like he would never get his fill.

A few moments passed before either of them moved. Eventually, he stood and fastened his trousers. He retrieved her kickers from the floor and passed them to her sheepishly, not quite able to meet her gaze. Valentine smiled in thanks; she was spent. Her chest heaved as she lowered herself down from the desk. She stood and pulled her skirt down, covering her modesty. Severus looked away as she requested, he bent down and picked up his heavy frock coat and folded it over his arm. When he was confident that she was decent her turned to face her. Surprisingly, his mind was empty. Gone was his usual consuming guilt, instead he felt strangely peaceful. He would never show it, but he felt like his skin was on fire. There was a small part of his psyche that was still sixteen and Severus hoped that that dysfunctional teenager was proud of him. “Well,” Valentine smiled and cleared her throat. “I don’t know about you, but I’m absolutely starving. Fancy some lunch?” She made her way to her classroom door and opened it wide, the footfall was heavy outside her classroom and students peered in as the passed, what a strange sight it must have been to see Professors Snape and Valentine together looking rather dishevelled. Severus nodded with a smile and thrust his arms through his frock coat and started on the buttons. “Those fucking buttons have got to go.” Valentine laughed and Severus smirked in agreement.

They walked side by side to the Great Hall and chatted about nothing of pertinence. Severus wanted to ask her if she was well, he was concerned about the cross words she had shared with Albus; but he couldn’t deny that for the first time since he had met her, he didn’t feel guilty. The last thing he wanted to do was to potentially make things tense between them, especially when he felt the lightest he had been in a long time. His hands still shook with the adrenaline as he picked up his goblet of pumpkin juice. Valentine, who had chosen to sit at the other end of the table nestled between Filius and Hagrid smiled at him, and he smiled back. Uninhibited.

He was about to leave the table when he felt a gentle squeeze of his shoulder. His head whipped around to see Minerva, a letter pressed to her chest and a grave look on her face. Severus stood instantly, awash with concern for his friend. “Minerva,” He breathed, he took her arm and escorted her out of the Great Hall through a side door hidden behind a pillar. “Minerva, what’s going on?” The deputy headmistress’ face was deathly pale as she thrust the open letter into his hands. He didn’t look at it, instead deciding to repeat himself. “Minerva, what’s the matter?” “We need to talk about Professor Valentine.” Minerva whispered, her voice shaking slightly. Severus’ face betrayed his confusion. “What do you mean? I don’t understand-” “This letter. It was delivered to me by mistake, I didn’t realise it was addressed to her until after I had opened it and by which time…well, you catch my drift.” Minerva spoke quickly, she wrung her hands and began to pace. Severus looked down at the letter and turned it over to see the return address. “Azkaban?” He hissed, as if it knew, his Dark Mark began to tingle. “What is this?” “I don’t know,” Minerva shot back desperately. “It’s from her father.”

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lady-divine-writes · 4 years

Text

A Dish Best Served Cold - A Prince of Omens Inspired One-shot (Rated NC17)

Summary: Starmakers rarely Fall. Crowley was the first. But every time one does, Crowley feels it, like razor sharp thorns throughout his body. When the latest one does, Aziraphale offers to accompany Crowley to Hell to make certain they're all right. But while they're there, Aziraphale decides to settle a score on his husband's behalf. (3689 words)

Notes: All right, I said I wasn't going to do this again, but I couldn't help myself. So this is inspired by @whiteleyfoster 'Omens of Egypt' mini comic 'Down' about Crowley's Fall from Heaven, along with their Bastille torture implied pic, which you can see here . I know there's a contest going on. This isn't about that. There's better writers for that. It's just something I've been working on since the end of 'Down'. I needed some BAMF Aziraphale sticking up for his demon husband against his former managers, so to speak. Warning for angst and mention of torture (not explicit).

Read on AO3.

“N-no … s-stop … I … I didn’t … I didn’t do … anything wrong … I … I’ll stop! I … swear!”

Aziraphale closes his book and sets it aside, then rolls on his hip to face his husband grabbing at the sheets covering his body, gripping so hard his knuckles have begun to turn white.

“Dearest?” Aziraphale whispers, brushing aside strands of hair from Crowley’s face with careful fingertips. “Wake up, dearest. Please wake up. You’re safe, my love. You’re all right …”

“N-no … no, you can’t … p-please …”

“Crowley? Dear? Can you hear me?”

“N-no … no, please …”

Aziraphale sighs as his husband continues to whimper. He rests a hand over one of his to anchor him, give him something tangible and familiar to hold on to, even in sleep.

An anchor is all Aziraphale can offer because there is no consoling him.

Crowley had once confided to Aziraphale that as much as he loved sleep, he had nightmares pretty on the regular, and they got worse as time went on. They’re rarer now that angel and demon sleep together, but they still crop up from time to time.

Unfortunately, Aziraphale can’t always tell which torture he’s reliving - being tossed out of Heaven into a steaming pit of sulfur, or the various punishments he endured the second he became a demon.

Having the down torn from his wings over the sin of being vain and naive.

Or having symbols of degradation burned into his skin with hot irons for the treachery of rescuing an angel.

Aziraphale didn’t even know that was a possibility until he’d discovered them.

The burns had faded, but the malevolent power that created them remained, its vile signature seared into Crowley’s skin. Aziraphale stumbled across them one night while they were making love, when they were close together, mouth to chest, with Crowley sitting in Aziraphale’s lap, riding him. Aziraphale blew hot air across Crowley’s chest and there they were.

Aziraphale’s divinity had brought them to light.

The way Crowley covered them, the shame in his expression when he confessed what he’d gotten them for, speared Aziraphale to the depths of his soul.

For that, and for a hundred other things (including blessing that blasted Thermos of water) Aziraphale has never forgiven himself. Crowley tells Aziraphale there’s nothing to forgive, especially when they’re in the throes of passionate embraces and a single puff of breath from Aziraphale’s lips brings those marks to the surface. Despite the consequences of his decisions, they were Crowley’s decisions, and the ones pertaining to Aziraphale’s health and safety, he’d repeat a thousand times.

Yet, the nightmares continue.

“Sleep easy, my love.” Aziraphale leans over and lays feather-light kisses on his demon’s sweaty forehead. “Sleep, and dream about whatever you like best.”

Crowley’s breathing slows. The furrows in his brow smooth away. His hands begin to loosen, let go of their vice hold. He melts into the sheets, eyelids fluttering slowly.

A small smile even manages to tilt up the corners of his mouth.

“That’s it. Relax. Be calm … at peace. I’m here with you. I’m not going anywhere. I won’t leave you alone.”

Crowley hums behind his lips, finally happy in his dreaming.

Aziraphale exhales with relief. It worked … thank God.

…

But for only about a minute.

Aziraphale goes back to his book, but a second later, Crowley jerks, jarring the bed as if the mattress had saved him from a terrible tumble. He sits bolt up, fist clutching his chest over the shadow of one particularly gruesome burn, his eyes wide and unblinking like those of a frightened foal.

“No!” he gasps, staring straight ahead, the remainder of his nightmare fading where Aziraphale can’t see.

“No what, dearest?” Aziraphale asks, careful not to speak too loudly in case it takes Crowley a moment to remember where he is, and that he’s not alone. “Which nightmare was it this time?”

“A … an angel … will Fall,” Crowley reveals in a voice that trembles. “A … a Starmaker.”

His answer stuns Aziraphale into closing his book and setting it on the table beside the bed without saving his place first. “Is that … will that really happen?”

Crowley swallows hard. “Yes.” He runs a hand through his sweaty hair, on the verge of tears. “Yes, I … I feel it. I could see it. It’s happening now. Tonight.” His eyelids pinch shut. He shakes his head, trying to dislodge the image from his brain, but Aziraphale knows it will be difficult to erase.

Starmakers rarely Fall. Maybe one in a thousand years. Crowley was the first, and for some reason, he can feel when another does. It rips through him like shards of ice, makes the return trip like tongues of fire, and haunts him for days after.

Aziraphale has often wondered if Hell did that on purpose - found a way to curse him with that foresight as one of their many forms of discipline.

Or perhaps it was Heaven’s doing.

Aziraphale wouldn’t be surprised either way. It seems like something they would both come up with.

“Do you have any idea when they will …?”

“Any second now,” Crowley says on a single breath, eager to push the knowledge from his mouth.

“Well then …” Aziraphale lifts the comforter off his legs and makes to get out of bed “… would you like to accompany me to Hell? Make sure they’re all right?”

Crowley’s eyelids snap open, blown pupils finding Aziraphale’s smiling face. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve traveled to Hell together. Crowley looks like he might jump at the offer, but something holds him back.

Things are different now. They’re different now. They’re free agents. Crowley doesn’t answer to Hell anymore. As for Aziraphale, it’s not like Hell welcomed angels too freely downstairs with open arms before the Nope-ageddon. Angels’ visits to Hell have always been procedural, planned ahead, with paperwork involved. Heaven holds the keys to the bottomless pit, after all. It’s their job to tend to the prisoners there.

What Aziraphale is recommending they do is more than a little unprecedented.

If Aziraphale gets himself in a tight spot, Heaven more than likely won’t help him.

Is one Starmaker worth that chance? Worth the Guardians of the Gates treating Aziraphale the way they treated Crowley?

No, Crowley decides. For all it does to break his heart, it’s not worth putting his angel in danger.

“I’m … I’m probably overreacting,” he says, forcing himself to calm down. “There’s … there’s no reason to drag you down there. They’ll be fine. They … they don’t need me.” He closes his eyes again. Aziraphale can see the pain on his face, the memory of that poor angel’s Fall, or maybe his own, playing behind his eyes.

The harsh reality is that those angels that Fall need to learn the hard way that Hell is a terrible place. No one is waiting in the wings (so to speak) to rescue them.

No matter how slight their sin.

But this is important to Crowley. Aziraphale knows it is.

And Crowley means the world to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale puts a hand beneath his husband’s chin, coaxes his eyes open with kisses to his lips. “It never hurts to check, my dear. I’ll go get my coat.”

***

Hard-packed dirt where very little grows.

Thick clouds of black, acrid smoke.

Yellow-orange sulfur seeping from the earth, super-heated and bubbling, popping, releasing noxious gas into the air.

Aziraphale pops the collar of his coat, holds the ends tight over his nose.

He hates the smell of Hell.

The pools of sulfur fallen angels nosedive into are located right outside the gates, so they’re still far from the mildew infested basement that is Hell’s head office.

But this outdoor landing pad is probably worse: surrounded by air that burns the sinuses with every breath, the breeze swirling around them hot and oppressive instead of cool and refreshing.

Looking up and seeing a Heaven that no longer welcomes you, stars you will never touch again.

He envisions Crowley here - scared, confused, emerging from the pits for the first time to see his beautiful, snowy-white wings blackened and singed, covered in this foul-smelling ooze.

All alone.

Consigned here by those he loved.

Aziraphale feels a long-building contempt for Heaven rise up in his chest and does everything to keep it at bay. This isn’t him, he reminds himself. Not really. It’s Hell’s influence. It’s too easy to surrender to anger here, which is why the Almighty sends the Archangels to conduct Heaven’s business in Hell.

They’re more immune to the air here.

“There they are!” Crowley says, rushing towards a pit about fifty feet from where they materialized, where a drenched and bedraggled set of wings sits atop an orange mess, attached to an angel … a demon … lying underneath the surface.

Aziraphale doesn’t rush to help. Best to let Crowley lead that charge. Instead, he keeps watch. He’s only been here a handful of times, but that’s definitely enough.

One time in particular, he could do without.

Aziraphale peers through the black smoke, trying to decipher their bearings. Crowley snapped them here. It’s the easiest way to come. Which means that Hell should know they’re there. Every time Crowley performs a miracle, they receive a fax. So there’s a fifty-fifty chance a welcoming committee of some sort might arrive.

The wind blows.

The smoke shifts.

Vacant mold-gray eyes catch his.

Bingo.

As the smoke continues to clear, Aziraphale gets a better view, and he smiles.

Luck, oddly, seems to be on his side.

“You stay here, my dear,” he says, not bothering to raise his voice since he knows Crowley will hear him. “I’ll take care of this.”

Aziraphale isn’t a vengeful angel. His job is to inspire humanity, to spread love.

Wrath is normally reserved for Archangels.

But as in most things, Aziraphale doesn’t feel they’ve done their jobs right for close to a millennium.

And besides, this is personal.

Aziraphale strolls up to the demon hopping through the sulfur pits in his direction.

“You’re Dagon, right?” he asks.

The demon slows, approaches warily, not expecting to meet Aziraphale (of all entities) after the memo they received.

Not expecting to see an angel flash a smile that is eerily at home here in Hell.

“What’s it to you?” Dagon asks.

“Come on. Let me preen these for you,” Aziraphale hears Crowley say to the new demon he’s helping out of the sulfur. “And take my advice … learn to do it for yourself. You don’t want to ask anyone down here for help.”

“Nothing, my dear.” Aziraphale steps to the right, blocking Dagon when they try to blow past. “I just like to know whom I’m addressing. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Aziraphale sashays left - another block that leaves Dagon gnashing their teeth in frustration. “Crowley says you’re a rather creative demon … when it comes to cruelty and violence.”

Dagon squashes their plan to leap around the angel and grins proudly at that remark. “Did he now?”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale returns, the words as dry as the ground beneath his feet. “In fact, he told me that from the first day he Fell you couldn’t keep your hands off him. I almost got jealous … until he elaborated.”

Dagon’s face falls, their eyes blank, but they snicker when they catch on.

Every time Dagon tore at Crowley’s wings.

Every time they put a hot iron to Crowley’s skin, tied him up and whipped him for his treachery.

Or worse …

That’s what the angel is referring to.

Dagon can’t help noticing the loathing in Aziraphale’s eyes, the undeniable rage.

And Dagon smiles.

Anger feeds demons like well-roasted mutton. It intoxicates them like wine.

And the anger of an angel?

That’s about the finest vintage any demon can find on earth.

Hence why calling off the war disappointed them so.

It makes Dagon long to stab Crowley in the back with their claws to see how angry this angel can get.

What Dagon might be able to convince him to do.

Dagon tries to dash past again, but Aziraphale is surprisingly quick. This time, Dagon walks straight into Aziraphale’s chest and stops short.

It’s like walking into a brick wall.

Dagon sniffs. They refuse to be intimidated by an angel. Especially a plump and useless little Principality like this one. Dagon remembers Ligur talking about what the Archangels think of him, how they have no respect for him.

Thinking of Ligur reminds Dagon that that demon is gone. Gone at the hands of Crowley, who doused them with Holy Water.

Holy Water he got from this angel.

The only angel in Heaven that can withstand Hellfire, pudgy or not.

Dagon’s face goes pale. They swallow hard. Those memories of torturing Crowley, the times they’d been so proud of, flood their mind with vivid sound and color.

Staring at this angel’s cold, hard expression, they begin to regret every single one.

“You look parched,” Aziraphale says with an unexpectedly warm smile.

“Yeah, well, it’s hot down here,” Dagon growls suspiciously. “Otherwise it wouldn’t be Hell.”

“True, true. That’s why I brought this.” Aziraphale reaches into his inside coat pocket and pulls out a tartan Thermos. Dagon stiffens at the reveal, but they’re too curious to back away.

It’s just a Thermos. How much damage could Aziraphale possibly do with a Thermos?

“It’s … it’s a Thermos,” the demon points out.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says in a condescending tone. “Very good. And what do you think it’s filled with?” He pulls off the cup and puts it in his pocket, then unscrews the cap. “I’ll give you three guesses and the first two don’t count.”

Dagon scoffs. “How the Heaven should I …?” Their eyes blow wide as context melds together in one harrowing spark of realization. “That wouldn’t be … Holy Water? W-would it?” Dagon takes a step back, but Aziraphale’s hand shoots out, grabs the demon by the wrist. Thick, sausage fingers wrap tightly around, solid as stone.

“You know,” Aziraphale says in a low, gravelly voice to match, “I don’t like the way you’ve treated my husband.”

Dagon pulls, trying to break free, but Aziraphale has a grip like iron. “We’re … we’re demons! It’s what we do! Wot did you expect?”

“Doesn’t matter what I expect. It matters what I’ll tolerate.” Aziraphale lifts the Thermos to his mouth and takes a drink. Dagon stares as Aziraphale gulps the blessed liquid, licking his lips when he’s done. But from the sound of sloshing, there seems to be plenty left. “Oh! How rude of me,” Aziraphale says, holding the Thermos out to his captive. “Fancy a sip?”

Dagon’s eyes nearly pop out of their head. “You … you wouldn’t!”

“Wouldn’t I?” Aziraphale lifts the Thermos over Dagon’s wrist where it’s caught in the angel’s fist. “By the way, I wouldn’t tug too hard if I were you. I am clumsy. I might slip. It only takes one drop to dissolve a demon.” On cue, a single drop begins to form on the silver lip of the container. Angel and demon watch it grow, dangle like a trapeze artist lowering themselves down the rung of their swing, preparing to jump. Aziraphale looks on in amusement; Dagon in utter horror. The drop lengthens, heaves, the tenuous connection thinning as it threatens to break.

“N … n-no! “ Dagon stutters, lurching backward, but Aziraphale holds on impossibly tighter.

“What was that you said?” Aziraphale asks, taking his eyes away from the precarious drop, not caring a whit for its fate.

“It … it’s going to fall!”

Aziraphale shakes his head, inadvertently shaking the Thermos as well. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t quite …”

Aziraphale doesn’t finish his sentence.

He sticks out his tongue and catches the drop seconds before it falls.

Dagon makes a strangled sound as they struggle to recoil.

Aziraphale watches the demon flail in his grasp and laughs. “Phew! Will you look at that? That was a close one!”

“You’ll … you’ll start a war!” Dagon cries, utilizing this momentary reprieve since the Thermos is still there, held aloft by the angel, his loathing brewing into a full-fledged flame. “A war between demons and angels! You didn’t want that, re-remember?”

Aziraphale shrugs. “Perhaps I’ve changed my mind. You wanted a war, didn’t you? Well, now you’ll get your wish, provided doing away with you is impetus enough to start one. Pity you won’t be around to join in. I’ve heard you give some rousing pep talks.”

“N-now, listen to reason, angel …”

Aziraphale’s grip around Dagon’s wrist ratchets from tight to bone-crushing, almost bringing Dagon to their knees. They lose their footing, but Aziraphale drags them closer, holds them upright by that one thin and straining joint.

“You … don’t get to call me that!”

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I …”

“Aziraphale …” Crowley’s voice creeps into Aziraphale’s ear. It sounds distant for the pounding in Aziraphale’s head, but it’s mere inches away “… don’t ...”

Aziraphale doesn’t turn to look at his husband, the full force of his anger trained on this one pathetic demon, ready to turn them into dust with the weight of that alone. But Aziraphale pictures Crowley’s amber eyes in his mind - doe wide and pleading.

Begging for no more.

“Are you sure, my dear?”

“Yes.” A hand finds Aziraphale’s shoulder and squeezes gently. “I’m sure. Don’t do this. For me?”

Aziraphale shudders. He would do anything for Crowley, give him anything he wanted … but he can’t seem to do this. For all his posturing, all of his simply wanting to put the fear of God into this demon for everything Crowley said they’ve done, he can’t just let go. With his Thermos poised over the green-gray and fetid skin of their arm, he’s so ready to pour.

And it would feel good.

It would feel like righting a wrong.

The wrong of Aziraphale not being around to protect Crowley when he truly needed protecting.

But the kneading of his shoulder muscles loosens his grip ever so slightly. A kiss on the crown of his head loosens it more.

“Angel,” Crowley whispers against his scalp, his cheek pressing there to enjoy the softness of his hair, “please?”

“Urgh! All right!” Aziraphale grumbles, releasing his grip. He’d been holding on so tight, it takes a few seconds for his corporal form to actually detach, sending Dagon stumbling back, landing undignified on their tailbone in the sulfur. “But just you remember, Dagon,” Aziraphale adds, straightening his waistcoat, “the next time you get it in your empty head to try and do something … anything … to my husband, that he’s the only reason you’re not a puddle right now. Yes?”

“Y-yes,” the demon stutters. “I-I’ll remember.”

“In that case, I do believe some appreciation is in order.”

Dagon shoots a glare Crowley’s way. Not an inch of conceit can they see on Crowley’s face, only concern for his angel. And that makes Dagon furious. Despite themselves, Dagon scowls. But seeing as Aziraphale has put no cover on his Thermos and could always change his mind (that’s what Dagon would do) Dagon has little choice. “Thank you,” they grind through pointed teeth.

“Thank you what?” Aziraphale stresses.

If Aziraphale weren’t both immune to Hellfire and carrying a Thermos of Holy Water, Dagon would bolt out of that pool of sulfur and rip him to shreds.

At least, that’s what they tell themselves.

“Thank you … sir.”

“Better. Now run along. My compassion only lasts so long in this place, and it’s getting rather hot out here.” Aziraphale swirls the Thermos in Dagon’s direction, taking another drink as the demon scurries away, mumbling under their breath. The sulfur pits become tensely quiet, thicker and heavier than the black smoke stinging their eyes.

“Aziraphale …?”

“How’s the fallen Starmaker?” Aziraphale asks before Crowley can finish. Whether he intended on thanking Aziraphale or lecturing him, Aziraphale isn’t ready to hear it.

Crowley sighs. “As good as can be expected.”

“Well, that’s the best we can hope for, I suppose,” Aziraphale says with a sympathetic smile.

“Don’t you think that was going a little too far?” Crowley asks, lowering his voice and gesturing toward a sulking Dagon with his chin.

“Not at all. In fact … would you like to make your friend Dagon over there lose their bowels, so to speak?”

“Only always.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Without question.”

“Take a nice long swig out of that, my dear,” Aziraphale says, handing off the Thermos.

Crowley knows this Thermos. Knows it well. He pauses when Aziraphale offers it to him. Touching it gives him a jolt, fills his brain with the echoes of Ligur’s screams, but he can’t betray fear for one second. He’s supposed to be the demon who can withstand Holy Water, after all.

Plus he trusts Aziraphale … more than anything.

He brings the Thermos to his lips and throws his head back, taking the biggest mouthful he can before his survival instincts can force him to stop and spit it out. He hears Dagon curse from across the sulfur pits, and Crowley almost sputters. His eyelids squeeze, preparing for the burn of the righteous.

It burns, all right, but it doesn’t dissolve him into the dirt.

“It’s … it’s not Holy Water,” Crowley comments only loud enough for Aziraphale to hear, helping himself to another hefty mouthful. “It’s not water at all! It’s vodka!”

“Oh dear. Look at that,” Aziraphale says in a dry, sarcastic tone. “I brought the wrong Thermos. I’ll be more aware of how I pack next time.”

Crowley shakes his head, wrapping his arms around his angel’s body and holding him tight. “You know, you’re pretty sexy when you’re being all guardian angel and stuff.”

“Yes, well, it’s only for you, my love,” Aziraphale says, resting his head against Crowley’s chest and hugging him back, more than ready for his husband to snap them back home. “Only for you.”

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #anthony j crowley #aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #prince of omens

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keyofjetwolf · 4 years

Text

Mostly, you’re drowning.

I won’t go so far as to say that the dynamic of the Horseman family is, on its own merits, particularly unique. It’s almost mundane, really, when you distill it to its most basic points. Beatrice and Butterscotch are your standard class romance staples: her, a bored and dissatisfied debutante, him, a blue-collar aspiring writer with dreams of The Great American Novel. They’re attracted to each other for barely any reasons that have anything to do with who they actually are, they have a fling, she becomes pregnant. They decide to get married and raise the baby, they soon come to hate the situation they’re now in, hate all the choices they make to try and force it all to work, and very possibly hate each other but definitely, at least on some level, hate their kid for “doing” all this to them.

Nothing unique, but that in no way makes it uninteresting, and I think it’s especially tragic and fascinating, the moments where you catch a glimpse from the corner of your eye, can make out the possibilities in the shadows, of what they might have been if they’d maybe just tried.

I’m not sure how much thought I’d have given to the Horseman family as a unit in this episode, even with BoJack’s mentions of his father in his eulogy, without the opening scene. I think it’s part of the episode that’s easily lost in the rest of it, and that’s understandable as it not only comes before the credits, but it feels at first glance to be completely out of step with the rest of it.

I argue, though, that it’s NOT, and is actually more in line with the rest of “Free Churro” than outside it. More on that at the end of this post, I promise I’m going somewhere with that. But first, the beginning.

We open with BoJack at an age we don’t usually visit him. I’d guess maybe about ten here? Maybe twelve? He’s young enough to be left on his own after soccer practice, sitting and shivering in the chilly autumn evening while he waits for his mother to pick him up, but very much still a child.

(Hey, anybody else ever get those sinking feelings, when their parents were running late to get you, that they weren’t ever going to show, and spend the time you suddenly found yourself surrounded by trying to figure out what you were going to do next when they just never came to get you? AHH MEMORIES.)

When someone finally shows up, it’s his father.

This is probably the longest we’ve spent with Butterscotch, at least, when it’s actually him and not him playing out some James Dean role he wants desperately to believe is him. He’s brusque and awful, and BoJack is DEEPLY uncomfortable around him from the second he gets in the car.

What I think is most important about that, though, is that Butterscotch, for all that he sucks, IS THERE. We can follow a lengthy rabbit hole down WHY, exactly, he’s there (personally, I think it’s so he has a reason to stop “writing” with a handy scapegoat in BoJack, but it can be many things), but of all the places we go, of all the things BoJack will talk about in “Free Churro”, the only one ACTUALLY THERE is his father.

And I think that’s one of the key points in BoJack’s relationships and regrets when it comes to his parents. His father, for as much as he might have liked to envision himself a deep and contemplative man, just isn’t. He’s laughably surface and simple, hating the things he’s learning about himself day by day, and turning all that self-loathing on the world around him.

SOUND FAMILIAR? Yeah, it should, it’s not really going to huge lengths to hide that. BoJack IS his father. More self-aware maybe, considerably more clever and thus with a greater capacity for cruelty, but his father pretty much through and through.

Which goes back yet again to the point about his father being a solid, tangible presence for BoJack, which I think is an incredible way to highlight the tragedy he’s attempting to process in his mother’s death. He spends all of this time and energy in trying to puzzle out what his mother’s last words, “I see you”, could mean.

Meanwhile, BoJack’s father left behind an entire novel. “Maybe he thought it would vindicate him for all the shitty things he ever did in his stupid, worthless life,” BoJack says. “Maybe it did. I don’t know. I never read it.” At the end of the day, BoJack doesn’t actually care what his father has to say, what he thought, how he felt. There’s nothing in Butterscotch that, for BoJack, holds the spark of what might have been.

Not like Beatrice.

But then, Butterscotch feels so differently about Beatrice, too. As BoJack is telling us about the parties she’d hold every week, it’s the only moment of wistful fondness he actually demonstrates. When Beatrice would dance, even Butterscotch would emerge from his study to watch, all of them separate, but bound in that moment, and as BoJack talks about it, for a moment, he loses himself in the memory. Still we never see her. Just the faintest impression of her. That’s really all she left him.

It’s the one time BoJack talks about them as something united, something approaching family,and it’s to say how they’re all drowning. It’s twisted and wrong that that’s a bit sweet, but given what we have to work with, I can understand. But I think he’s wrong, or at least, not entirely right. I don’t think they were drowning together and didn’t know how to save each other, I think they were drowning, and taking each other with them.

There’s very little I’m willing to give to BoJack, but he’s due this: he was a child. It wasn’t his job to save ANYONE.

But I do think Butterscotch and Beatrice were drowning each other, each clinging to what they had, unwilling to let go and save themselves, or allow the other even try. It surprised me, then, when I went back to rewatch this, that I found the faintest glimmer of remorse.

When Butterscotch retracts his blame for Beatrice, says that she’s doing the best she can, and that she’s doing the right thing by teaching BoJack so young that he can’t rely on anyone. Oh he never for a second thinks to assure BoJack, fuck that noise. But, even if just for a moment, Butterscotch tries to lift Beatrice above all this, and it legitimately surprised me to see. It’s such a tiny, almost minuscule drop of misfortune in all this, but it makes me think that Butterscotch and Beatrice could have pulled out of all this, that they could have made their lives different. Maybe not what they originally wanted, but SOMETHING. That they might have been able to be happy, if they’d figured out how to try for it.

Which brings me back to what I said in the beginning, about this opening not being so out of line? This isn’t just Butterscotch going on some wild rant, this, like with BoJack, is a journey. This, too, is a eulogy for Beatrice, it’s just forty or so years early from Butterscotch.

It’s good.

Down one sandwich, but up one churro!

#jet wolf watches bojack #you know if you say 'good' enough times to yourself it becomes true!

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celestialholz · 4 years

Text

A Good Day To Die

Hello, dear Qcard squad - happy slightly belated Tapestry Day! <3 I’m SO SORRY this is a little late, though for once it’s absolutely not my fault! I’m visiting some family up in northern England, and there’s been a hell of a storm that’s outed several power lines locally - they’ve only just reconnected this morning, so I’m finally able to pop this up as my laptop now has some charge! I shall be reblogging all your lovely contributions with commentary tags today too. <3

Let me tell you a quick story before the actual one though, friends, of a girl on a Saturday afternoon playthrough of TNG for the first time, about six years ago now; already a huge fan obviously because we’re in series six, already very much in love with Q and the indomitable captain, but I’d wondered here and there: why was Jean-Luc so special? Sure, he was clever and wonderfully diplomatic, even a bit nuanced, and a nice change of pace from Kirk, who I also loved - but where did this spark come from? Why was he a rebel sometimes, when he seemed to play so much by the book most of the time?

... And then we get to this. A fascinating premise right from the word go of an immediately deceased/critically injured Picard, going into the fascination of a void space, a god cloaked in white with his usual wondrous enigma, and what’s always been to me the single finest piece of character exploration in the whole of the Trek canon. It’s intelligent, deeply amusing, philosophical, psychological, fascinating... we watch this man fall apart and rebuild and learn his lessons, and all the while we have this gorgeous chemistry, this blatant and beautiful homosexual coding, between our two stars, with Q’s ambiguous motives and goddamn, I was enchanted.

... Honestly, it’s my favourite fucking TV hour of all time, and it’s my pleasure to finally celebrate its anniversary properly. My great thanks to @q-card for taking my idea and running wild with it, you marvellous being you. <333

I’d planned to make something much grander and mad for this accordingly, but... well, you know how it is. Very long week, depression... eurgh. So instead, please accept something a fair bit shorter but no less lovely: a parable of ancient Egyptian culture, a delicious dose of angst and love, and the promise of forever from a man who really can’t understand the meaning of the word, but wants nothing more than to offer it anyway. Set during STP, and I for one think this would be a lovely way to end it all...

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

It’s fitting, Jean-Luc, he thinks serenely as he disengages the autopilot with a pang of adrenaline, a silent resignation, stoicism etched into his weathered features. Everything has its time, dear man, and you’ve had more than most.

There’s no real other method of death he’d have been content with, if he’s being honest with himself. It’s explosions, fireworks, heat, when he’s too old for any of it physically, when he’s exhausted mentally, but can still lay claim to the most youthful and adventurous spirits, the very soul of a captain; it’s plunging into a supernova at sub-warp to take out the rejuvenated Borg fleet in the resultant fire, beings he abhors so profoundly, is still so very haunted by all these years later, still has nightmares of his time amongst their number.

The protests of his newfound crew echo through his mind, the panic of five minutes prior naturally fresh; a simple plan, ultimately, forged days after he’d discovered their real enemy. Emergency transport, patterns already established, ready for the simple verbal command of a destination within reach; his friends enveloped, incapable of escape without the certainty of scattering to atoms, horror absolute.

“Admiral, you can’t be fucking serious - ”

“This cannot be how our quest ends! I will never forgive you!”

“... No, no, I know that look - JL, you can’t , you bastard - !”

“They took you once, Captain; we’ve won, dammit! There is no need to prove it further!”

He shivers with their regrets, jaw setting in defiance of his actions - it isn’t about proving anything, and he’d imagined Seven of all people would know that good and well. It’s about setting the universe to rights, ensuring continued prosperity from a species who deserve simply to be left in peace, who had been through more than enough to last them multiple lifetimes... to perhaps finally repaying a fraction of the debt he owed to the dead, the assimilated, of Wolf 359. It will never absolve him; nothing ever could.

But he can ensure it never has to happen again - not to him, not to another living soul in this quadrant. This is their last stand, and he will eradicate them. He isn’t a threat, of course - why would he be, in his tiny vessel?

Resistance is not, and never has been, futile, he acknowledges coldly, teeth beared in disgust. You wanted me to lead you, didn’t you? Allow me to make it so.

“Warning: recommend immediate retreat. Heat shields at thirty-one percent integrity; collision course with Elphoric Supernova in three minutes, thirty seconds.”

“Computer,” he announces frostily, “cease warnings.”

“With respect, my dearest admiral, perhaps you’d do well to pay attention.”

His mechanical heart skips several beats in the same moment, frenzy racing up his spine in anger, anticipation, anguish -

He hasn’t seen the speaker in four years, but he’ll turn up for the last three and a half minutes?

The flash claims his vision, the signature ping resounds, and the air falls immediately silent as he stares at eyes that read eternity and burn solely for him.

“Would you mind explaining what the hell you’re doing?”

He takes a full ten seconds of his remaining few minutes to simply absorb his husband’s presence, the faint lines that crease his forehead, the unspoken despair and the silent love and the carvings of exhaustion, and it’s as though something snaps once more back into place in his soul; as though he’s finally returned home after a solid millennia of travelling, embraced instantly by recalled warmth and comfort and precious, precious familiarity.

... Perhaps he ought to be less furious.

“... War’s over then, I take it?” His voice cracks through the stagnant bridge, and for the briefest of moments, he forgets entirely that he’s voluntarily crashing to his own destruction.

Q’s gaze flickers, stricken, and he regards his spouse with disbelief, crouching before him.

“Hardly the moment.” He curls fingers around shaking ones, squeezes tightly. “Honestly, I leave you alone for five minutes -”

“Four years,” Picard intones, hollow, charcoal eyes ablaze. “Four, dammit.”

Q winces, digs finely manicured nails gently into aged skin with sorrow. “Bit difficult to keep track when the universe is falling apart, though I thought my dearly espoused was rather above the ultimate display of tragic hubris.”

“This isn’t arrogance,” Picard snaps in response, suddenly furious.

The god raises a brow, turns from him for a moment to consult the cosmos; he analyses the situation quietly, eyes falling shut before they wrench open in horror.

“... Oh,” he realises aloud, returning a pitying gaze to his husband. “Well, I was planning to take you for dinner, celebrate our reunion, but... it had to the Borg, of course. It was going to be magnificent, you know. All candles, oysters, Risan teal whiskey - imagine you’ve grown a little weary of the family vintage by now -”

Picard’s internal chronometer, borne of years of starship clockwork efficiency, ticks over to ninety seconds, and he’s kissing him with desperation, with the misery of parting, the anxiety of war, the coldness of a universe where no one else can ever quite understand -

It’s brief because it has to be, given the circumstances, but it’s no less intense for it, shot through on both sides with passion and need and loss and reestablished harmony; they break eventually, slipping back to rest foreheads together, and Q is breathless with pain as he whispers.

“My universe has already shattered once, Jean-Luc.”

Picard blinks against the tears that threaten, the anguish that engulfs him at the very thought.

“It’s the Borg, Q,” he explains simply, voice woven with apology.

“... And it doesn’t count for anything that I could click them to dust, I imagine, stop them threatening anyone ever again?”

He smiles warmly, bitterness rich - not at an entity who has been trying to save his people, he could never be angry at that. He’s trying to do the same, isn’t he? Always has.

No, life is merely unfair, and it has to end eventually.

“‘Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it,’” he quotes gently, and a rasp of a sob trips from Q’s tongue.

“Stupid, noble, self-sacrificing idiot,” he breathes, thumb running over the wedding ring unconsciously. “The shen ring, Jean-Luc; you’ve always admired the ancients. The symbol of eternal protection.”

A single tear slips down his cheek, a stammered exhale follows, and he locks eyes to his in true dread. “Please, darling - tell me we can still go for dinner.”

Everything in creation drowns in silence, even as the console roars at him that he’s thirty seconds from death; nothing matters but his words, his long-spoken promise - that his husband absolutely comprehends them.

“I’d be offended we didn’t, frankly,” he whispers. “Haven’t seen you in years, we’re rather overdue a catch-up.”

He kisses his brow tenderly, physically feels the permanence of the relief that bursts through the god; he has to make sure, nevertheless.

“Perhaps tomorrow, we could watch the meteor shower on Tansid VI.” He softly pulls Q’s thumb back to the wedding ring, to the tangibility of what it offers, the vow it proclaims, and runs his own preciously across it. “Croissants. Champagne. Different region, different grapes - I’m not quite bored of that one yet.”

“And the day after?” Q’s voice cracks, brittle as sand.

“Oh, moons of Tanothry Prime, I imagine. Driver’s choice. Though I’d quite enjoy a trip to the Magellanic Clouds, perhaps in a few centuries.”

Another sob, profound this time, raises, stuttered, from his immortal spouse.

“I reserve the right to make it hurt less.”

“Oh, please do, my love. My Thoth.”

Q stifles a laugh, so wondrously enamoured. “The Egyptian god of the dead, of magic and wisdom.”

“‘As for Thoth, he crosses the sky in my presence; I pass safely.’“

“Yes, you do,” the deity vows, adoration warming the severity of his features. “Nothing will ever have to hurt you again, darling.”

It’s a strange experience, dying without fear. He’d been so certain, so determined, but so very afraid.

“Ten seconds to impact,” the computer chimes, emotionless.

“I have a dog,” Picard tells his husband, eyes falling closed. “You wouldn’t much like his name.”

Q smiles tightly, clings to him.

“I do hope it isn’t mine,” he replies dryly, and the human chuckles as the ship ignites around them.

“Oh, it’s so much worse.” He beams tenderly at him, braces for impact. “I’ll tell you later.”

“Yeah,” Q breathes, caressing his ring, and together they burn.

#qcard #Jean-Luc Picard #Q #writing #tng #star trek picard #tapestry day #happy anniversary guys! <3

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imagine-darksiders · 4 years

Text

Free Giver

Little story I wrote this morning about Vulgrim meeting a somewhat altruistic human and getting confused about it because I know there are some hoes out there that would like a bit of demon merchant content ;)

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A human returns to the Maker Tree, exhausted and sore from running through the ruined city for hours on end, but in spite of the aches riddling their body, they pause in the entrance and glance off to their left, where a large dias has been raised from the tree’s bark, its surface marred by cracks that emit a soft, blue light.

Jaw set, the human checks to see that Ulthane is inside, preoccupied with fussing over a newcomer who’d clearly just arrived via the Bridge.

With the maker well distracted, they bravely venture close to the dias and begin to dig around in their pocket for an item they’d picked up not long into the supply run. No sooner do their fingers close around the object in question than a billowing cloud of blue smoke erupts from the centre of the raised platform and from out of it emerges the tangible figure of a familiar demon, one who’d become something of a frequent sight around the maker tree, much to the giants’ displeasure.

“Human,” he greets them, a wariness hovering about his cold, sharp eyes. They falter for just a second at the sound of his voice, breath catching in their throat as survival instincts scream for them to turn and run away from the demon with fangs sharper than a headsman’s axe. Fortunately, self control wins the day and the human ventures another step forwards, clearing their throat. “Hey, it’s uh...Vulgrim, right?”

Thanks to the trio of makers and their calibre for over-protecting their charges, there’s been little to no interaction between humans and the demon outside, bar the odd, mistrustful glance shot one another’s way.

Yet even so, after several weeks spent with Vulgrim lurking in their general vicinity, the humans’ began to see him as less of a threat and more of a strange - if not eerie - neighbour who’s intermittently spotted gazing out over the plateau from time to time, a pensive frown darkening his already shadowy features.

It isn’t a rare occurrence to hear one of the humans call out a greeting to him. “Morning, neighbour!” or, “How’s it going, Grim?” is tossed around more and more frequently, often followed by a few laughs from inside the tree, as if they’re all involved with an inside joke that he isn’t allowed to partake in. Nonetheless, Vulgrim hardly cares. He doesn’t bother them, and aside from barking a variety of greetings at him, they don’t exactly bother him.

Until now, apparently.

The human approaches Vulgrim’s dias as a deer might approach a wild dog - cautious and ready to turn tail and flee at the first sign of a snarl, but with just enough curiosity pumping through its veins to keep it venturing ever closer. The demon watches with equal uncertainty as he eyes the hand they’re retrieving from a pocket on their coat.

Noticing where his eyes are fixed, the human clears their throat and a smile twitches at the corners of their lips. “Sorry, didn’t mean to bother you. I just...ran across something today I thought you might be interested in.”

Then, before he can respond, they’re thrusting their hands out in front of him and he blinks at the sudden movement, leaning forwards to get a better look. There, resting in a pair of quivering palms is something square and shiny and...-

Vulgrim’s wings stiffen unexpectedly and he recoils.

He’d recognise that design anywhere. It’s a Boatman coin. A rare find indeed, especially on this broken planet.

“I found it in the shipyard,” they explain, politely ignoring the demon’s change in demeanour. “It caught my eye and, well I don’t actually have a use for it. Sort of a spur of the moment grab, you know?” They laugh, but the truth is, Vulgrim doesn’t know. “Anyway,” the human continues, “maybe you’d like it? Ulthane mentioned you like shiny things...”

A thousand little thoughts crawl through Vulgrim’s brain. What’s their angle? Is there a motive here? What would be adequate compensation for them? Could he offer them something next to worthless in exchange? Because of course, how on Earth could a human know the value of a coin like that?

“You okay?”

Vulgrim blinks, shaken from his thoughts, not only by the human’s voice, but also the level of concern that oozes from it. Then again, perhaps he’s mistaking concern for fear. Refocusing back on the tiny creature before him, Vulgrim is surprised to find their eyes match their tone. Brows tilted up in the middle, unnecessarily complicated irises glossed over and glimmering in the evening light. It throws him, causes him to forget what he’d just been thinking about only seconds ago.

“I...What...do you want for it?” he says eventually, earning himself a raised eyebrow alongside a noise of genuine confusion from the human.

“What do you mean?” they ask, and at last, Vulgrim’s inner businessman kicks in.

Once again, that crafty grin stretches across his face and he spreads his arms wide, sending the human a few steps back. “Why, I mean to offer a trade, of course!” he laughs, wondering if humans were always this clueless, “What you have there, is an old coin! A form of currency we demons used to use a long, long time ago. Practically worthless now but...well -” Vulgrim gives a dismissive wave of his hand. “- You weren’t to know its value has decreased. But, I’m certain I have something on my person that would be adequate compensation for such a -”

“Woah, woah, woah! Slow down,” the human cuts him off with a laugh in the middle of his pitch, “there doesn’t need to be a trade, I’m not asking for anything in return.”

The demon’s jaw freezes, hanging open mid-word. After several seconds of tense silence in which the human looks ready to bolt, worried they’d said something wrong, Vulgrim finds it’s his turn to ask, “What do you mean?”

Huffing out a quick laugh, the human replies, “I mean I’m giving it to you. I don’t need a thing for it.”

Reg flags begin popping up in the demon’s head. Eyes narrowed to slits, he gives them a quick, up and down glance, suspicious. “Everyone has something they want.”

“Well...” The human shrugs. “...I don’t.”

Flummoxed, Vulgrim casts his gaze around, hoping to find some incriminating evidence on the human that this is all part of an elaborate ruse to trick him. Eventually, his eyes come to rest on the object in question. “Then...Then there must be something wrong with it!” he snaps, “What have you done to it?”

“Blimey, are you always like this when friends try to give you a gift?”

Abruptly, Vulgrim’s mind goes blank. “When...when fr-?”

“Honestly, Grim, it’s not a big deal. Just take it.” Without waiting to hear another objection, the human cocks their hand back and tosses the coin up into the air, prompting Vulgrim’s body to react in kind. His hand flies out of its own accord and snatches the Boatman coin out of the air just as it begins to sail past his head. He fumbles with it awkwardly until his fingers get a good grip and clamp down around the smooth, polished sides, his eyes flicking down to see a warped reflection of himself gazing back from inside the silvery surface.

Incredulous, he lets his mouth open and snap shut again like a gormless deep lurker, unable to come up with a response to such bluntness. Hearing footsteps retreating, he raises his head and sees the human dragging their feet back towards the tree’s entrance. “But...but you must want something!?” he blurts, even going so far as to hold the coin out towards the human, as though he can somehow will them to take it back from his outstretched hands.

Instead of returning as he hoped, they simply turn their head and shoot him an amused grin, one hand lifting up to wave. “Goodnight, Vulgrim,” they call pointedly, “If you really don’t want it, just toss it over the side. I only picked it up because I thought you’d like it.” And just like that, they’re gone. Returned back into the safe embrace of the maker tree while Vulgrim is left outside, clutching a shiny, new Boatman coin in his talons and about a thousand questions addling his brain.

Minutes tick by and he remains where he is as the sun sinks lazily behind the city’s high-rises. Finally, he hums, lowering his gaze to the coin and staring at it from beneath drooped eyelids. He considers, for a brief moment, doing as the human had suggested by tossing it over the edge of the plateau, although this notion is swiftly abandoned. He can’t see anything wrong with it. And why waste a perfectly good piece of currency? Slowly, almost reverently, he closes one hand over the top of it, sealing it safely between his palms.

For days following their interaction, Vulgrim continues to expect a repercussion of some kind. The human asking a favour, or saying they’ve had a change of heart and want the Boatman coin back. But they never do.

Instead, whenever he sees them, he turns rigid whilst they always throw him a wave or a pleasantry native to the human tongue. The others have even started doing it. Word had apparently spread that the creepy demon who lurks outside isn’t a bad sort really, a tidbit of information that prompted the humans to start speaking with him on a regular basis, much to his bewilderment.

Ulthane wasn’t all too happy when he discovered that the humans had begun to engage with a demon. Elanya, on the other hand, found the whole thing utterly hilarious- the humans had managed to bond with one of the cagiest demons ever to walk between realms. “We should try them out on a Trauma next, see how long it takes before it lets ‘em put ribbons on its horns!” she suggested cheerfully, earning herself a smack around the head from Yarin, who hadn’t quite caught on that she was only joking.

#darksiders #darksiders 3 #drabble #fanfic #Vulgrim #demon #human #Vulgrim experiences human generosity and it baffles him #??#he's making friends

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