#they played a part in fucking up the ozone layer
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Sometimes I can’t sleep because my mind is racing
Sometimes I can’t sleep because part of my brain won’t stop repeating the word chlorofluorocarbons with increasingly peppy intonations even as the rest of my brain screams in fury at the repetition
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boxed appley juice? Bad flavor. It tastes like school. It tastes like the end of a field trip and ur eating a ham sandwich before going home, it's bittersweet emotions of fun gone, it's remembering the awesome wizard101 boss battle u had the night before and stayed up just a little bit too late to be energetic the next day, but ur tasting the feeling of 'consequences but no regret' for the first time, it tastes like "it's 7am and I'm in the cafeteria scrambling to finish my homework before the 8:30am bell" :(
But boxed orange juice? Delicious. It tastes like summer camp. It tastes like rushing to ur friends' designated hang out table, to continue ur pretend game of Atla characters who are also jedi, who are a secret club protecting the world and the other campers can't know about it. It tastes like "It's 7am and I'm wolfing down a Camp-provided grilled cheese for breakfast (which is exciting in and of itself because Lunch food?? For breakfast??This place is run by madlads and Im with it!) Because I need to carbo load before all the pool games and I underestimated how hungry I'd get last time". It tastes like putting on an extra coating of tanning cream, bc the camp suggested you put on sunscreen before going to the pool today, and u are 7 and bought it yourself from walmart, and couldn't tell the difference, and didnt think to ask ur parents for clarification bc ur undiagnosed adhd functions in a way of not realizing u did something incorrectly unless pointed out specifically, and you dont know definitively what an ozone layer is but fuck it we ball :^D a kid just ran up to you, did a naruto hand thingy and ninja ran away. You don't watch naruto yet so u have no idea wat that was, but the kid is part of ur designated rival group, so u take it as a call for war and u can't wait to play four-square with them and laugh until ur stomach hurts tomorrow.
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tobacco and whiskey.
— minors don't interact.
— wc: 5,1K
content + warnings: 18+, including: hard dom!gojo, soft dom!getou, overstimulation, fem sub, fingering, degradation (by gojo) & also worship (by getou), dub-con (maybe? kinda of, i guess), unprotected sex, breeding kink, asphyxiation, dacryphilia, threesome, use of words ‘whore’ & ‘slut’, face fucking, choking, gun play.
pairings: gangster!gojō satoru x fem!reader x gangster!getō suguru
— jjk masterlist.
Being a student immigrant in a European country is easy depending on how much money you have and where you come from. In Y/N's case, she had won a scholarship at a university in France, but she didn't have enough money to live on the outskirts of Paris. It was too expensive, so she ended up choosing to live in a shared apartment with two other girls who were sisters: Mai and Maki.
They were great, even adorable, but the main problem in living together was: the two of them on almost every weekend went to the suburbs of Paris to go to the clubs and discos and came back just as the sun was rising. Only God knows how nothing bad had ever happened to these two girls. Y/N on the other hand had to work four times harder than an "ordinary" student in France, she had to prove herself worthy of that scholarship every time there was an opportunity. High grades that could perforate the ozone layer more than the pollution of all the European countries put together, almost insane mental effort. This is what college demanded, in exchange for which her social life was slowly dying, intoxicated by the professional career she had chosen since high school.
— You take all this college stuff too seriously, Y/N. You should just relax a little bit. — Mai commented as she went through her own closet looking for some clothes that Y/N didn't know exactly what they were.
— You are the ones who should take college more seriously. You are studying here being funded by your father, but still. — Y/N replied looking for the notes he had made during class in the morning.
— Today is Friday and all you can think about is studying and studying. Tomorrow is Saturday, like... damn, give yourself some time to enjoy college life away from the eyes of your parents. — Maki said without taking her eyes off her cell phone.
— I have a part-time job. — Y/N said as if it were obvious. — Monday to Saturday, you know that.
— We know, but you don't work nights. We could go out a little tomorrow, go to some clubs, you know, have some fun. — Mai looked at Y/N suggestively.
— I'm not sure if your idea of "fun" is similar to mine.
— Oh, stop. You've never been to a club in Paris, you don't know what people are like there. If you go once with us and don't like it, we'll stop bothering you. — Maki said.
— Will you stop once and for all?
— Yes. — Maki commented and looked at Mai suggestively.
— Maybe.
— What time? — Y/N grumbled.
— The lines start getting longer after 7pm I think. It depends a lot on the club, actually, we had booked with Yuta at the suburb of Paris, but if you want a more "well attended" place we can change. — Mai answered and shrugged. — But I doubt anything bad will happen to you, you'll be in the best company. — She gestured to herself and her sister. — And if any guys get on your nerves, you can even tell them that Yuta is your boyfriend. — A bitter taste of discomfort came over Y/N's mouth.
— No, thanks. I've never been in a nightclub, but I can take care of myself. We can go to the one you all are going originally, I don't know any other clubs anyway. — The young woman's eyes turned to the clock hanging on one of the walls of the room. — And, shit, I'll be late for work if I stay here any longer. — She jumped out of bed and dropped her notes. — I'll be back later.
— Good work. — The twins spoke in unison and Y/N answered them with a slight smile of thanks.
Her job consisted of working in the afternoon in a coffee shop that was also a bookstore. It was great because it was not far from the apartment or the campus, but it was lousy in relation to the salary paid, however, it was take it or leave it. At least the boss was nice and didn't mistreat her employees. Y/N was usually out until 6:00 or 6:30, depending on how busy the cafeteria was.
— Oh, are you here already? — Mei Mei, Y/N's boss, said as she saw her enter the room through the front door. — Great! We're not busy today, unlike yesterday, so take your time to get ready, darling. — Y/N nodded and started to put on the uniform blouse of the bookstore attendants, after which she straightened her hair to get it out of her face and look as presentable as possible.
Although she had been living in France for a year and a few months and had taken a basic French course after learning that she would be moving to another country due to college requirements, some of the native words still confused her head, but nothing that she couldn't handle. And so several minutes passed that turned into hours, and it wasn't long before the big clock placed in the middle of the store read 17:00. Y/N sighed and walked to some further shelves to do the weekly cleaning of those practically godforsaken books that few people were interested in buying and would probably go back to the manufacturers.
But today was a different day. There was a person there. Long dark hair that, although tied up in a bun, was still falling down her broad shoulders, light skin and body dressed in traditional Japanese clothes. Feeling her heart skip a beat, the university student hid behind the bookcase parallel to where the man was standing. Why exactly was she hiding? Out of shame that maybe he thought she was spying on him?
— I can hear your breathing, you know, this place is much less crowded than the rest of the bookstore so I can hear your movements more easily than in other places. — His deep voice reached her ears and made her heart beat hard against her chest. — It's not like I'm going to bite you or anything.
— I know, I was just... — Y/N came out from behind the bookcase and the man ran his eyes down her uniform.
— So you are an attendant? Can you help me? — He looked at her curiously as a serene smile broke out on his lips.
— Sure, I can. Are you looking for a specific book? — Y/N approached him with slower, more reluctant steps than she had planned, as if his eyes, darker than onyx stones, were reading the deepest sins of her soul.
— Not quite. I wanted to hear your opinion about this book, actually. — He showed her one of the editions of a fantasy book with darker, more adult content.
— If you like darker literature, I believe this is the right book for you, sir.
— Oh, yes, I usually prefer some of the darker stuff. — His long-fingered hands caressed the cover of the book before turning to Y/N again. — You can call me Getou Suguru. And this book here, you can put it on my bill. I'm already a loyal customer of the bookstore — but Y/N had never seen him there before. —, so Mei Mei let me open an account to charge the prices of the books I end up buying.
Shaking her head positively, Y/N gestured for him to follow her, and all the way to the checkout she could swear she felt Suguru's gaze roaming over her back and ass, but she also felt embarrassed to turn around and tell him to take his eyes off that area. After asking for his personal information to check the bill, the purchase was finalized and Suguru gave the attendant a warm smile.
— Thank you, Miss...? — Now he was overstepping the customer barrier and asking her name in an attempt at flirting.
— If you come to shop more often, maybe I will tell you my name. — Y/N replied feeling her breath catch in her throat.
— I will, of course. You should wait for me next week too.
— The same day? Friday? — Why it looked as if they were about to seal a date?
— Maybe. — Suguru answered simply.
Y/N forced herself to control a smile from opening on her lips and just nodded positively. And then she remembered that she still needed to clean the bookshelf that Suguru had been looking at before.
— If you'll excuse me, I still have a job to finish before the end of business hours, Mr. Suguru. — She walked away from the checkout counter. — Have a great rest of the day.
— I certainly will. — Suguru replied, watching her walk away and flashing a smug smile as he went back to analyzing her ass while Y/N went back to the shelves about to be cleaned.
☆
— Damn, it's fucking cold, Maki. — Y/N complained getting out of the car that belonged to Yuta in front of the night club.
— I told you so, you dumbass. — Maki retorted. — I told you that the short black dress was nice because it sparkles a lot, it looks great on you, but that it would also be cold outside the apartment.
— I even told you to put on one of my tights. — Mai remembered.
— Whatever. — Y/N crossed her arms in front of her breasts trying to keep the cold away.
— It's always more warm inside, Y/N, don't worry. — Yuta said locking the car doors after getting out of the driver's seat.
— I hope so. — And so the four of them entered the club
Just as Yuta had said, inside the night club it really was more stuffy and Y/N quickly uncrossed her arms as she felt properly warmed up. The air in that place was extremely heavy with the full of booze, cigarettes and what Y/N wanted to think was not sex. There was a floor above where she was with her friends that was probably reserved for "VIP" customers and it was adorned with a balcony in a decorative rococo style that gave a wide view of the club's dance floor.
— Would you like something to drink? — Yuta asked, before grabbing Mai and Maki by the arms to stop them from going to the bar before they knew everyone else's order.
— Gin and tonic? — Y/N replied without knowing exactly what drinks were on the club's menu.
Yuta passed her order on to the Zen'in and stood next to Y/N for a few minutes before telling her that he was going to go to the dance floor and "be back in a few minutes". It was not a few minutes, obviously. And gradually Y/N began to feel out of place, although she tried to move her body from side to side in an attempt to fit in with the rhythm of the loud music. Where was Mai? And Maki? Where were the drinks Okkotsu had said they would get?
The student sighed and looked at the dance floor. Maybe she could find Yuta in the middle of it? Thinking about it, she approached and began to find herself surrounded by people who didn't even notice her existence and ended up making her move according to the rhythm of the music, otherwise Y/N would be elbowed and shoved several times. The tactic was to move at the same speed as the people around her, and in a few minutes she felt so involved in those movements that she actually enjoyed dancing by herself on the dance floor. She even forgot about her initial goal of finding Yuta Okkotsu.
The experience was great, until she felt a set of hands land on her waist and the chest of someone insanely taller brush against her back:
— What a pretty girl we have here. — A low voice was heard close to her ear and a shiver ran down her back.
— Excuse me? — Y/N turned her head a little to the left, intending to look at whoever it was that was feeling entitled to lay hands on her.
Deep blue eyes were looking down at her slyly and in front of them were round sunglasses that certainly didn't serve much purpose in a closed environment like that nightclub. The owner of those eyes had hair as white as snow and a smug, self-centered smile decorating his lips.
— I didn't come here with the purpose of finding someone to fuck. — Y/N had his back to him completely turned, but not without first taking a good look at his clothes.
He was wearing a gray social shirt covered by a black social vest and a red tie decorating his neck and held by the same vest, on his hands were dark gloves that seemed to be made of leather. It looked like he was a predator just waiting to catch some easy female prey who was willing to be filled with cum in a room of dubious provenance in that club.
— Oh, pretty one, the best gifts are the unexpected ones, aren't they? — She didn't have to turn around to know that his smug grin had grown wider.
Dodging a girl who almost elbowed one of her arms, Y/N took a step back and felt something strangely hard brush against her lower back. It couldn't be this pervert's cock, could it? The girl felt her breathing quicken uncontrollably and, with her eyes, looked around for someone who could get her out of her twisted position, and then spoke in an irritated manner:
— Can you not rub your dick on me? It's disgusting. — In response, she heard a loud laugh that dripped with debauchery.
— Oh, baby, you're either very naive or very stupid. Maybe a little of both. That's not my dick, girl, that's my gun.
And then Y/N froze in the same place he was. A gun? How the hell did he get in there with that? Even if the neighborhood is not the most polished and refined in the world, there were still security guards at the front doors. Suddenly the girl felt strangely claustrophobic, as if the white-haired man was forbidding her to escape from a place whose movement was restricted. She looked around again and tried to find something she could use as a cunning excuse to escape from the sexual predator. If she thought of going to the bar claiming she was thirsty, he would probably accompany her saying he would buy her that round. If she thought about going back to the table where Maki, Mai and Yuta had originally left her, he would probably either follow her or not even let her out of there, besides none of the three must have been really expecting her to come back. And then her eyes met a sign where it was written in neon-colored letters "Toilet" in French.
— Excuse me, I need to go to the restroom. — Before giving him time to answer, the girl quickly extricated herself from the grip of his velvety hands on her waist and almost literally ran off in the direction of the bathroom.
As she approached the neon sign, she looked back just to make sure the man wasn't following her and ended up paying attention to that balcony reserved for VIP customers. There he was, the same guy with dark hair and even darker eyes that went by the name Getou Suguru, talking distractedly with a girl that Y/N didn't know who she was. His clothes looked strangely identical to the white-haired guy on the dance floor; the only difference was that while one's shirt was gray, the other's was white. As if his consciousness indicated to him that he was being watched, Getou looked around and eventually met her eyes. With a gesture of his right hand, he indicated to something that was somewhere behind her, as she turned to the side, she realized that it was to a flight of steps that logically led to the floor where the man was.
Y/N raised her eyebrows in a confused manner and flicked her wrist as if to say: "I don't have the VIP bracelet", and in response Getou just nodded and used his index and middle finger to call her toward him suggestively as if to say: "No worries, just come up". Swallowing dryly, she obeyed, climbed the steps and soon found herself walking down a long hallway filled with different doors, at the last door she saw Suguru's silhouette show itself and walked towards him. Inside the room she had just entered, there were several red neon lights that gave a mysterious and dangerous air to the room, several sofas of different shapes and sizes, and what seemed to be a personal bar. It was a room too big for too few people: there was only him, the girl he had been talking to before, and now Y/N.
— Can you leave us alone now, pretty one? — He asked the girl, who promptly nodded and walked to the exit without looking at the university student. — So, are you the kind of girl who prefers to be an innocent and studious girl during the week and on Saturday and Sunday to be some kind of slut? — Getou approached her after picking up one of the glasses from the coffee table and offered it to Y/N, who denied it with her head. — Trust me, there is nothing illicit in the glass.
— I'd rather not drink tonight, I'll have to take care of my drunk friends when we get home.
— I see. Why don't you sit with me for a few minutes, then? If it won't make you uncomfortable.
Y/N agreed silently and sat on the edge of one of the comfortable sofas in the middle of the room while Getou leaned lazily against the coffee table there.
— I didn't expect to find you here today. — Y/N commented without first thinking too carefully about the words that came out of her mouth.
— I can say the same, but it was a nice surprise, actually. — He took a sip from the glass he had originally offered the girl, took a cigarette and a lighter from one of his trouser pockets, and after lighting it took a long drag.
Getou stared at Y/N's face, who felt embarrassed and looked down at her feet feeling like a bratty child in front of an adult about to lecture you, and then he let his eyes wander down her bare legs. “What color panties was she wearing?", he wondered mentally, and took short strides in her direction to continue to make her feel trapped.
— Why don't you relax a little, huh, dear? — Getou stood in front of her and, using his index finger, lifted her chin up. — I won't do anything you don't want me to, understand? — A faint smile appeared on his lips, and he leaned over until his face was level with hers.
Suddenly the door to the room opened with a loud bang, and Y/N, startled, looking as if she had awakened from a trance, looked in the direction of that entrance while Suguru continued to concentrate on looking at the girl. In fact, he seemed irritated that they had interrupted him.
— I can't believe I lost sight of that girl, she was hot. — Was it... the same white haired man as before? But this time he was also holding a cigarette between his gloved fingers. — Oi, Getou!
— Why are you looking at him? — Suguru pulled Y/N's head toward him so that she could look at him again. — Don't look at him, just look at me.
— I don't believe it. — The white-haired man walked over as he took a drag on his cigarette. — I've been going crazy looking for this girl and you put your filthy hands on her?
— She's the girl I told you about yesterday, Gojo, you imbecile. — Getou complained. — What the fuck do you want?
— Her, obviously. — Gojo retorted, sitting down next to Y/N who instinctively pulled away, but a firm grip on one of her thighs from the white haired man's hands kept her in place. — Then we can pick up where we left off down there.
— You... — Y/N grabbed his wrist without knowing exactly whether or not she wanted him to continue exploring her legs and intimacy.
Gojo's earlier squeeze seemed to have sent electric wires of pleasure exactly in the direction of her pussy, and Getou's hot breath close to her neck and face was making her more aroused and excited than she would like to admit, even though earlier the white-haired man had approached her in an indecent manner in the middle of the dance floor. Stripping herself of any remnants of shame, Y/N guided his hand past the hem of her black dress to let his fingertips brush against the bottom of her panties, yet throughout that process her eyes remained staring into Suguru's:
— What if I wanted you both, at the same time?
— What a dirty girl. — Gojo whispered as his lips slid up her neck, leaving light bites on her immaculate skin.
Although he didn't respond, Getou put one hand on the couch behind her and pulled her face into a deep, messy kiss that tasted of tobacco and whiskey. His tongue brushed against her lips, asking permission to enter her mouth, and just as both tongues began to curl around each other, the white-haired man removed the glove from one of his hands, pulled her panties aside and massaged her clit in precise, hurried circles. She could melts just from him using his fingertips to stimulate that pile of sensitive nerves. He began to build an alternating rhythm between quick thrusts, scissor motions and finger bending to reach that specific internal spot that made Y/N give up controlling her moans and end up moaning into the lips of the dark haired man whose hands were on her breasts squeezing and massaging them until he felt her nipples stiffen beneath her bra and dress.
Satoru increased the speed of his now three long fingers inside her and after one particularly deeper movement, Y/N ended up licking them all with the slightly transparent liquid of the apex of her arousal. Her uncontrolled breathing gave no indication that it would normalize as Getou pulled her dress up and let it fall in disuse to the floor and the other man withdrew his fingers from inside her. Looking away, her eyes watched as Gojo moved slightly away to remove something from her waist, and again she felt a shiver run down her back.
So he really wasn't joking or lying when he said he carried a gun with him. Was it loaded? Although she didn't know the answer to that question, Y/N noticed her pussy twitching around nothing as she watched the white-haired man swing the gun amusedly in front of her face. Her fear turned him on, turned him on so much that he was considering the idea of pulling her by the hip and just sitting her on his cock without any trace of mercy.
— What? — Gojou whispered debauchedly. — Does the idea of being fucked by a gun turn you on, slut? — He didn't wait for her answer and began to slide a condom down the barrel of the gun he had picked up from one of his back pockets.
— Actually, no. — It was a lie from her and all three of them knew it.
— You liar. — He flashed a smirk as he slid the gun down the girl's torso and after placing it in front of her vaginal entrance, began to rub it against that sensitive spot, managing to elicit broken moans from Y/N.
Getou wrapped one hand in her hair and pulled her face down to the same height as his waist.
— You're exactly the kind of girl I like, maybe I should keep you as my personal toy from now on. — The dark-haired man remarked as he unzipped his pants. — The kind of girl who looks decent during the day and at night likes to be fucked by two gangsters. You are so delicate that Gojo could easily break you just by using his fingers. — He pulled his cock out of his panties and brushed it against her saliva-soaked lips. — You already know what you have to do, don't you?
Taking advantage of Suguru's distraction of his cock entering your mouth, Satoru entered you using only the handle of his gun and instinctively you choked on Getou's cock and forcefully closed one of your hands around Gojo's wrist. In reality, Y/N didn't expect that the latter was going to invade you without warning first.
— Come on, be a good slut for me. Cum for me again. — Gojo pushed the object deeper inside you and got in response the beautiful image of you rolling your eyes and loosening the previous grip on his wrist.
As Getou moved inside her mouth, the other lighter haired man began a fairly fast rhythm against the inside of her pussy. As soon as the former was making "going" movements and slamming the head of his cock against her throat, the latter was making the opposite "coming" movements. It didn't take long before you were a slobbering mess, almost their fuck doll.
After having you cum faster than the first time that night because of your heightened sensitivity, Getou forced himself out of your mouth before cumming directly in your throat, pushed Gojo aside to make him remove the gun from inside you, and guided you toward the center table in the room. After pressing your breasts against the cold surface of the table and earning a loud groan from the temperature difference between your warm body and the icy glass, he pulled your waist up and spread your legs to get a good view of your pussy twitching around nothing. Even after two orgasms in a row, Y/N still seemed to want more. "So greedy", he thought as he bent over her back and glued his lips to one of her ears:
— Should I go faster or slower with you now, pretty one? — His hands slid down her chest until they reached her waist and slid his cock in front of her pussy.
— Whatever you want, Getou. — She answered, trying to control her breathing.
— Great answer. — He gave her a satisfied smile and entered her slowly.
As Gojo lazily got up from the couch and knelt on the table to unbutton his pants, Suguru began a rhythm of his hips in which he thrust hard into her pussy and then slowly pulled out of her to feel her walls deliciously embracing the full length of his cock. Satoru got rid of all her clothes, including her undergarments, removed the last remaining glove from one of her hands and put his fingers through Y/N's tangled hair.
— Open your mouth, nasty whore. — And the order was obeyed within seconds of the girl's brain understanding what she was told to do.
Gojo began to fuck the girl's face feeling his own climax approaching faster and faster each time Y/N choked on his cock. Seeing her with tears filling the corner of her eyes turned him on more than he would like or could admit. The very moment his attention landed on her body on the dance floor of that club, he knew he would want to fuck her until they were both so tired they could barely stand up.
One of Getou's hands left her waist to slide down to stimulate her clit in precise circular motions while his hips continued to thrust erratically against hers.
— I am going to cum inside you the way I know you would like me to and after that, you are going to become my favorite fuck doll, understand? — Suguru asked with a thrust that was particularly stronger than the previous ones.
Y/N nodded positively in a desperate way without taking her tearful eyes off Gojo's beautiful deep blue orbs. She felt like she was fucking an angel and a demon and ironically the infernal being was kinder to her than the celestial one.
Without a warning, Satoru came inside the girl's mouth and gestured for her to swallow, not that she was even thinking about the possibility of spending his cum by spitting it out. After that, Getou wrapped his right hand around the girl's neck pulling her body upward aiming to reach deeper points inside her in the new arched position while his left continued to stimulate her clit.
Y/N's third orgasm hit her hard and made her legs wobble enough that Suguru had to hold her tightly to keep her from falling against the glass of the table. With a few more thrusts, he eventually filled her insides and pulled out of her slowly only to see his cum coming out of the young woman's sensitive entrance. He could get used to that sight.
Getou pulled away and let his own body fall against the nearest couch in the room.
— Fuck! — Y/N put his hands on the table and looked from Gojo to Getou. — What time is it? — Her whole body ached and, ironically, she didn't care much about it at the moment.
— Why is this important? You could stay with us for the rest of the evening. — Gojo smiled pretentiously.
— No, thanks, my body is already hurting too much.
— We could be gentler next time. — Getou looked at her suggestively.
— Maybe some other time, for the rest of today I just want to go home, shower, and sleep.
— Did you come to this club alone? — Suguru asked, to which Y/N shook her head negatively. — So where are your colleagues?
— Downstairs, that's why I asked what time it is, to know if I should go downstairs to leave with them.
— Why don't we take you home, huh? — Gojo suggested.
— No, thanks, I don't want to arrive at my shared apartment with two girls with two strange men of questionable character.
— You weren't worried about our character when you were letting us use almost all of your holes. — Satoru retorted and Y/N suddenly cringed against herself in shame.
— Shut the fuck up. — The girl complained, getting up and starting to gather her own clothes.
— No, I'll take that. — Getou reached for her panties on the floor before her.
— What? You want me to come home without my own panties?
— Yes, so that everyone will know what a great slut you are. — He replied, flashing a wicked smile. — I want you to feel my cum dripping down your thighs on the way home.
— You pretentious fucker. — Y/N commented giving him an ugly look and Gojo couldn't suppress a loud laugh.
— Anyways, pretty one, I still don't know your name, so maybe I'll still go to Mei Mei's bookstore to meet you on Friday. Maybe I'll take this idiot with me. — Suguru gestured to his white-haired colleague.
— And maybe I won't go to work that day so that I don't have to see your face again.
— The three of us know that you are lying. — Getou muttered, smiling sideways.
#getou suguru#getou smut#geto smut#jjk geto#geto suguru smut#gojou#gojou smut#gojo satoru#gojo smut#saturo gojo#gojo saturo x reader#saturo gojou#gojou satoru smut#getou x you#getou x y/n#gojo x y/n#jjk#jjk smut#jujutsu kaisen smut#jujutsu kaisen#jujutsu kaisen gojo#jujutsu kaisen getou#sagosugu
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I think we're overdue some Protective!Cap, right?
maybe someone high-profile said something on social media and Sirius shuts them down before Loops has the chance to stop him? idk I just love Protective!Sirius
tyy 🥰
Do three tiktok clapbacks count? Coops credit goes to @lumosinlove!
TW for mild homophobia, one mention of sex
I
The video began with Sirius kneading the bridge of his nose between his fingers; in the upper left corner sat a comment reading, ‘does it make anyone else sad that cap used to be so wholesome until lupin corrupted him or…’.
Sirius sighed. “I’ve been getting too many of these recently. Alright, everyone, sing it with me.”
He pressed a button on his phone and the tune of ‘If You’re Happy and You Know It’ started to play.
“I wasn’t innocent I was in the closet.” His face did not change from its deadpan expression as he clapped along. “I wasn’t innocent, I was in the closet. Your theories are buckwild and I’m not a fucking child, I wasn’t innocent, I was in the closet.”
The last two claps hung in the air as he stared directly at the camera, then shook his head.
“Don’t make me sing again. It’s uncomfortable for everyone involved. If it makes you sad that I’m getting laid, that sounds like a you problem.”
II
Sirius rolled his eyes as the video started recording and tossed a handful of pretzels in his mouth. Another comment read ‘Cap deserves someone who gets his lifestyle and appreciates him, not a wash-out rookie who’s literally always mean to him’.
He chewed, swallowed, then leaned against the countertop and cocked his head. “What part of your brain thought that insulting my fiancé was going to make me like you? Do you honestly think he’s actually being mean? Pull your head out of your ass and have some basic common sense before you start criticizing us. Instead, talk about the fact that somebody took all the good snacks to movie night with Talker and now we only have fucking unsalted pretzels left.”
III
‘Brb burning my Black jersey. Can’t support someone romanticizing abuse of power in relationships’ sat in a stark white box against the soft blue of the sky in Sirius’ backyard. He threw a tennis ball, then glanced down at the camera.
“Do it. Pussy. I bet you won’t.” He looked up again. “Hey, honey?”
“Yeah?” Remus called out of frame.
“I love you!”
“Love you, too! What happened?”
“Some asshole is burning my jersey again!”
“Aw, come on, really?” Remus appeared next to him a moment later and kissed his cheek turning to the camera. “We already have a hole in the ozone layer, dude. You don’t have to be a homophobe and wreck Earth.”
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The Phoenix Suite (SW Rebels Pod+Fic)
Do you know what a phoenix is? It is said that the bird would go out in a burst of flames, and then rise from its ashes, born again. Even if we lose here, the Rebellion will never go out. Someone will always be the spark.
((Kallus tries to get a message to the Rebellion, but he fails -- tries to get a message to the Rebellion but he fails -- but he fails -- he fails))
Series: Star Wars Rebels
Characters: Kallus, Thrawn, and the Ghost Crew
Rating: Teen
Tags: S3 Finale, time-loop, warnings for implied torture/character death/suicide (but again, it's a time loop, so it doesn't stick)
Read by Litra (link to stream)
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Kallus hits the ground, hard.
He wheezes, more in shock than in pain, and inhales a lungful of dust and air tinged with the ozone of blaster fire. His shoulder takes the brunt of the blow, hands cuffed uselessly behind him.
Still, he’s able to roll into the fall and scrambles to his feet as the call goes up behind him.
“Grand Admiral!” a trooper shouts. “The prisoner is trying to escape!”
Kallus can’t hear Thrawn’s response, but the screams of the dying Rebel forces and the heavy tread of the walkers is enough of an answer: He’ll die with Atollon, and with the Rebellion.
For a wild, frantic second, Kallus considers charging one of the rear guards and taking their blaster, dragging down whoever else he can with his inevitable demise.
But then the part of his brain that clings to survival, to the barest glimmer of hope that this can still be salvaged, urges him onward.
So he runs — away from the sounds of the massacre, away from the orderly advance of the troopers and their walkers. Far enough that the only thing he can hear is the distant roar of chaos and ships crashing to the planet’s surface in his ears.
Breaking the cuffs is easy when he has a moment. He knows where to apply the right amount of pressure, even with his hands locked behind him.
There’s a faint and ominous skittering sound to his left, so he banks right. He has no knowledge of Atollon, and he certainly doesn’t want to learn about the local fauna.
Not when his brain is reeling and clawing desperately for a solution. Not when he’s staunchly ignoring the voice in the back of his head, the cold, calculated tone of the ISB Agent, as it scoffs and says you know a hopeless case when you see one.
Because he does. He knew from the moment he woke up in the cell after being knocked out by Thrawn on the communications tower.
Shit, probably earlier than that, if he’s being completely honest.
Playing at being a Rebel, thinking he could handle the mantle of Fulcrum.
The moment Thrawn walked into the picture, he was fucked.
His feet carry him without thought, winding away deeper and deeper into the wilds of this uninhabited planet. Further, he thinks, from the remains of his failure.
Until he crests a ridge and he’s standing on a cliff and he can see it all spread out before him. The base flattened, like a bug squashed beneath a boot. The white shapes of troopers picking their way through the remains, and the occasional flash of blaster fire when they find a survivor.
His stomach turns at the sight, the now familiar sickening sensation that this is the mighty hand of the Empire. This is not a war, and it never will be.
And it’s not that he wanted to go down in a blaze of glory or anything. He just wanted to make a difference for once. The tug in his chest, the last desperate pull of hope that led him this way, finally dies, leaving him standing on uneasy legs at the edge of the precipice.
“This is all my fault,” he says to the valley below, and wishes that it could be more of an apology and less of a goodbye.
“Which side do you mourn for?” a voice like thunder asks, and Kallus whirls around — reaching for a weapon that isn’t there.
But instead of a man, instead of Grand Admiral Thrawn with his glowing red eyes or the emotionless mask of a trooper, Kallus finds himself facing a creature that towers like a mountain above him. Its head is framed in a halo of dust as constellations of atmo burners light up behind it, and eyes like twin suns stare down at the human.
Kallus is speechless. Nothing in all of his training has prepared him for this. “What are you?” he asks instead.
“I,” the creature intones, shifting its head so that its silhouette is visible in the fading light, “am the Bendu.” It creaks with every movement, the coral that forms its antlers and outer shell grinding together as the beast lowers itself to Kallus’ level. “And what are you? You found me, yet… you are not a Jedi.”
Kallus wonders what makes being a Jedi a prerequisite for this. “I am…” Kallus starts, but in the end, he can’t figure out what the answer should be.
“Alexsandr Kallus, Imperial Security Bureau Agent 021,” the creature supplies, and Kallus feels hot and cold inside all at once.
He grinds his teeth and clenches his hands into fists and refuses to give into a physical display of his anger. “Not any longer.”
The Bendu studies him, those burning yellow eyes peeling him away layer by layer. “You wear the uniform. You keep that name close to your heart. Who are you, Alexsandr Kallus, if not an agent of the Empire?”
Enough is enough.
Every bruise and broken rib and laceration stings, the pain pulsing in time to his ragged breathing and his labored heartbeat. They are what reminds him of who he is, because everything he can see and hear tells him that the Bendu is right, he still is ISB-021.
He draws himself up to his full height, and throws his shoulders back in a way that he has seen Rebellion fighters do — one that conveys defiance instead of the perfectly postured lines of the Empire. “I am Fulcrum,” he says. “I am a Rebel spy, an Imperial defector. I am—” Here he falters, voice finally cracking. “I am well and truly fucked.”
The Bendu gives a low growl of something that might be understanding deep in its chest. “So then, Alexsandr Kallus: Which side do you mourn for?”
A laugh, strained and hysterical, boils up the back of his throat, but he swallows it down before it can get loose. “Why would I mourn the Imperials? They are the clear victors here.”
“Ah,” the Bendu says, as if it had caught Kallus in a particularly clever trap. “But in their victory, have they not also lost? Things they don’t even realize are missing.”
“Whose side are you on, anyway?” Kallus counters. “If you were here, why didn’t you help the Rebellion? Why didn’t you help the Jedi?”
There is another rumble, this time like a storm, and the blazing suns of the Bendu’s eyes flash in warning. “I am the one in the middle. As I told the Jedi Knight who came and asked for my assistance, I take no side.”
Kallus just barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. More Force and Jedi nonsense taken to the extreme. “This is a war. You side with the oppressors when you refuse to take action against them.”
“You picked a side, Agent. You carry pride for what you have done. Who are you, with your accolades and titles bestowed upon you by your Empire, to tell me that I do more harm than good? I am the Bendu. I am the one in the middle.”
Standing there on the cliff’s edge, still in his ISB uniform, Kallus wonders if he himself isn’t currently dangling precariously in the middle. Stranded between two worlds, no longer one but not truly another. He rejected the Empire, but was never fully accepted by the Rebellion.
Except that’s not true, is it? Not really. It wasn’t all that long ago that he was in the detention cell, undoing Ezra Bridger’s handcuffs, and the boy turned to look up at him with an expression of distrust but determination. The crew of the Ghost put everything on the line to try and save him, but he had said no. I can do more good here.
“I didn’t think that I had a choice,” Kallus finally says. “I didn’t know anything else.”
“Then what changed?”
How to answer? A part of him had died after that night on Bahryn. The person who crawled his way out of the ice and into the trader’s ship was someone else entirely.
Kallus had been given a choice; several, in fact.
He had spared Garazeb Orrelios’ life, twice. He had declined the invitation to be rescued by the Ghost crew.
That’s when he began to acknowledge the cracks — the chipping veneer on the Empire’s elaborate portrait of the future. When given the chance to do something more, he knew that there was another answer than the easy one offered by the Empire.
Eventually, he gives a helpless shrug. “Everything.”
The Bendu considers this, considers him. It’s similar to the feeling of being studied by Kanan Jarrus, or by the Inquisitor. That depth in their gaze that sees beyond this moment, like they know something is about to happen.
Someone who can see the full picture, where Kallus cannot.
Kallus knows, without a doubt, that he’s about to be given another choice. He is a man who takes disjointed pieces and knows how to put them together into a narrative. He is a man who has thrived on logic and reason for so long that they are second nature to him.
There is nothing left for him except execution at the hands of the Empire, or a slow death in the wilds of Atollon. There is no other way for this story to end, except for the choice that he will be offered.
“Would you change this, if you could?” The Bendu waves one massive hand, encompassing Kallus beaten and bloody, the smoldering valley below, the remains of destroyed ships like falling stars in the hazy sky.
“Yes,” Kallus says without hesitating.
“What would you change?”
Another shrug, not knowing where to begin. “Everything.”
The Bendu leans in closer still, until its eyes are the only thing that Kallus can see, and its hot breath washes over him. “If you could do this over again, would you?”
Now is not the time for logic and reason. Now is the time for gut instinct, in trusting something bigger than himself, bigger than the Empire.
Alexsandr Kallus, no longer an ISB Agent, no longer Fulcrum, dead man walking, looks the Bendu straight in the eyes and says, “Yes.”
It happens all at once. (It happens over the course of an eternity.) [It happens in juddering starts and stops and flashes of moments strung together.]
Kallus feels like he’s being plunged into a pool (into the dead cold of space) [like he’s being torn apart and reconfigured]. There is a weight on his chest that saps the air from his lungs and before he can get a chance to wonder if he’s made a mistake, everything goes black.
(( read the rest on ao3 ))
#star wars#sw rebels#star wars rebels#i live life on the wild side and just leave the links in the main post#a lil miss fic#podfic#baby's first podfic please enjoy#litra did an amazing job reading it#written for the pod_together 2021 event
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You said you love skincare over makeup: me too! What's your favorite brands? :)
I have extremely sensitive skin that is prone to cystic acne due to my hormones being out of whack due to endometriosis, so I have to be very careful about the brands I use for either skincare OR makeup, and it took me a long time to realise that, and lean more into cultural beauty routines that take skincare over makeup (For example, Korean beauty or more traditionalist Swedish beauty, a la Ingrid Bergman, who famously never wore a stitch of makeup if she could help it and her skin was just that lovely that she didn’t have to). I’m also very aware of overt fragrances, stripping agents like alcohol (Baby Lauren was not; and thought drying out your skin equaled less acne; yikes), and any harsh additives.
Sunscreen:
I’ve always taken sun care extremely seriously, as both my mother and my grandmother have had skin cancer before, so I’m most likely predisposed to having it. This has led to some unintentionally hilarious results of being the palest person in the world who plays beach volleyball both professionally (back in the day) and competitively (now, or before the COVID hit). I always wear long sleeves on the beach unless I have time to completely apply sunscreen, and am a snob when it comes to sunscreens as well. They can’t cause a breakout, leak into my eyes due to sweat, any of that good stuff.
My sunscreen recommendations:
(Note: And I literally get them from all over the world, so get ready, because I probably cover something available in your town/country. I’ve lived in Australasia, North America, and Europe, so I’ve pretty much covered a large part of the world in my travels xD)
Face:
Mychelle Pharmaceuticals SPF 28 in Coconut (Unfortunately only an American brand, but I literally get it shipped to a P.O. box near Canada so I can go across the line to get it. It’s that good. XD Doesn’t melt, dries quickly, unsure how it would look on darker skin than ghost white, but still doesn’t give me any sort of cast).
Innisfree Daily UV Protection Cream No Sebum: Literally a steal at twelve bucks, but DOES cause the dreaded white cast. Anti-acne and also settles down really well on the skin. I’m luckily pale enough that if I layer makeup over it, it usually doesn’t look as bad, but I’ve heard a lot of POC say they love the texture, but it gives them that ashy-white look (See below for some skincare brands I’ve heard are better for this for POC).
Body:
Bioderma Photoderm SPF 50+ UVA and UVB Lait protection élevée: This is a really popular French sunscreen that doesn’t move and stays firm after you apply it and it dries down. It’s a high SPF quality, and I can find it in Canada, but I also obviously saw it in France when I was there as well. France is another country that really seems to follow the ‘If you have great skin you don’t really need makeup do you” train.
MooGoo Skincare (Generally and their sunscreen): This was my go to in Australia: I’d have to reapply it often because otherwise you would get burned, but Australia also has a gigantic hole in the ozone layer so it isn’t exactly helping itself. xD But it’s a local Aussie brand, it’s natural, and it’s great and relatively cheap (although you can order it worldwide I believe and they have a US based website if you’re in the states). I also love their leave in hair conditioner, as well as their self-tanner. They also send you great testers with it, and have great mineral-based makeup if you’re keen.
Coola SPF 30 Sunscreen Spray Pina Colada: This is my go to spray on for playing sports last summer. It’s natural, smells good, is expensive, but it lasted me an entire summer playing beach volleyball most days at the beach, and I still have some left over.
Some of my top other skincare recommendations I’d recommend otherwise would be:
My Current Routine:
- Dermalogica Special Cleansing Gel (everyday)
- Dermalogica Overnight Clearing Gel (everyday)
- Dermalogica Microdermabrasion (everyday)
- Mychelle Cosmetics: SPF 28 Coconut (everyday)
- Clinique Oil Control Gel with Uneven Skin Tone Pump (everyday)
- Lush Eye Cream (optional)
- Benton Aloe Vera Gel (optional if my skin is feeling dry)
- Bioderma Photoderm 50+ for my body sunscreen (everyday)
(Note: I also use a micellar water to clear eye makeup if I use it, and occasionally the Thayers toner if I have it on hand, but it’s not essential to my routine, and I don’t use eye makeup that often).
Dermalogica: Expensive as all hell, but it’s literally the only thing that I can get a ‘wash and go’ effect from. Their Special Cleansing Gel is the only face wash I’ve been able to use for more than three to four months without having to switch it up from my skin throwing it’s own mini revolution. xD The one thing I could say is that their Cleansing Gel LITERALLY lasts forever. I have a gigantic pump which is 88 dollars (YIKES), but it’s lasted me literally seven months without having to change products and buying usually amount in cheaper skincare, going to the dermatologist, or having to get further medication from my doctor for my skin (I take an antibiotic to keep my skin at bay as well). It’s literally worth the money of me searching and floundering about buying cheaper options that make my skin break out that progressively add up to the full amount of the Dermalogica/ avoiding dermatologist appointments, so that’s how I justify it. So while it makes me cringe every time I buy it, it really is worth it if you’re washing it two times a day (There’s also a 250ml size for 55 bucks Canadian on Sephora if you want to give it a go for less commitment, and that usually lasts for a good two months on its own).
I also use their Overnight Clearing Gel for my acne (also expensive), and I can do without, but do like, their microdermabrasion scrub, which also lasts forever. I also forgot to mention that this is the stuff coming straight from The International Dermal Institute, so they know what they’re doing.
Others I enjoy:
Klairs: My (relatively) cheap routine if I’m running low on funds for the month. They have a great body-based soap bar if you have body acne (Which I usually don’t, but if I’m doing a lot of beach volleyball in the summer, gremlins in the sand fuck with my skin, I swear to god).
Innisfree: Great based routines, and if you’re able to actually go to a store to get skin-matched, they have some amazing stores in Australasia. I use their sheet masks often.
Benton: Their aloe vera-based products are amazing for skincare; I use them usually in lieu of a body lotion.
Thayers: Their unscented toner is the only toner I trust, and it’s usually on sale at a drugstore.
Mychelle Cosmetics: As mentioned above, it’s responsible for my daily sunscreen; unfortunately, you can only get it in the States (Which is why I literally have a P.O. box across the border in America where I go to pick it up from because I live about fifteen minutes from the US-Canada border. Seriously, it’s that good).
MooGoo: As mentioned above.
Clinique: An oldie, but a goodie. Their skincare routine doesn’t have the same effect on my face like Dermalogica, but if I’m in a financial pinch and need something to hold me over at the mid-point price level, I still turn to Clinique. I still use their gel as my moisturiser, and they now have this new ‘mix and match’ program with Emilia Clarke as their promo-woman. I’ve heard the shade range for the BB cream-based moisturiser is terrible, even for white ladies, but I just got their Oil-Control gel with an ‘uneven skin tone’ top mixed in to address acne-scarring, and I’ve already seen some good results.
Biotherma: See above.
La-Roche Posay: The routine my dermatologist recommended as a top professor of skincare at a leading hospital related to a university in Australia. It’s very gentle, and their Effaclar another mid-level price routine.
St Ives: If I’m really poor, I go for St. Ives. I don’t use their scrubs, because they use walnut shells on their that can literally rip up your face, but I do like their body wash, body lotion, and they recently released a cleanser with camomile which is calming for the face. It’s not as good as the Dermalogica stuff, but for cheap and for no harsh alcohols or chemicals, plus making a move towards being cruelty-free, I think St. Ives is trying to revamp their brand a bit after that bad press they had concerning #walnutgate. xD
Lush: Another cheaper option (although not really, because Lush usually gauges you for more than you’d pay for a proper Clinique cleanser for a bar of soap/ once you’ve got your full routine together). That being said, I do like their eye cream. I’m in my mid-twenties now, so I’m starting to try to do more preventative skincare.
Mario Badescu: I still use their acne spot treatment if I have a really terrible zit, and it’s gone the next morning.
Other brands I’ve heard good things about:
First Aid Beauty (I want to try their tinted sunscreen for summer)
Supergoop (Apparently their mineral sunscreen is really great for POC, as it doesn’t give the dreaded WHITE CAST)
Shiseido (A classic Japanese brand)
Keihls (Another one I’ve heard great things about but is more expensive)
Ren Clean Skincare (Another skincare brand I want to try).
So hopefully this gives you some ideas to try, nonny, and hopefully this helps someone. xD -shrug-
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Baywatch Nights SEASON 2 (because Season one did not count)
SO every so many years I am reminded of this bat shit crazy phenomenon of a shows existence. And now with the world in stay home crisis I guess I have some time on my hands and challenged my weak mind to a marathon.
So the infamous David Hasselhoff made Baywatch the semi action semi drama wildly popular show about good looking people running in slow motion on the California beach. Hasselhoff got a little bored that the show was not enough about him so he doubled up in a self produced spin off show Baywatch Nights were his character Mitch Buchanan got a side hussle as an investigator on the side of his lifeguard and coastguard work. The first season was a cop action romp but did badly in the ratings so in season 2 it completely rebooted its self. So you dont need to see season 1 as Season 2 exists in its own reality full of Ghosts, Demons, Aliens, Vampires, Parallel Dimensions. Yep X files was huge so Hasselhoff figured he could do it to. This 22 episode arch is so ridiculous when you keep in mind its his character from Baywatch doing this and in a Scully and Mulder way he will literally see aliens and the devil and the next episode say shit like “oh come on I don’t believe in the tooth fairy”. Everything about it watched like a passion / ego project to the level of it being brilliantly innocent and awful all at once. The rest of the cast of season one have disappeared except scientist Ryan Mcbride played by the beautiful Angie Harmon, an actress beautiful in a different way from the usual Baywatch girl so they figured you would believe this as a smarter show but she dumbs down her acting skills seen in Law and Order so she can read the cheesiest lines every typed on paper.
I have been posting comments as I marathon through this on my Facebook but let me give you a run down of most of the impactful episodes I've been watching so far tonight.
Episode 1 (again remember only important is season 2 so this is season 2 ep 1)
Terror of the Deep : Sounding like a classic Corman movie, Mitch Buchanan's first up close encounter with a paranormal creature. A ship has sank off the coast and archaeologists and secret agent enlists Mitchs scuba diving skills to check if someone is still alive on the ship and warns him there may be a mystical creature loose on it as it was being smuggled . Mitch meets basically the creature from the black lagoon on the ship but shrugs it off till the end the secret agrent questons Mitch on what he saw and he saw and makes Mitch very nervous saying “I saw it ok, I just dont know what I saw”. Dun dun dunnn.
Jump to Episode 3 THE RIG: Basically Baywatch goes fully HP lovecraft as scientists disappear on a oil freighter and Mitch goes to see if anyone is still there. But the scientists has awoken a growing ameba like crreature that is growing giant and swallows the frieghter with Mitch and Ryan in it. Oozing glowing green all over the walls and growing around it the the blob but with images of a worm like body moving all around them. But Mitch goes all Die Hard on the massive monster with no shape in the sea and blows the shit out of everything.
Jump to Episode 5 Circle of Fear:Where Ryan read a book of black magic and becomes curses by the devil himself. When the devil is defeated because of course a life guard and a CSI rep could beat the devil. The msyterious secret agent friend says You know it was the devil and it will be back. Mitch responds literally with “I kicked its butt and if it shows up Ill kick its butt again”
Jump to Episode 6 THE CABIN : Ryan and Mitch go to a haunted cabin that has them stuck in a time loop as they enter different rooms, they can hear each other but they seem different time lines from when the ghost was alive. The ghost is an old 49er miner who tries to kill em with a pick axe. In the end it was all a dream but Mitch sees his wound and knows he just jumped back in time to the begining where its safe.
Jump to Episode 9 Night Whispers: A female vampire is killing people in an old police precinct and wants to make Mitch her slave as she thinks he is really sexy , Mitch pretends he is under her spell but he tricks her because he knows he could have any woman anytime so her glam magic wont work on him and he kills the vampire. Seriously.. I wish I was making that up.
Jump to episode Space Spores: Mitch saves the whole world with his use of diving knowledge when the world is infected by the Andromeda Syndrome. Oh yeah thats episode 10.
Episode 11 Mitch is possessed by a demon giving him red eyes and making him mean after saving a possessed girl who was drowning.
Jump to episode 13 Vincent Schiavelli is a magical Dungeon and Dragons Dungeon Master who sucks his victims into a game world where he challenges them to Dungeons and DEAAAATHHHHH .. Yeah really. Vincent Schiavelli was the weirdest bit part actor of 80s television, I would love to know more of his history.
This will anger Geeks everywhere as they say some hilariously odd things about D and D and have a huge 12 sided dice to play with.
Jump to episode 15 THE MOBIUS Mitch and his paranormal team are grabbed into a time warp by a time demon that puts them in a ghost world after a scientist friend accidentally makes a portal to the ghost world of time...yeah seriously this is happening. But wait maybe it a parallel future where the Ozone layer has caused ghoul monsters to hatch from eggs and Ryan and Mitch has an awkward close moment which is ruined by them misquoting Star Wars lines. Confused.. I guess you will have to watch it. Mitch says at one point I dont believe that science mumbo jumbo.. so what now after 15 episodes he only believes in magic? As Hasselhoff says at the end of every opening credits in season 2, the only season that matter.. he says.. Nights will never be the same!
More Episodes to go Im just over half way there wish me luck folks. I wont put you through it all as I do this so you dont have to.. but hey fuck it why not its all on youtube. If you never hear from be again its because I am stuck in the mobius and David Hasselhoff chose not to save me.
Oh man these credits are so 90s a time that brought you Pamela Anderson and Mortal Kombat. Wow
#Baywatch#baywatch nights#b tv#90s#david hasselhoff#cheese#hilarious#marathon#join me#im going crazy
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Mollymauk Tealeaf wakes up in a grave by the road ten years after he died. Things have gone a bit wrong since then and he might be the only one who can set things right… since it’s the Mighty Nein themselves who’ve gone wrong. AU: Where Molly comes back to yell at his super-powered Level 20 friends. (AO3 - part1) (AO3 - part 2) (AO3 - part3) (AO3 - part4) (AO3 - part5) (AO3-part6) (AO3-part7) (AO3-part8) (AO3-part9) (AO3-part10)
Mollymauk is getting accustomed to this teleporting thing.
He’s getting accustomed to a lot of things, really, like the dying. Like the constant apprehension painted in a thin, burning layer across the inside of his lungs. Like the taste of blood in the back of his throat and the way resurrection magic slithers through his body – like a climax but turned horribly inside out. Molly’s getting used to this dissociation now between his physical self and his soul as he’s pulled through reality from point A to point B. That tooth-click that keeps happening when he stops being nothing and exists again suddenly. That weird ‘pop’.
Molly pops back into being standing in what looks like a dim and unkempt professor’s study.
It’s a big room. There are long wood tables scarred with chemical and arcane fire. Books stacked and laid out everywhere, papers scrawled with shorthand that seems to slither on the parchment when Molly looks at it. The place smells of burnt ozone and there are fading white runes painted onto the flagstones beneath his boots. Suggesting to Mollymauk that Caleb’s pulled him somewhere very specific. He’d hazard it’s Caleb’s personal workshop by the vaulted ceilings literally top to bottom and wall to wall bookshelves stuffed and stacked with tomes.
Caleb Widogast is still gripping Molly’s hand. Like a man might have hold of a handle.
On immediate instinct, Molly tries to extract his hand. But Caleb doesn’t let go so they just stand there. Caleb is still just a little bit shorter than him, but his eyes are still lit from the inside by whatever power lives in him like a star dying behind his irises. He’s staring at Molly and as Molly watches, the blood and gore and the crushed pieces of dead insect that coat his skin begin to flake away, floating and peeling off like embers off a log until Caleb is whole and healed and his hand is hot around Molly’s knuckles.
Through his teeth, Molly says, “Let go of me.”
Caleb’s eyes seem to focus then, like he’d been staring at some other layer of reality until Molly’s voice brought him. His fingers unfurl and he watches Molly instantly back away three paces, massaging his hand where the wizard touched him, rubbing off whatever lingers in the ink and scarring. If he’s offended by this, he gives no outward sign.
“Don’t touch anything. I can’t promise the items here won’t hurt you.”
Molly tells him to go fuck himself in Infernal.
Caleb blinks, then says, “You say that a lot, ja?”
“Well, you haven’t listened to me yet and I really think you fuckin’ should,” Molly snaps, frantically looking around the room. There’s no visible exit, just a strange constant convergence of walls and shelves and acute to obtuse that don’t seem to quite follow the laws of geometry as Molly understand them. It makes the room simultaneously bigger and more claustrophobic. Molly finds breathing harder all at once. “What do you want from me?”
“To talk,” he says, “for now.”
Molly processing that for a minute.
Then snarls, “Are you out of your bloody mind?” When Caleb knits his brow, Molly waves his hands around. “Kidnapping me? You think holding me hostage is gonna do shit? I’m the magic undead teifling, you dumbarse. You can’t threaten me. I’m literally the most useless hostage you could take. What’re ya gonna do?” He puts on a sarcastic voice. “Kill me?”
“I don’t plan on it.”
Molly’s still got one hand around his own wrist, rubbing restlessly at the tattoo run over his knuckles. His fingers dig tight until the bones in his hand pulse with his own rabbiting heartbeat. His entire body feels wound too tight to take. Shaking to bolt or battle, but his hasn’t got any weapons now and he’s standing near enough to touch to a man that kills with one word. He consciously slows his breathing. Tells himself to stop bloody shaking while Caleb studies him head to foot. Incrementally. Like he’s committing details to memory.
“Will Caduceus be alright?”
“That cell has more air, if that’s what you mean.” Caleb circles to Mollymauk’s left. “I wouldn’t use a fire-based spell otherwise.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Molly steps right to keep the same distance between them.
“He won’t die,” Caleb says, still circling, forcing Molly to move so they’re slowly orbiting one another. Caleb never breaks eye contact and Molly’s heart keeps racing, panic telling him that, and just that, could be some somatic component in a spell. Caleb shrugs. “I don’t know if he’ll be okay. That’s a bad enchantment. It can, ah, affect people.” He waves a hand vaguely at his head. “You know, that way.”
“Torture spells are traumatizing?” Molly snaps. “Fascinating. Who knew?”
“You think Caduceus is so gentle.” Caleb’s brows lift. “So soft, ja?”
“No, he skewered a dragon and trades in man-eating beetles. I’ve met trolls that were less scary. That doesn’t mean I’m on your side.”
“Of course not.” Caleb stops to face Molly full on. “You’re on the side of those who raised you. It’s understandable.”
“Oi, bite me, Mr. Widogast. I was on your bloody side until you killed me on a whim and word.” Molly squares himself to the wizard. “Don’t try to play victim when you bring up demons and attack your friends without a kindness of warning. If you mean to make me see your reason in all this, I’m tellin’ you now it’ll be a hard fuckin’ sell.”
“I know,” say Caleb. “Mollymauk, I’m going to show you something, but you need to do a few things for me.”
“Ha!” Molly didn’t mean to laugh that loud, but he’s a little hysterical at this point. “I’m not doing fuck all. You can drag me around on a magic leash first.”
Caleb sighs, then waves a hand… and Molly starts to glow. Or rather, his mithril-chain shirt and his bracers start to glow. Also, the rings on his index finger and thumb. Also, the half-dozen charms hanging around his neck and the clasp around his right horn, and the empty sword sheathes at his hips. Molly is lit up all over, glowing from every magic source on his body which is – with Nott’s insistence – quite a lot of magical aid.
“Take all that off,” Caleb says, hand still shimmering with the detect magic charm.
Molly doesn’t move.
“I’m not identifying any of that shit,” Caleb says evenly. “Take all of it off.”
“Nott gave these to me.”
Caleb’s expression cracks. A slight widening in the eyes suddenly – not of surprise but hurt. Then it’s gone under a stern indifference and he tilts his head a little and raises his other hand, thumb pressed to his middle and index finger in the precursor to a snap.
“Last chance,” Caleb says.
“Nott gave all this to me,” Molly whispers, “to protect me from—”
Caleb snaps his fingers and the air behind him displaces as something massive just materializes in the space directly behind him. Molly jerks back, his hips hitting a worktable. The thing behind Caleb sort of… unfurls. A broad, muscular back shifts as gargantuan leather wings arch up and flare over the wizard’s tawny head. Blue hide, riddled in plates of scale, shimmers in the torch light. A long serpentine neck arches up and up until the beast turns giant predator-gold eyes to fix on Molly. Its skull is the size of a battle shield, its jaw long, draconic, and toothy. Talons big as coat hangers clack and scrap on the floor as what appears to be a bull-sized blue dragon rises up behind Caleb the way a hunting dog comes to quarry.
“Blue dragon wyrmling,” says Caleb, reaching up to pat the beast’s horrifying jaw. “They like magic. Frumpkin doesn’t get to play with anything magic in this form, you see. My work is too dangerous.”
“Caleb,” Molly starts to say, fingers, digging into the table edge behind him. “Don’t—”
Caleb says a word in Zemnian. On that command, his hulking familiar looses a joyous predator scream.
Then it lunges at Molly.
It tears past Caleb, so smooth it barely disturbs the wizard’s fine black and gold robes. Molly, to his credit, immediately hurdles the table, dive rolls, and comes up sprinting on the opposite end of the table. Frumpkin hits the table, missing Molly by inches, then it hits the ground behind him, claws scrabbling on the stone like an off-balance Labrador. Molly feels it on instinct when Frumpkin swipes at his back. He ducks right, going low, skidding, razor-sharp claws whipping through the air over his head.
But then he’s on the ground and Frumpkin is huge.
Frumpkin’s jaws snap closed on the back of Molly’s tunic and with a whip of his head, the hurls Molly against another long table like a cat slinging a mouse against a wall. He crashes through a pile of books which – wondrously – take flight and scatter like a flock of disturbed pigeons. It would be neat if a small dragon didn’t then slam Molly like a battering ram. The beast pins him under massive claws, landing so the pads of its feet are crushing Molly’s upper arms flat, his spine bent back over the edge of the table as Frumpkin the blue dragon wyrmling start to bite excitedly at the mithril chainmail beneath Molly’s tunic.
“CALEB!” His tunic shreds under eager dragon teeth. “FUCK! WHAT THE FUCK!?”
Frumpkin drives his massive bony head against Molly’s chest and instantly cracks two ribs. Molly still manages to scream. Then Frumpkin is grinding an anvil-heavy skull against him like a cat might shove its face in a pillow of catnip except it’s his fucking ribcage and stomach. Frumpkin snuffles at Molly’s skull, chewing lightly at the clasp clipped to his horn before giving that up as a back job and rearing back to study him.
Then Frumpkin’s jaws start to open, crackling with blue static, a long tongue lashing with sparks. Molly sees it coming but he can’t stop it. Frumpkin licks Molly’s neck which… you know, fucking electrocutes him. Molly chokes as a short, agonizing current rips through him, lashing every muscle in his body into a garrote-wire of tension before the current dispels into the wood and it’s over.
Molly isn’t conscious of Frumpkin getting off of him, only of hitting the floor and rolling onto his side, his entire body throbbing and his neck searing where the dragon-thing licked him. He smells burnt skin and ozone.
“Okay, ah, that was a bit much…” Caleb is saying. “Bad cat.”
“Fuck you,” Molly snarls, but it’s undercut with a sob. His entire chest pulses red rivers of fire with every breath.
He curls his one arm around himself and just lays there in a heap with his forehead pressed to the cool stone, tail wrapped around his body at the knee. He has one palm pressed to the floor near his waist, but he can’t find the strength to get up. Through the feverish glow of pain, he feels a hand touch his neck and that cold palm smooths from the hinge if his jaw, down the line of muscle to his clavicle. A slow bleed of magic slides through the gash, like pouring liquid salve into the wound and from there it travels down, down, spreading out inside his chest until the hairline cracks splintered through his ribs go cold as well. Soon, there’s no pain left. Just a numb buzzing in the nerves.
Molly lifts his head.
Pale blue eyes stare back.
“Are you going to take off your enchantments or do you want Frumpkin to try again?”
Molly shoves Caleb in the chest.
This knocks the wizard onto his butt. He didn’t seem to have expected that, because he just kind of drops on his ass and blinks. Surprised while his gigantic wyrmling familiar sniffs at his hair. Molly levers himself into a sitting position. Then he starts pulling the rings off his fingers, palming them, before reaching up to remove the clasp from his horn and the earrings that stave off cold. He unstraps the bracers, pulls the charms from around his neck and sets all this aside. Then he glares, gets to his feet, and turns his back on Caleb while he reaches up and tugs his shirt off over his head from the shoulders.
That way no one can see it while he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.
Molly puts his ruined shirt on the table while he pulls the chainmail off, leaving on nothing but the thinner, sleeveless under-shirt he’s been using to pad the chainmail. The rings are still leaving marks in his skin. He’s not used to armor. Molly starts to pull his shredded tunic back on over his head when he feels Caleb start to move toward him again and –
Molly whips around, snarling, the words going Infernal in his throat: “Back off!”
Frumpkin the wyrmling starts to growl, but Caleb waves his quiet. There’s pause. So, Molly turns back around and finishes pulling his clothes back on. There’s an ache in his bounding heart now, a low panic like a current in his blood that makes him want to double over and start screaming for the frustration of it. The fucking unfairness and stupid cruelty of it. He straightens his shirt and pushes his hair out of his face, then turns to look at Caleb.
“What now?”
“That wasn’t intentional,” Caleb says.
“You sicced your giant bloody cat on me.”
“I warned you.”
“Oh. Well. Alright then. All’s forgiven.”
There’s a tense silence.
Then, “Follow me. Don’t try to run or Frumpkin will sit on you again.”
And then quite suddenly there’s an obvious doorway on the wall to Molly’s right. Caleb crosses the room and opens it, going through, not stopping to check if Molly follows. Probably because Frumpkin is now standing directly behind Molly, breathing static on his neck. Molly pauses to glance back up at the giant familiar. He literally has Molly’s cursed sword sheathes between his jaws like a grinning dog with a stick.
“Your boss is a bastard,” Molly says.
Frumpkin just blinks and nudges him in the shoulder.
“Fine.”
Molly follows Caleb.
Through the door is a long hallway, mostly featureless and should be cold for all the empty stone space, but the air seems to be magically regulated to a comfortable room temperature. The silence is broken only by the soft slap of boots against the floor and the terrible scraping clack of Frumpkin’s talons. They walk through the hall. Caleb keeps surreptitiously checking a dark metal pocket watch as they walk, but the face of it is blank and makes Molly’s eyes hurt to look at it directly.
“The others are looking for you,” Caleb says.
“You don’t seem worried. I would be.”
“I have time,” he says, pocketing the weird watch. “Jester’s young god still needs time.”
“Famous last words.”
Molly glances at a hanging tapestry on the wall nearby – a map of a land he doesn’t know. He’s certain now that he’s passed it a few times. He’s getting the impression that Caleb’s lair really does not obey any laws of physics and the only reason they’re moving through it at all has to do with the wizard himself. Frumpkin, once more, nudges at Molly’s shoulder. Like a border collie keeping a flock of one in line, confirming this really isn’t his first time playing guard dog to visitors.
“The others have told you I’m trying to end the world,” Caleb says.
“No.” Molly folds his arms across his chest, tail lashing anxiously around his boots. “They were very specific that’s not what you’re trying to do, just a possible side effect of what you’re trying to do. That’s what they told me.”
“Hmm,” Caleb says.
Molly feels a heat flare in his throat. “What?”
“I thought they’d lie a little more. I’m surprised.”
“Maybe you just think all your friends are against you when really they’ve been busy – you know – being crazy with grief or kidnapped by demi-gods. Which, by the way, I’m curious, did you try to get Fjord out of there?”
Caleb looks over his shoulder. “Of course. Did they tell you I didn’t?”
“No.” Molly rolls his eyes, leering for effect. “But you’re such a jackass right now…”
“No one could reach Fjord,” Caleb says plainly, blinking. “None of my magic meant anything in the face of that. Nothing short of a god could get close and the only god we had was Jester’s. Fjord was gone so long…” Caleb pauses. “I thought he’d be insane by the time we got him out or thralled to the Serpent.” Caleb’s eyes are unfocused, looking sidelong and away. “It seemed impossible he might still be him.”
Molly hesitates before saying, “Fjord’s stronger than you gave him credit for.”
“Maybe, or maybe he’ll turn on the others in due time. Jester has a blind spot for him. Always has. She would not accept that Fjord might be gone. She obsessed and no one could talk her down from it. Not Nott or Caduceus or anyone. Maybe Beau could have talked her down, but Beau was gone and Yasha was gone and so…” Caleb shrugs and looks forward again. “She was taken too.”
Molly tilts his head. “You say ‘taken’.”
“Yes. There’s a difference.”
“You sure?”
Caleb glances again at Molly. “Caduceus left me. He promised he’d never do that, but he did. He wasn’t taken by anything. Neither was Nott, but I don’t blame her. She was scared. I scared her.”
“You’re a moron,” Molly says.
“Thank you, Mollymauk. Nice to have you back.”
“You’re both morons,” Molly insists, bending at the waist a little to put some emphasis on it, really enunciate. “Caduceus stuck by you because he’s an optimist who couldn’t see you’ve got your head so far up your own asshole there’s no fuckin’ sunshine. Caleb, I’m here to tell you.” Molly cups his hands around his mouth. “Pull it the fuck out, mate! You’re going to end the world because you feel bad about Beau dying.”
“You act like you’re the first to tell me this.”
“I know I’m not the first, but since you won’t listen to literally anyone else, the gods brought me back from the bloody dead specifically, I think, to tell you to stop being a bastard stuffed bastard in bastard sauce and just stop.”
“I can see why the gods in their infinite wisdom decided to intervene and raise you from the dead.”
Molly spits. “I didn’t come back from the dead to persuade you of shit.”
“Apparently.”
“I’m not your conscience, Widogast.”
“You’re saying that like I ever thought that was the case.”
Molly folds his arms again, gripping his elbows in his hands and swallowing, glaring at the wall to distract himself from the slow crush of panic and futility coiling around him. It seems impossible he was in the Blooming Grove less than an hour ago. That he was laying in the grass, chatting with Caduceus. That he’d been surrounded, however briefly, by familiar faces and there was a plan, however, tenuous, as to how all this was going to end and now… he’s here. The shock of loneliness stings his throat and eyes all at once.
“You know, I’m not sure what I am, really.” Molly drags a palm across his face, pulling his hair from his brow again, wiping his eyes. “I thought my job was to get everyone together to, I don’t know, dogpile you until you stopped being a lunatic, but that doesn’t seem to be working.” He glances at Frumpkin who bares horrible fangs around belt and scabbard set in his mouth. “I don’t think I’m doing this right.”
“You got Fjord out,” Caleb says.
Molly blinks but Caleb doesn’t look at him, just keeps walking.
“It’s not your job to save us. You’re your own person. You don’t serve our purposes, Molly.”
“You can’t say that and hold me hostage, Widogast.”
“I know, but I’m a terrible person. Imagine someone better said it. It’s still true.”
Caleb’s hand is pressed against the wood of a heavy looking oak door. Molly can’t say when it was that the distance between the infinite hallway suddenly started to close, but it’s closed now and Caleb looks over his shoulder to meet Molly’s eyes. The wood beneath his hand is complex with runes and sigils, cut with some kind of arcane formula. It, like so many things in this place, ripples and changes before his eyes just looking at it. Caleb keeps staring at him, his burning stare inhuman and bright.
“Have they told you about Beauregard?” he says.
Dread drives a rod straight through Molly’s gut. His pulse rabbits fast.
“They told me a little. Like what she did, how she went down.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean have they told you about her. Do they talk about her?”
Molly hesitates. “If you mean, do they tell me funny stories about her, like what a shithead she was or the time she, I dunno, snorted oatmeal up her nose laughing at breakfast… no. They didn’t.”
“Ja. It’s hard for them.” He kind of looks away. “I remember her. I remember everything she ever said to me, actually.”
“Beauregard… she was pretty important to you.” Molly looks meaningfully around the giant mage-lair around him and the miniature dragon leering over his shoulder. “You’ve done a lot to save her. You’ve, well, you’ve pushed away everyone else who cares about you to do this. I can tell you’re dedicated but, speaking as a formerly dead person… you sure Beau would want to come back like this?”
“They didn’t tell you she became our leader, did they?” Caleb doesn’t wait for Molly to answer or acknowledge his previous question. “She told me once, that she had a reoccurring nightmare. In this dream, she’s standing on that cart on the Glory Run Road. She can’t move, her boots are frozen to the wagon wood while Lorenzo kills you.” Caleb’s looking at him with this strange expression, unreadable as a wall. “I don’t think she ever stopped having that nightmare.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Molly says.
“She called you ‘the best of us.’”
“Wow, okay.” Molly managed an exaggerated laugh. “That’s just because you didn’t know me very well and your bar was low back then. I should have told you all about this one time, in this port town, there was this thing with noodles –”
“It doesn’t matter,” Caleb cuts him off, visibly irritated. “It doesn’t matter that you’re an obnoxious, loud, carnival man that we barely knew. It doesn’t matter that we never really understood you, that you kept secrets, and died before we knew them. None of it matters because when you died, Beauregard regretted that it was you, instead of her.”
Molly stiffens a little, shoulders tensing. “Look, that’s a nice notion and all, but from what I’ve seen over and over, none of you much remember me like I was.” A beat. “Like I am.” Another beat. “Like I was before? Ah, fuck it…”
“Stop being flippant.”
“Sure. Stop holding me hostage.”
The wizard shakes his head, looking tired all at once. “You’re not going to listen to a word I’m saying, are you?”
“Caleb,” Molly says, “If you want me to listen, I would do that. You wanna sit down and have a cup of tea and talk? Great. I’d love that. Gossip is my thing. But I don’t think you’re trying to convince me of anything. I think you’ve already made some godawful decision and you’re just thinking out loud in my face.”
Caleb says nothing.
Just… stares at him.
It’s so strange. It’s Caleb, like it’s always been Caleb, just five degrees off Molly’s memory of the man – cleaner and more put together. He’s had a haircut and a proper shave. He looks like he should be on a council to something important somewhere, telling people to do things… but through every bit of that there’s still the fucking eyes. Just… empty and sad and resigned in exactly the same way he remembers but so much fucking deeper and blacker than that.
“I can’t talk to you,” Molly says softly, “if I’m a spell component and not a person to you.”
Caleb stares. “I don’t think you’re a spell component.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I want to know if you want to kill Beauregard.” He says it so blankly, so hallowed with exhaustion that it feels impossible that he’s been able to mask it until now. A deep festering despair in his voice that goes all the way down to the core of him as he laughs a little. “Because it seems now that everyone else in our little family has decided to kill her and it occurs to me that you, Mollymauk, might be the only one undecided on the issue.”
Molly doesn’t say a goddamn thing.
“Would you answer me?”
“It’s not as simple as –”
Caleb cuts him off saying, “Until I’m done asking questions, you should tell me the truth, Molly.”
And the suggestion takes hold of him. Gently. Not dominating but it slides over his tongue with such an easy familiarity Molly’s swallowed it before he can make even a token resistance and his shoulders kind of relax, tension easing out of his limbs for the first time since he was torn from the Blooming Grove. Caleb’s hand, holding something nonobtrusive at his hip, opens and he reaches up. It’s familiar. Molly lets him pat his cheek and thinks, unbidden, about Hupperdook and a very fucked up Caleb slurring, “Yeah. Th’only magical thing here… is you, friend.”
There’s something sticky on his palm. Smells like honey or…
“Just tell me what you think,” Caleb says.
“Okay.” Molly feels… strange, a little drunk almost but in a nice way, a mild anxiety in his breast that compels him say, “I don’t wanna kill, Beau. Bloody hell, of course I don’t.” It’s such a relief to say that, he goes on a little urgently. “Everyone is saying this is the right thing to do, but it makes my whole fucking body ache to think about. I don’t want to do it.”
“Do you think you can do it, if you had to? If it was down to you?”
“No.” The admission physically hurts to say aloud. Molly clenches his eyes shut. “I can’t.”
Caleb’s quiet for a moment.
Molly feels a hand on his head, pressed over his left ear, beneath the curl of his horn and he looks up at Caleb.
He looks strangely relieved. “Me too.”
“I’m not on your side, Caleb. It’s the wrong thing that I can’t do it. I can’t do it because I’m selfish and I don’t want to live with doing that to my friend… but I know it’s wrong.”
“I know.” Caleb laughs a little. “You feel poorly about that. I don’t. I’m not willing to kill Beau to save the world.” He shrugs. “I know its not fair or right, but she was… she really was the best of us. I can’t let her go like this.” He shakes his head, a wry smile suddenly on his lips. “This mistake. I don’t have to let it stand like the others.”
“Good people die all time,” Molly whispers. “The world’s not a fair place. It’s our job to make it fair as we can, but you can’t bloody do this.”
“My people don’t have to die,” Caleb says. “Not this good person.”
“Caleb, just stop—"
“You cared about Beau, yeah?”
“I died for her, didn’t I?”
Caleb studies his face and in his stare, Molly sees it – the bald-faced fact of it: He’s not looking at a man expecting to get away with anything. He’s not looking at someone with a tomorrow in mind. Then Caleb waves a hand and Molly feels the enchantment release its hold on his thoughts. It’s a cruel hand pulling a warm blanket off his shoulders and he’s standing in the sudden cold aftermath of the spell. All the compelled words sour suddenly on his tongue and a ripple of rage and grief lances through him simultaneously.
“I’m sorry. I needed to know where you really stood.”
And Caleb pushes the door open.
When he does, the air in the room rushes out. It’s freezing cold, turning Molly’s breath to fog instantly and penetrating him to the bone. He shivers, arms jumping up to tuck around his chest, his teeth chattering almost immediately in the artic chill. There’s light coming from the other room, cold and blue and anti-septic. It’s a large circular chamber, empty of everything, just stone walls etched in the same magical formula as the door except all the runes here glow gently blue, humming a slow two-two beat. Like a pulse.
Which makes sense because sitting the in the middle of the room, legs crossed, and facing them… is Beauregard.
She’s seated on a low stone dais. There is a barrier of blue light around the platform. The air glows around her, a vertical shaft of cold azure magic from floor to ceiling. She’s sitting as if in meditation, back straight, hands in her lap, eyes closed. She’s wiry and dark. Small and dense with muscle. Denser than he remembers. Her arms are probably bigger in the bicep than his now. Around her arms are silver bracers, smithed in the symbols of Ioun. There is blood on her fingers, on her knuckles, her lip split, her eye darkened with bruising and that… that makes her so familiar it turns something tense in Molly’s stomach.
Beau with a black eye.
Beau standing on the back of an ice-cracked wagon.
Beau screaming his name, her blue eyes wild in the dawn light, as Lorenzo –
“Why is she bloody?” Molly manages.
“She’s been like that since the day she struck down Oblivion,” says Caleb. He’s still got his hand on the door, his eyes on Beau. “Nothing touches her except divine magic. Caduceus and Jester used to heal the wounds, but they always return. Nothing we do stays. She always… goes back to the way she was in the moment she killed the Oblivion.”
Molly moves into the room. With every step toward Beau, the temperature drops, until Molly’s shivering so hard, Caleb must see it because he taps Molly on the shoulder and warmth slides through his clothes and insulates him in a thin layer of heat that makes his skin steam slightly in the freezing air. Molly moves close enough that he can see the light around her is not just light, but a thin, runic barrier – a magic layer of transparent blue writing so fine it looks like mist moving up and down the surface of the barrier wall.
“You can touch it,” Caleb says. “It only contains.”
Molly cautiously presses a palm against the magic and his hand cleaves lightly to it, like glass, like Beau’s a thing in a shop window he’s trying to see.
Molly can see now that the stone where she touches it is calcified and cracked, frozen as if by a spill of liquid nitrogen. Frost cakes the ground around the platform in shimmering white. The air near her is… humming. Shaking in Molly’s bones, buzzing down to the atoms that compose him. It feels awful and familiar all at once.
But he can see Beau clearly.
She is dressed in battle attire, or what remains of battle attire. The kind of thing you wear when you go to war for the gods.
Her long sleeveless jacket is shredded along the hem and shorn as if by a blade. The royal blue fabric is dark with blood which does not appear to have dried somehow. Her tunic is shredded open to the athletic small clothes beneath. There are etched and glowing bands around her arms, around her wrists, obsidian studs in her ear lobes that shimmer with enchantment. Her dark hair looks exactly as he recalls: shaved along the sides then knotted up at the top. Molly recognizes Yasha’s touch in the beads woven there in braids and plaits. There’s a tattoo of a posie beneath her right clavicle.
Molly’s throat knots up.
“Yasha and Beau…” Molly says, only after her gets his voice working. “Did Yasha—?”
“Marry Beau then lose her?” says Caleb. “Yes. On the same day in fact.”
Molly’s eyes burn. He clenches his hand shut against the barrier magic, leaning his weight against it. He can feel Caleb moving to stand at his right shoulder, watching him react but he doesn’t care. Frumpkin’s heavy footfalls place the dragon creature to his left, hovering protectively as Caleb touches Molly’s arm.
“Yasha won’t survive it.” His voice is certain and indifferent as sunset. “Losing her completely after Zuella—”
Molly knock his hand off his arm, yanking away. “Don’t!” Infernal heat laces his breath. “Don’t you try to use her—”
“You know I’m right.”
Molly pulls his hand from the barrier. “You want me to help you, don’t you? You’re trying to get me to help you.”
“No.” Caleb sounds sorry. “Just… confirming some things.”
He snaps his fingers and there’s a flare suddenly from the light barrier and the color of the runes, glowing faintly from every stone surface, changes suddenly to a deep, seething purple. Black steam immediately begins to burn off the sigils and Molly lunges back from Beau’s alter, hands up like he can defend himself from anything Caleb is doing. The wizard is ignoring him. He has some kind of crystal in his right hand suddenly and he’s drawing signs in the air with the fingers of his left hand. The signs stay there, like ghost writing, shivering with terrible potential energy. Like a bow string pulled taut except pulled through the whole fucking universe.
Frumpkin bumps into Molly’s back, his tail lashing in a sudden half-circle around him, penning him in suddenly, wings flaring up over head.
“I think the gods are on my side,” Caleb says, still casting his spell. The crystal in his hand disintegrates to dust and he waves a hand. Summons a blade from somewhere and uses it to slice open his left forearm, but doesn’t stop casting. “I was hasty before. I didn’t see it.” Blood splatters the floor. “All the spells to bring Beau back are so complicated without sentient sacrifice. Willing sentient sacrifice. I’ve had to build workarounds. So time consuming but now it’s so simple…”
“I’m not dying for your bloody spell!” Molly snarls.
“You already did.” Caleb looks over his shoulder. “You died for Beau ten years ago and not just a little; you died a true death. You were dead of a different kind. The kind that matters and makes gods intervene.” There’s a smile then, on Caleb’s lips, both sad and victorious. “That magic is forever, Mollymauk.”
Light flares blinding from Caleb’s fingers, igniting the blood on the flood so it burns white and evaporates into a red steam. Caleb closes his eyes. He breathes in and the crimson effluvium disappears down the wizard’s throat and when he opens his eyes, they’re burning red as a blood-letting sunset. He turns and presses both hands against the barrier wall that holds Beauregard in. Red light injects itself into the magic, spreading out like a cancer along the surface of it.
Molly feels a pull. Not on his body but a pull he’s come to know in the transition between life and death. Every time Vax’ildan sends him to and from the plane between realms– something is pulling on his soul.
“Caleb!” Molly feels that pull again, hideous and cold and Molly hits the floor on his knees, clutching uselessly at his chest. “Fuck! Stop! Stop!”
“It’s okay, you won’t lose your soul,” Caleb says. “I just need it here…”
There’s a flare from the barrier wall and Molly screams as the light seems to shove himself out of his flesh and the sliding back in feels like falling into a solid slab of screaming nerve and blood and it hurts. It hurts. Molly’s doubled over on the floor, arms knotted around his body, tail curled around himself. This spell has no guiding touch on it. No raven knight errant gentling the transition between astral and material and its like dying a little over and over. Nauseating and awful.
“I’m sorry. Most sacrifices are dead when this is happening.”
“Oh really?” Molly grits, getting one knee under him.
“Just a little longer,” Caleb murmurs. “It’s just a little farther—”
Molly doesn’t let him finish. He snaps his fingers.
Instantly, there’s a flash of light from Frumpkin’s mouth as the empty scabbards in his jaws ignite with conjuration magic. Frumpkin’s head jerks back, the dragonling snarling in surprise. But before anyone can lift a finger, Molly pivots around and lunges at him, faster than he can remember moving in his life… and his fist closes around something solid. He dive-rolls past the familiar, tearing the scimitar from its scabbard. Molly spins up, sword in hand, breathing frantic.
Caleb is glaring at him.
“Stop fucking around.” There is a dark and throaty edge to his Zemnian accent. His eyes flare in his skull, burning brighter, fixed on Molly. “You think you’re going to fight me, Mollymauk?”
“No.” He shakes his head, breathing fast and shallow. “No, I can’t fight you.”
“I know this has been… confusing.” There’s blue flame gathering in the man’s hand. “It’s an admirable instinct, but—”
Molly reverses the sword. An easy, almost casual flip of the blade in a two-handed grip, and sets it point-first against his own sternum. No hesitation. No time. The hit at first: like being punched, the breath driven from his body, then the pain (the feeling Lorenzo taught him ten years ago on the Glory Run Road). Mollymauk shoves it through his ribcage and—
He wakes up standing on a hill beneath the shining moon.
He’s clutching his breastbone, fists stacked where the hilt of a blade was driven in the Material plane. The moonlight is shining, shimmering on his skin like a sheen of diamond dust on his knuckles. Molly stumbles. His knees give out but before he can fall, he’s suddenly tackled as a blur of blue and skirts and arcane light bursts into existence and lunges at him. He collapses against them, arms seizing instinctively around their neck and their hair is silky, chiming with silver, and smells like carnival caramel when he breathes in.
“Jester!” Molly clutches her, fingers sinking into her hair, hooking his elbow around the back of her neck as she laughs and hugs him back. “Bloody hell.” He plants a big kiss in her hair, catching the curve of her ear. “Fools flock together huh?”
“Molly! Molly! Fuck! Shit!” She’s kind of crushing his ribs. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you? How’d you—?”
“Caleb didn’t kill me,” Molly whispers. He hugs her more tightly. “I did it myself.”
Jester freezes. Her fingers dig more tightly into his shoulder.
“S’alright, Jes.” He tries to laugh, but it’s not very convincing. “I’m a one trick tiefling.”
“Can you go back?” Jester whispers. “Molly, were you with Caleb? I can break through another way, but if you can go back–”
Molly pulls back, lets Jester cup his face in shaky fingers. “Caduceus put the Death Ward on me.”
Jester nods. Her eyes brim bright with tears, her pretty white teeth biting at her lower lip. Molly carefully mirrors her, fitting his hands around her dark, heart-shaped face. She starts to say something, but it comes out a sob, so Molly just drops his brow against hers and stays that way for a moment. Feels her tail lash protectively around his right knee, her fingers sink a little more deeply into his hair.
She murmurs, not words, but a low Infernal subvocalization that has no translation into the common languages of the realm – it just means… sadness, sadness, rage, regret.
“Tell me about it,” Molly says in kind.
Jester moves her hands down his neck, to his shoulders, his arms, taking his hands in hers.
“I’ll do it, Molly.” She squeezes tight. “I can stop him.”
“I know.”
A voice over his shoulder says, softly, “You will have half a moment.”
Molly smells dust, old soil, the faint scent of decay – not of flesh but some older less transient material. Jester tucks herself close to his side, gripping his arm tight and it hurts how much strength he can draw from that. Molly turns. Vax’ildan stands again on the hill with them, beautiful and familiar, but unlike every time before… Molly can feel the eeriness in the Raven Queen’s champion. The size of him suddenly astronomical behind his physical presentation.
There’s darkness rising from his shoulders, a strange canopy that stretches up from his back and spreads out in translucent gloom. Molly hears the rustle of wings, of feathers, of a thousand, ten thousand ravens taking wing. When he looks up, he realizes the darkness is merely the massive arch… no… just the shadow of two leviathan wings. Vax moves forward and the moonlight avoids him where walks. Molly doesn’t flinch, even when he fits both palms to either side of Molly’s face and lifts his eyes.
“ I can give strength you don’t remember, Mollymauk. But that’s all I can do. Are you ready?”
Molly pauses, then, “Kiss for luck?”
Vax’ildan – wreathed in darkness, gaze holding the mass of collapsed stars, the voice of the Raven Queen on his tongue – gives him a look. Then rolls his eyes and says, amused, “Fuck it. Kiss for luck.”
Then he leans down, tilting his head and kisses Molly gently on the mouth.
And Molly opens his eyes.
He’s standing in the same room, holding the scimitar point first against his chest, in the precursor of killing himself. There’s blood all over his forearms, his hands, and soaked through his tunic. But he’s still on his feet and Caleb is staring at him with this… startled expression. Eyes wide, mouth open as if in the middle of saying something. He’s still got one hand against the burning red magic that’s holding Beau, the other hand kind of raised in the attitude reaching or casting.
He looks frightened. That fades though as Molly releases his grip on the blade and it clatters to the floor. Molly exhales, his breath a silvery cloud and he backs up a little, shaking his head at if to clear it.
“Why did you do that?” Caleb says blankly. “Killing yourself won’t make a difference.”
“It did to me,” Molly pants.
“Please, don’t do that.”
Molly stares at him. “Caleb, I wish I could I say I’m sorry about this… but you’ve been an asshole.”
And that’s when Jester – stepping out of the ether like a woman stepping through a door – grabs the wizard from behind and punches him. It’s not, like, a ‘how dare you slap’. She snatches his collar in one hand, rears all the way back, and cracks him across the jaw with the other. Caleb staggers, shoulder slamming against the barrier wall. He scrabbles at the wall, visibly struggles to stay conscious through what is certainly a concussion and a broken jaw. Jester doesn’t give him the time. She raises one hand over her shoulder. A massive lollipop bursts into existence – pink and white and brilliant with ribbons. Then she takes the handle in both hands and she swings.
She hits him like a kid playing stick ball.
There’s an arcane flare – of magic hitting magic and Molly feels it as unmovable object meets unstoppable force. The lollipop hammers a defensive spell Molly has no understanding of and the impact ignites the air in blinding radiance. Molly is knocked to one knee by the shock wave alone. A body launches from the center of the room like a rachet ball and then slam into the far wall like a rag doll. It’s definitely Caleb. He hits the floor in a heap, a swirl of passive magic siphoning around his body.
Frumpkin, by then, has finished tearing across the room and lunges at Jester, jaws full of lightning –
“Bad kitty!” she screams.
Her eyes flare white and Frumpkin poofs out of existence.
Caleb seems to be regaining consciousness. He shudders and levers himself up on one elbow, head hanging low as he sways dizzily. He coughs blood, red splattering the flag stones. There’s blood in his hair at the back of his head. He can’t seem to orient himself or speak, suggesting that his skull might be cracked so badly its costing him basic functionality. He tries, with difficulty, to lift his head. His eyes are flickering erratically, brightening and dimming, like a circuit is shorting in him.
Jester, again, does not wait. She disappears then reappears standing directly over him.
She doesn’t say a damn thing.
She just raises a hand and with a flare a soft orb of pink magic blooms around her, encasing herself and Caleb. Immediately the passive magicks moving around Caleb go dormant and disappear. Over her shoulder, the massive lollipop rests like a mace in her hand. Invisible winds disturb her hair and skirts. Her eyes burn green in the iris and she just… waits. Because Caleb is bleeding out at her feet, fast losing consciousness in the neutral bubble of her anti-magic field.
Still he manages, “Jes…ter…?”
“Where is Caduceus?” she says. But when she speaks, her voice quavers. Water drips from her chin. “Did you kill him, Caleb?”
“Nev… I’d never…”
He can’t finish the sentence.
Jester covers her mouth with one hand, eyes squeezing shut, and Caleb slumps unconscious on the floor. For a moment, there’s just silence. Blood freezing on the cold stone floor. Then Jester dismisses the spiritual weapon and drops to her knees. She fits her hands to Caleb’s bleeding head. She combs the bloody hair from the ugly split in his skull and magic begins to sink gingerly into the wound. She’s whispering something softly, like a refrain.
Eventually, Molly moves to kneel with her inside the dome.
“He’ll be okay,” she says, attempting cheerfulness as tears overrun her eyes. “He’ll be okay. I’m asking the Traveler to break some of the… the forbiddance spells around the keep. The others will be here soon. We’ll be okay.” She chokes a little on her own voice. “Everyone’s back together.” Her fingers close in the back of Caleb’s robes, the magic dissipating from her fingers, and that’s when Molly loops his arms around her. She grabs his shirt, clinging suddenly, something building in her chest until she blurts, crying, “What did we do wrong, Molly?”
“Nothing.”
He cradles her head, rocking a little as she starts to sob.
“We tried so hard!”
“I know.”
Jester is wailing now, just gut-wrenching heaves against Molly’s shoulder. “I miss her so much!” She can’t seem to breathe, giving in entirely to ugly crying, almost hiccupping. “I miss Beau! She said we needed to take care of each other and we didn’t.”
“Hey, the world asked a lot from you. S’not your fault if you didn’t do every damn thing on the list.”
“I’m sorry!”
“Shh, stop it. It’s over,” Molly murmurs, hugging her closer. “It’s over, Jes.”
Jester just keeps crying until it seems like she may never stop, but even as he begins to think this, there is a sudden rush of warm wind and the scent of… of somewhere else. Somewhere green and summer-y, sap-sticky, and hot against the skin and Molly feels someone step into the space to his left and kneel. There’s no one there of course, but Molly sees it when Jester’s hair moves a little, an invisible hand tucking strands behind her ear and only then does her wailing become a sniffle.
“I know, but I didn’t want it to be this way,” she says loudly to no one.
Molly feels that murmur of wind again, so comforting it wipes away the cold of the room.
“You promise?” Jester says, looking up at the empty air.
And there’s a chuckle, resonate and deep. Molly gets the impression of the ‘yes’ and a whisper like a cloak against his shoulder, passing by.
And Jester turns to Molly and says, “It’ll be okay. I’m okay.”
Molly gives the room a wary once over. “You sure?”
Jester starts to smile. “We can fix it. It’s… it’s going to be—”
“Finally,” says a voice.
The word splits through Molly’s skull like a nail through the roof of his mouth. He’s on the floor before he can process anything farther, his every limb locked up around a sucker punch that didn’t happen. Dizzy, he struggles to lift his forehead from the ground, but the voice goes on like a tuning fork jammed inside his brain.
“Hey, man. Don’t run, I have some questions for you.”
Molly manages to lift his head. His vision is splitting, going dark around the edges. It hurts to look.
But, there in the middle of the room, Beauregard is standing. The barrier spell around her is gone. She’s stepped half way down from her dais, one foot sill up on the platform, the other on the floor in the attitude of descending a short flight of stairs. Her body is on fire. A pillar of blue and black flame sheathes her skin, billowing the torn edges of her jacket.
She’s looking at something forward and slightly to her left.
Her left arm is extended and her fist closed around something Molly can’t see. Her arm jerks slightly, like something is fighting her hold but she’s smiling this kind of confused, mildly annoyed smile. Like someone is being a little rude at a dinner party or something and she steps down fully. Ice bursts across the floor where her feet touch the stone, the temperature in the room going sub-zero and Molly knows without knowing that if the anti-magic field drops, they’re going to get the brunt of it.
“Wow. Stop spazzing out. I just want to talk,” Beau is saying in that awkward friendly-but-I’m-kind-of-faking-it voice she does when she’s working at being a person to someone she’d rather punch. “Hey. Listen, buddy. This isn’t like before. I’m something else and I need to ask you some stuff.”
And suddenly there’s someone standing in front of her. They’re struggling to get away from Beauregard, who has one iron-fingered grip viced relentlessly around their wrist.
They’re the size of a regular person, tall, slender, arguably a male build. Their skin is strange and iridescent and glowing faintly with a dim greenish warmth that penetrates the cold around them. They are dressed in adventurer’s finery – good boots, a clean blue tunic… and a long, long forest-green cloak that’s pulled up over their head and shadows everything but the lower half of their face.
Jester, seeing this, screams in horror.
But Beauregard doesn’t seem to hear. Her focus is entirely on The Traveler. She uses her free hand to grab a fistful of their cloak and drag them closer.
“I’m trying to be nice here,” she says, exasperated when her captive shoves a hand against her chest. “I’m a new god too, you know. We should stick together.” The Traveler doesn’t say anything, just bares their teeth and light flares through their body, snapping through Beauregard like a blow that knocks her face to the left. “Fucking. Rude,” she says, glaring down at the other god in front of her. “Stop it.”
“I don’t have answers for you,” says the Traveler. His voice cuts through the disharmonics from the other god, dragging a swath of relief through the room allowing the mortals there to breathe again. “I didn’t kill a god to become one.” A smile pulls briefly at his mouth, wry, and fiercely proud. “I found a faith stronger than any in the world and she believed in me. I don’t know what you are, half god. You are not like me.”
Beau-Who-Is-Not-Beau thinks about that.
Her eyes, Molly notices now, are pitch black hollows full of nothing.
“You’re right. Duh. I need to talk to her.” She thinks about it some more, then looks suddenly toward the two tieflings huddled together against the wall. “Hey, Molly. You know Vax’ildan, right?”
“Oh no,” Jester whispers.
“I wanna talk to his boss,” Beau says. “Can you tell him that?”
Then she smiles at Molly… and of course it kills him instantly.
#critical role#mollymauk tealeaf#caleb widogast#the mighty nein#critrole#long post#this one goes up to eleven
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Caught By Your Past
30th Part
Fandom: Assassin’s Creed
Pairing: Altair x Malik
Warnings: modern AU, mature, OOC, original female character; unbetaed.
“... I swear this face looked much nicer before as well.”
“It didn't.” Also, he won't fuckin' ask for details of how this happened for the fuck zero would it solve anyway.
It was presumably only sheer luck that Gie arrived just then. A coincidence that saved Altair and prevented one solid explosion. Things being the way they were, he rather decided to leave the room without a single word.
He was furious. Every single detail was making him even more angry and agitated. The clock ticking. The same fucking clock that hid in plain sight when he wanted to know what the time was. A nurse greeting him cheerily. Was everything and everyone mocking him?! For his stupidity? For his lapse in judgement?! For the rage that got swiftly painted over with realization before a thick layer of shock landed on top?
The whole hospital seemed like a stage he was never interested in stepping on. Finding the fastest route outside became a goal which was blinking at him like a bright red, neon sign. He had no idea what he looked like. Maybe his stoic façade held. Maybe not. Who cares.
He could've inferred that this wasn't a joke. But could he really? Altair was capable of quite considerable number of things. Even flinging himself off a cliff. Literally. What was Malik supposed to anticipate from the asshole? Anything, that's what. Idiot. He added a few more terms of 'endearment' for good measure. The fuming didn't lessen.
Finally getting out of the complex that crowded him either with the intrusive sense of surrounding sickness or the controverting smell of too much disinfectants, he had no intention of stopping right outside the main entrance he just passed through. Even his BIOS running mind was capable of a more advanced plan.
Continuing down the road, his legs marching on until he chanced upon the nearest store. Situated on the very corner of the street, one of those tiny businesses. He didn't bother its owner very long, only purchasing a single pack of cigarettes before leaving again without so much as goodbye.
- Cliché much? -
Screw you, nobody asked your opinion.
That was just it. Not that his critical side didn't thrive in the ashes of an enemy, but right now, it could be a dear and shut up. Only this once.
Like that had a chance of actually happening.
Walking off in a general direction of the hospital's main entrance that he left through not that long ago, he released the suppressed mess out of its chains. However, instead of flooding him all at once, his thoughts rolled and turned in one steady, lazy stream. It would be almost peaceful if it wasn't for the disquiet hanging over his whole mindscape.
Well if his head won't start...
Fishing out one of the nails to the coffin, he lighted it only to start coughing half a drag in.
Did he smoke? Not particularly; close to never, really. He didn't like the taste much and the level of being able to sort through things easier wasn't that overmuch better to make the smoking worth it. Most of the time. As to why did he even started with it then, he'd simply been stressed; too much of everything except time. That's all there was to the story. Not everything in his life was Altair-connected, fuck you very much.
Continuing with the drag-coughing fit-drag-cough style, it was glaringly obvious that he didn't learn the skill much successfully. Well, at least he wasn't a stressed-out smoker; the one with shaking hand and shattered mindscape. No. He simply needed to sort his thoughts, put them back in order, possibly a different perspective. Re-evaluate. Recalibrate, while all around ruled chaos. This time around, the monster raged more inside him than out, though.
The hospital's front door were on sight already. His pace slowed a bit.
You can go and die for real, see if I care.
That was what he thought when he found out that Altair's broken hand and injured neck that he came home with, were faked.
Did he really think that leveling things up, including hospital staff and everything, will work better? It was still a sick joke, nothing more!
Exactly the same blind anger submerged him, gripped him with its claws, hungrily eating away at his insides and sanity just moments ago. Again.
He would never be one of those people who believed that just their thought brought an injury upon someone, but it did come across like an awfully immediate coincidence. For the second part, he wasn't beyond admitting that he could've used his brain more before storming into a particular hospital room either. The thought that Altair feigned injury once already should've kicked in his mind if only for the eureka moment that would remind him that Altair never tried the same strategy twice if it didn't work the first time around; he adapted.
If he was to judge, everything that happened? It was a simple confirmation, a reminder.
Life is a bitch and we all are her toys.
Taking another drag, the dry cough was on a close follow.
The whole squad of malice and misery must've been on call today, because as an elderly woman stepped outside the hospital to presumably give in to the same sin he was currently committing, apparently, his coughing fit insulted her pride of a smoker or at least sensibilities for she sent him a cross look, possibly counting on him to 'beat it'. Like that would work; not even in his teenage years.
Grow an earplug, turn around or sashay off yourself, madam.
To make his stand clear, he stomped the butt, which was all that now remained of his cigarette, out only to fluidly reach for a new one and lighting it.
Pinocchio wouldn't be able to get his nose as up as the woman just did; not even when lying horizontal and telling lie after lie for a whole day straight.
What was her problem? You didn't have to be or look representative to have a right to smoke. As far as he knew, the state didn't issue Cool Smoker licenses.
Inhaling a fresh lungful of nicotine, his respiratory system acted up accordingly like several times before already.
You just didn't.
His eyes narrowed as the woman tried a scathing look on him. And furrowing her eyebrows? Really?
Lady. I had a really bad day. You don't want this kind of duel with me, he tried to infuse the words into his stare with surprising amount of patience which was, however, rapidly growing short.
Forget the intensity of a glare; he would beat her with ease by the brow hair count alone.
Feel free to watch me choke on this one, hag.
The battle of wills would've probably lasted much longer if the graying matron hadn't have decided to show him how it's done. Only to stop in the middle of the lecture before she subtly started patting the bare minimum of pockets her outfit offered, openly searching through her handbag when she didn't find what she was looking for.
Aww... Poor soul. No lighter?
She looked up at him, no stealth level whatsoever this time around.
His finger slid along the surface of his own lighter still in hand.
He impassively raised an eyebrow.
Giving an outright scowl in turn, she closed her handback again with a definitive air to it and with head held high, the intruder stomped off back inside the hospital.
He watched as her figure disappeared behind the sliding doors of the hospital entrance, smoking leisurely, before deciding that now was an opportune moment to move along. He couldn't summon any enthusiasm at the idea of venturing further or even out of the hospital grounds where was a notably higher concentration of people, though.
Before he could even get to the 'on the other hand' part, a raindrop fell on his nose. Looking up, the sky and the ozone in the air pretty much decided. When he finished what was left of his cigarette, a light drizzle was well underway and by the time the motion sensors of the main doors detected him approaching, the weather reached the "Singing In The Rain" level.
Being not the only one who sought shelter inside and at the same time not ready to go to one particular hospital room, he rather quickly picked a hall at random and off he went.
The weather outside basically gave him a free pass to go wherever since the nurses would be hard-pressed to keep track of everyone inside and passing through right now. wandering around didn't bring him much rest, though. Thanks to the uniformity of the hospital's layout and interior, his attention turned back to the flood inside his head all on its own.
Although he never said anything out loud, he didn't feel too hot about Altair's job, that's a fact. An hour ago, as he'd stood in the open door of Altair's hospital room, taking in the sight, there had been dead silence in his head and only one thought ruling over the otherwise empty space:
He might have accepted that Altair flirted with death on a regular basis, but he sure as hell is not gonna let the fucker play with him and make fun of that!
After reading the medical report and hearing the addition Altair provided, after he realized this wasn't another failed fake attempt to get at him, it would be only understandable if his mind did something along the lines that were usually written in books.
'Scattered in one millisecond, unmoving and with no wind boring into the sails at another. Lost and helpless either way.
Frozen in fright.'
The real deal, the feeling turned out to be quite different. It was nothing and everything, switching up lightning quick. Nothing more, no direction. Just nothing. And everything. On repeat.
Arriving at a crossroad – an imaginary and literal one at the same time, he turned left.
Altair liked to play. No, he loved to play. With others. With boundaries. With his life. Back then, now... The future wasn't about to change that either. In all likelihood he was that way in his previous lives, too, if one believed in reincarnation and let's not continue with alternate universes because he understood shit about it and it was really more of Altair's specialty, so screw that – out of principle if nothing else. Wouldn't the dick like that. And yes, pun intended, whatever!
He's still wild.
We knew that, his brain said, at peace.
He's dangerous.
We knew that, his heart answered, serene.
Well, I'm glad you fuckin' knew that!
You knew it, too. The response was as calm as the previous ones if not even stronger in its tranquility.
He was utterly furious again. Because his sense of self-preservation was acting up again. Fighting these answers. Wanting to run away. To not repeat the same, to stop this before he'll have to relive what he already, in a sense, had once. To hell with what Malik decided on before. It wanted to hightail it out of here.
Well, the self-preservation could go and suck on it, because Malik wasn't leaving. That being said, some events in your life did seem to keep happening over and over again. Too soon. Getting his hopes up, thinking that he's got time before getting struck down.
You cannot know anything, only suspect. You must expect to be wrong, to have overlooked something. Anticipate. He'd never limited this strictly to his job alone so why did he forget now?
No use thinking of the past for it's gone, don't think of the future because it has to come, think of the present because that's where you are.
He didn't get much further than that, though.
“Ah, there you are,” sounded behind his back, relief of the speaker almost palpable. “The miracle; this place is a labyrinth and you're not picking up your phone. I was going mad.” Turning around, he saw Gie closing in on him, stopping only when her arms were already wrapped around him.
His body would have a better chance of giving a twitch after looking at Medusa Gorgona.
What.
“Something happened?” His lips actually moved. That was good.
She released him from the chokehold to berate him straight away:
“Yes, you ass. You disappeared, and I couldn't get a hold of you. That's what happened.”
One day. One day... His ambition to reach at least forty before dying was getting quite a workout as of late.
In order to busy themselves, his hands went for the pockets in search of the piece of technology Gie mentioned, however, the only thing they've encountered was his wallet, car keys and the pack of cigarettes he's forgotten all about by now.
Well, that explains it.
“I must've left it in the car.”
“I was thinking about heading back home for the night anyway. I really got to tackle the test tomorrow. You ready as well?”
“I have a few more things to do.”
“So you... gonna go get your phone...?” He was well-aware of which way the wind was blowing. She didn't hope for an escort to the exit.
“No, I'm not. I'm gonna give you my keys,” he did exactly that, “and if you bring my phone to the lobby in five minutes, you can drive home in the car.”
“What if I drive off straight away?”
He gave her a daring, unimpressed look.
“The time's ticking.”
“Slave-driver.” But she shot from the spot anyway.
That's what you get for making him age in one second flat.
He better get a move on, too, though. Fishing out the nicotine batch, he left it on an unattended reception desk on his way out. He won't need those anymore; let the hospital staff play a game of lucky finder.
Little did he know that he left the cigarettes in the cancer ward.
Next
A/N:
“No use thinking of the past for it's gone, don't think of the future because it has to come, think of the present because that's where you are.” - Kazi Shams (a writer/poet who resides in Canada)
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11/10/17 but still the 9th
I'm not going to masturbate anymore
flesh isn't sacred anymore
touch is jade stone and a kiss is a wave of a hand
tonight I had some very important conversations with perfect strangers
I’m hyper aware of the world and I know that others are as well
so I connected to that and I got some insight that I never had before
I went to Outer Limits with Joe and he bought me beers and we ate pierogis
he’s a huge environmentalist and so I asked why he was so passionate about it
he told me that he wants to live safely on this planet when he’s 50
and something about livestock and how when they shit, the methane gas is enough to break the ozone layer completely
not only that but we are losing 50 billion livestock a year
and the mere death of them all is enough to send the stratosphere out of whack
I never knew any of this
but what I was really trying to do was sift past the bullshit small talk and passiveness that we are trained to live under since we were kids and get to see the true dirty passion within
the things that run through his head, where his true believing heart lies
I noticed that he kept bringing up recycling in the house and the importance of taking care of the environment
we all have something that we are wild about
we all have things that our soul revolves around
I saw that he lit up so I wanted to know more
because that is the key to seeing somebody's true soul
when you can look in their eyes and their eyes don’t wander but stay fixed on something concrete, whether its in your eyes or to their side
regardless their is a target and their eyes are the arrow
this is how you see somebody
now I feel like I can see in his heart
then maria and Isobel came and then Dave, her boyfriend came
I talked to a friend I haven't seen in awhile, Kara, who gave me her mace
I've never owned mace before but now I feel like a badass fucking bitchhh
she told me to be careful around town now that I live here
they were playing glam rock all night and Dave bought us shots of tequila all on his tab
I met a girl named Aaliyah who had the most amazing conversation with me
maria crushed some cans with her hand
and then I drove her home in her own car and walked all the way back to my house
it was freezing and I was alone but it felt good
it reminded me so much of new York
I want to be on the carpet of a house of a person with some friends and the music never ends
NIGGHTTT DRIIIVVEEE
I want to go on a million night drives
down the artificial city
on the train tracks after darkness
falls beauty in the magic of neverend
I hold the world inside my hand
as stars blossom and bend
LISTENING TO:
Night Drive by Part Time
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The Slim Shady 20
Eminem’s “The Slim Shady LP” came out, I’m told, 20 years ago. Though the album is, in many ways, dated, homophobic, problematic, sexist, and just as differently offensive now as it equally was originally, it’s still extremely excellent. Instead of going too think piece-y, I wanted to write about my favorite bars.
While Eminem’s career definitely hit higher highs with latter releases, this is my favorite album in his catalogue. He was just as angry, but it was channeled; not distorted by fame or worn down by addiction or jaded by lawsuits or persevering through death of loved ones. This was 26-year-old Marshall, getting his head above water in time to start machine gunning expletives at the world around him.
And please remember, in his words, “If I’m talking too fast, it just means you’re listening too slow.”
20.
I wanted an album so rugged, nobody could touch it
Spent a million a track and went over my budget (Oh, shit)
Now, how in the fuck am I supposed to get out of debt?
I can't rap anymore, I just murdered the alphabet
Immediate thesis statement.
19.
If I had a magic wand
I'd make the world suck my dick without a condom on while I'm on the john
Really dislike this lyric, but it’s unflinching grossness hits every time.
18.
I met a s*** and said, "What up? It's nice to meet ya
I'd like to treat you to a Faygo and a slice of pizza”
This lyric does not exist going forward because any success carries you beyond it. Shades of “Exhibit C’s” masterful “When I was sleepin' on the train / Sleepin' on Meserole Ave out in the rain / Without even a single slice of pizza to my name” exactly 10 years later.
17.
This guy at White Castle asked for my autograph
So I signed it, "Dear Dave, thanks for the support, asshole"
Doesn’t even rhyme; he hated his fans from the very beginning.
16.
‘Cause I'm the one they can relate to and look up to better
Tonight, I think I'll write my biggest fan a "fuck you" letter
Gave you every, immediate chance to get away.
15.
I'm freestylin' every verse that I spit
'Cause I don't even remember the words to my shit
Nah -- you’re way too meticulous, Shady.
14.
I'm not a player, just a ill rhyme sayer
That'll spray a aerosol can up at the ozone layer
I like when his evil imagery turns half-baked adolescent; might as well brag about melting ants with your magnifying glass.
13.
Tell her you need a place to stay
You'll be safe for days if you shave your legs with Renee's razor blades
Some fun internals; plus the part right before taught me what “gaffle” meant.
12.
I just remembered that I'm absent-minded
Wait, I mean I've lost my mind, I can't find it
+
I used to be a loudmouth, remember me? (“Uh-uh”)
I'm the one who burned your house down (“Oh”)
Well, I'm out now (“Shit”)
Two of my favorite circular lines.
11.
Some people only see that I'm white, ignorin' skill
'Cause I stand out like a green hat with a orange bill
But I don't get pissed, y'all don't even see through the mist
How the fuck can I be white? I don't even exist
Had to address the elephant in the room.
10.
You beef with me, I'ma even the score equally
Take you on Jerry Springer and beat your ass legally
Man with a plan.
9.
These are the results of a thousand electric volts, a neck with bolts
Nurse, we're losin' him, check the pulse
Always a lab-created monster.
8.
I want to make songs all the fellas dub
And murder every rich rapper that I'm jealous of
So just remember, when I bomb your set
Yo, I only cuss to make your mom upset
Cracked the code for us.
7.
Got b****** on my jock out in East Detroit
'Cause they think that I'm a motherfuckin' Beastie Boy
So I told 'em I was Mike D
They was like, "Gee, I don't know, he might be"
I told 'em, "Meet me at Kid Rock's next concert
I'll be standin' by the Loch Ness Monster"
This one checks many boxes: The D, local-yet-hilariously-dated celeb name check, misogyny, mythical creatures.
6.
But they love it when you make your business public
So fuck it, I've got herpes while we on the subject
And if I told you I had AIDS, y'all would play it
'Cause you stupid mothafuckas think I'm playin' when I say it
Well, I do take pills, don't do speed
Don't do crack, don't do coke, I do smoke weed
Don't do smack, I do do shrooms, do drink beer
I just wanna make a few things clear
My baby mama's not dead, she's still alive and bitching
And I don't have herpes, my dick's just itchin'
It's not syphilis, and as for being AIDS-infested
I don't know yet, I'm too scared to get tested
One of the only times he breaks the fourth wall.
5.
I hang with a bunch of hippies and wacky tobacco planters
Who swallow lit roaches and light up like jack-o-lanterns
Outsidaz, baby, and we suin' the courts
'Cause we dope as fuck and only get a ‘2′ in The Source
This was soon corrected.
4.
That's what I did, be smart, don't be a r*****
You gonna take advice from somebody who slapped Dee Barnes?
“What you say?”
What's wrong? Didn't think I'd remember?
“I'ma kill you, motherfucker”
Uh-uh, temper, temper
Mr. Dre, Mr. N.W.A, Mr. AK
Comin' straight outta Compton, y'all better make way
Distilling Dre’s career -- warts and all -- into a flurry of knockout punches.
3.
I'll listen to your demo tape and act like I don't like it
Six months later, you'll hear your lyrics on my shit ("That's my shit"!)
People don't buy shit no more, they just dub it
That's why I'm still broke and had the number-one club hit
Everything we’ve ever learned about Eminem has taught us he’s a tortured obsessive... yet this stretch feels effortlessly perfect. Plus, it gives us a clairvoyant outlook on the perils of massive-success-without-actually-making-money in the YouTube/streaming era.
2.
Me and Marcus Allen went over to see Nicole
When we heard a knock at the door, must've been Ron Gold
Jumped behind the door, put the orgy on hold
Killed them both, then smeared blood on the white Bronco (We did it)
So offensive it almost laps itself back into normalcy. The unflinching “We did it” at the end is psychotic, horrible, and confident.
1.
Fuck rap, I'm givin' it up, y'all, I'm sorry
(”But Eminem, this is your record release party!”)
Tried to get out the game on his debut; Jay Electronica would be proud.
Honorable mentions...
I lay awake and strap myself in the bed
With a bulletproof vest on and shoot myself in the head (Bang)
I'm steamin' mad (Grr)
And by the way, when you see my dad (Yeah?)
Tell him that I slit his throat in this dream I had
There’s something casual about his fantasy murder of his father that really made the end stretch of this hit home. This is the closing of his final verse in “My Name Is”; he was never playing.
Man, ain't you ever seen that one movie “Kids”?
No, but I seen the porno with Sun Doobiest
Em’s devil to Dre’s angel.
My palms were sweaty, and I started to shake at first
Somethin' told me, "Try to fake a stomach ache, it works"
I screamed, "Ow, my appendix feel like they could burst
Teacher, teacher, quick, I need a naked nurse"
"What's the matter?"
"I don't know, my leg, it hurts"
"Leg? I thought you said it was your tummy"
"Oh, I mean it is, but I also got a bum knee"
"Mr. Mathers, the fun and games are over
And just for that stunt, you're gonna get some extra homework"
"But don't you wanna give me after school detention?"
"Nah, that bully wants to beat your ass and I'ma let him"
Even the teacher wanted him to get his.
Tired of bein' stared at
Tired of wearin' the same damn Nike Air hat
Never had to worry about that after this.
* * *
Death section:
- I tried suicide once and I'll try it again
That's why I write songs where I die at the end
- The disaster with dreads, I'm bad enough to commit suicide
And survive long enough to kill my soul after I'm dead
- The ill type, I stab myself with a steel spike
While I blow my brain out just to see what it feels like
'Cause this is how I am in real life
I don't want to just die a normal death, I wanna be killed twice
- And if you ever see a video for this shit
I'll probably be dressed up like a mummy with my wrists slit
- (I'm Slim Shady) So come and kill me while my name's hot
And shoot me 25 times in the same spot
* * *
I got a wardrobe with an orange robe
I'm in the fourth row, signin' autographs at your show
Tries to be unique and boastful... falls apart and gets self-deprecating.
I take a breather and sigh, either I'm high or I'm nuts
'Cause if you ain't tiltin' this room, neither am I
I mean, someone was... right?
We drive around in million-dollar sports cars
While little kids hide this tape from their parents like bad report cards
Eh.
If I had a million bucks, it wouldn't be enough
Because I'd still be out robbin' armored trucks
Unquenched desire for chaos.
A lyricist without a clue, what year is this?
Fuck a needle, here's a sword, body pierce with this
Always able to make a risky situation dicier.
Wait, what if there's an explanation for this shit?
What, she tripped, fell, landed on his dick?
Solid one liner.
Drug sickness got me doin' some bugged twitches
I'm withdrawin' from crack so bad, my blood itches
/eyes pop out
I don't speak, I float in the air, wrapped in a sheet
I'm not a real person, I'm a ghost trapped in a beat
Super fun hip-hop imagery.
#eminem#the slim shady lp#1999#music reviews#dr. dre#the eminem show#8 mile#detroit#beastie boys#loch ness monster#kid rock#music#rap#hip-hop#nostalgia#death#mummy#east detroit#nwa
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Dear Mother Sam,
With my 20th birthday fast approaching, I’ve realised many things. I haven’t taken enough opportunities to tell you how much I love and appreciate you since I hit my teen years, especially those rocky few years where I was so horrible to you for no good god damn reason other than I was drinking and being an awful human. I never really thought about how much you’ve done for me and sacrificed for me until now. I see these things now because I am at a point in my life where I am starting to have to do the same things for those I love. We’re very alike, and if I think it sucks having to make sacrifices then you probably did too. But that’s the beautiful thing about a mother’s love. For that, I am forever thankful.
We had a rough start to our lives as a family unit. You were a single, divorced, young parent in a time where it was still frowned upon and the government were only just starting to support that kind of family unit. You had to fight for everything. If there’s one thing I’m grateful to have inherited from you, apart from some great genes, it’s that stubborn strength. You never gave up or backed down in any situation, even when you were scared because that’s just the type of person you are. Still to this day, you are stubborn as hell and don’t take no for an answer. You still fight for everything you believe in and never let anyone tell you anything different. You still make decisions based on what is best for us as a family, not just yourself. Even though I’m not an adult and should be making many of those choices myself. I’ve seen you at your lowest moments and never once have I doubted your strength. You are the strongest person I know, not just the strongest woman.
So many people have negative opinions of young parents. You were 20 when you fell pregnant with me. A total accident, and in the 90’s that was still somewhat problematic. However, having a young parent was honestly such as blessing. When the majority of my friends have parents in their late 40’s or early 50’s, you only just hitting your 40’s is brilliant. You’re a tattooed woman, a pierced woman, a cultured and educated woman. You’re not oblivious to the struggles young people face because it wasn’t so long ago that you were in my shoes. And it hasn’t really changed all that much since you were my age. Although I know you have forever been criticised by your “liberal and soft” parenting skills by other older parents you had it spot on. I’ve never had a friend that didn’t say to me at some pint “I wish I had a mam like yours”. You’re a second parent to my closest friends, and I think they almost love you as much as they love their own mothers. You always let me be my own person, never pushing me to be someone I didn’t want to be or do things I didn’t want to do. You let me pick my clothes, decide what I wanted my hair cut like, what I wanted to read, what music I wanted to listen to. Prime example, you used to let me dress myself for nursery. The other parents had some opinions about this when their kids rocked up in perfect coordinated outfits and I waddled on in wearing a jumper and wellies in the height of summer. But that’s what I wanted to wear, so that’s what I wore. If I wanted to listen to Rob Zombie in the car at 5 then god damn it I did. The first time I wanted my hair cut short in primary school you knew I would hate it at the time, but you let me do it anyway because that’s what I wanted and it’s how I would learn what I like and what I don’t. Are comics a totally acceptable bed time story? Too right they are. When I wanted to join ballet, you knew I would hate it after a few weeks but you let me go anyone. Then when I threw up out of nervousness at a summer show you let me quit. Must have only been there a couple of months, and you bought me the full ballerina get up for it. Now I look back at all that wasted money and wonder how on earth you kept your cool. Bravo mother. Never agreed with the times you tied my hair up though. Even as a toddler I wasn’t a fan of all that faffing, but I commend you for trying to make my questionable appearance a little more adaptable.
Childhood was simplistic but oh so memorable. I grew up in a time when technology was starting to expand and grow rapidly, and all the kid’s I knew were bought these things in order to entertain them with no effort from parents or buy their love. Not us though. We still had a tiny TV with a handful of channels, a record player and imaginations. My favourite childhood memories are all wonderfully simplistic. Moving the dining room table, putting on a vinyl record (probably Abba or something, I don’t remember the music so much) and having dining room discos. Ever day on the walk home from school I would climb trees and find a “special thing” that you would incorporate into my story that night. We went fairy hunting and you told me I had them living in my bedroom so I used to make beds for them out of the padding in your bras (sorry about that). You told me garlic grew in men’s beards and the bigger the beard the more garlic you could harvest. You told me there was a troll that lived in a tunnel near the house and told me that my Stepdad and his brother were troll slayers. I thought they were the coolest people in the world for a while after that, but they also had beards so I was always garlic hunting. When I was obsessed with Polly Pocket you bought me the best advent calendar to date for Christmas. It had the Polly doll behind door 1, then gave you bits of outfits. But that wasn’t the end of it, oh no. You wrote tiny notes from Polly Pocket and hid them in my room at night for me to find in the morning. I had a whole dress-up box filled with all sorts of random clothing and questionable accessories. Possibly my favourite thing is that you were a parent ahead of your times. You said a massive “fuck off” to gender norms and stereotypes for kids, to gendered clothing and toys. If I wanted to wear boys clothing, you let me. It is just clothing. If I wanted a toy that was “meant for boys” you would let me have it if you could afford it, like that toy garage with the cars. I was more interested in climbing trees and getting dirty outside that going to Girl Scouts or dance classes like the other girls. You let me get absolutely filthy, let me play sports if I wanted, helped me climb those trees. When I dressed up as a builder in school as a kid, many parents raised an eyebrow because it was a “boy costume”. You loved it. I was never in a box based on my sex, and continue to reject that box now. You never told me I couldn’t do something because of my gender and that is so vital for a child. It’s meant I know no there’s nothing I can’t do if I want it bad enough to fight for it.
You never shied away from conversation topics many parents tend to dread. The sex talk was seemingly a walk in the park for you, you handed me a book (a very graphic and scientific book at that) about where babies came from then answered every question I could possibly answer. You were always good at that. When I got to the age of asking “why” all the time you would mostly give me a scientific factual answer instead of spouting nonsense. I never asked why grass was green again because you just confused my 4-year-old brain. You always educated me about the LGBTQ+ community and the issues they faced to the best of your ability. I’m glad I can now return the favour and educate you on modern LGBTQ+ issues now that I am part of that community and experiencing them first hand. When I started first questioning my sexuality, you were so unbelievably supportive. You would talk about anything and everything with me. You would tell me about world issues because you wanted me to be aware. You’d teach me about other cultures. You tell me about what it was like growing up in the army so I am aware of the ways other people live. You educated me on what a healthy relationship was, what was normal and acceptable, what to be careful about. Being so up front with me helped me so much. When guys tried to make a move that I wasn’t ready for, you had taught me how to say no and that it was okay to say no. When I would be upset over the fact boys had dumped me because I wouldn’t have sex with them, you would comfort me and tell me how strong I was and how proud of me you were. You made me aware of mental health issues so that when I hit 14 and started experiencing depression and anxiety I knew what was happening. It also meant I understood other people’s struggles and how to behave with them to help them. I don’t personally know many people who were brought up having such an understanding for these things as I did at such a young age.
When I started blooming into a little baby bat and had the dreaded phases, you were supportive. You told me when I looked like an idiot, which admittedly was most of the time, but you were still supportive of my expression. You took me to concerts, made me clothing to fit my 7 year old goth desires, gave me my first eyeliner which is a vital element of that iconic emo/scene phase I went through, bought me CD’s of bands I knew you really didn’t want to hear blasting through the house (Black Veil Brides and Brokencyde anyone?), gave me a hair straighter and didn’t question those god awful hair extensions. I do however apologise for the ungodly amount of hairspray I used in order to get the perfect swoopy fringe and teased bouffant, I put several holes in the ozone layer and made the house stink of Got2B Glued. When I wanted to start dying my hair in primary school, you let me. Again, this raised eyebrows among the stuffy parents but you had the brightest red hair known to man when I was a baby so it was only to be expected that I wanted hair like my mam at some pint. From year 4 onwards, my hair had purple highlights, was totally purple or red, and in year 6 I found the beloved “Midnight Blue” dye that gave me the nickname blueberry muffin among my friends. I first bleached my hair at 12 after months of begging. I wanted blue hair to further amplify the scene look. My love of coloured hair has never stopped. Although you hate me for dying the bathroom grout a multitude of colours I know you will never stop me changing it. I remember being asked, “How on earth did you manage to let your mam do that to your hair?!”. I just asked. Same with my piercings. When I started asking to get my nose pierced around the time I wanted the blue hair, you told me if I saved the money for it and did my research then I could do it. So that’s what I did. That was always the rule with any form of body modification, along with my hair changes that were as frequent as my mood changes. I had to do my research and pay for it myself with money I saved up. All my other friends were getting piercings and having to hide them or were forced to take them out as soon as they got home. Not you though. Never batted an eyelid. Hell, when I was 15 you blackmailed me into getting my second lip piercing because it annoyed you that my face was unsymmetrical. The only thing you ever fought me on was stretching my ears, but I did it anyway. I stretched my ear and let it close up a total of 3 times over the course of a few years. You accepted it when I was 17 though, and now both my lobes have 12mm holes in them that I honestly think I would look so odd without. You probably still hate them, but again you’ve always encouraged me to be my own person and express myself however I want. I wanted tattoos from a young age. I remember doodling designs I wanted when I was a toddler. You always told me once I was 18, if I had wanted the tattoo for over two years I could get it. You educated me on tattoos, the laws regarding them. When I came home at 15 and said my friend knew a tattoo artist that would tattoo a 16-year-old with parental consent, you told me something I will pass on to any children I may have in the future. “The law states you have to be 18 to get a tattoo. If an artist is willing to risk losing their licence just to make some extra money from tattooing an underage person, then they are not reputable artist and you shouldn’t be getting tattoos from them.” We got matching tattoos this year, something we had said we would do when I was a toddler. My first tattoo. I listened to at least one thing you said when I was a teenager. You’re a cool mam.
One thing I never expected when I came out was for people to say negative things to you. I don’t know why that never crossed my mind, but I guess when you come out you prepare yourself for all the struggles you’re going to face personally. That’s a luxury I had that I don’t think I gave you. I had time to mentally prepare myself for that, think about how I would handle certain situations. You didn’t get that time to prepare. You were throw in at the deep end. Much like when you became a parent in the first place I suppose. I never thought you would have people ask you if you were disappointed that you had a gay daughter, or say they were sorry I was gay as if they were saying they were sorry for the loss of your child. I never thought people would point fingers and “blame” you and your “liberal” parenting for me turning out gay. I never thought you could have lost friends over it. I didn’t you expect for you to have to fight for my identity and validity as a queer woman, I thought that would just be my fight. You’ve never once complained about it though. Thank you.
I am so lucky to have a parent who is so passionately supportive of me, who actively tells me they’re proud of me for everything I do, who encourages me to chase my dreams but also tells me that it’s okay to give myself a break, to relax and just enjoy life. You believe in me when I don’t, you tell me I’m capable when I don’t think I am, you listen to me when I need it most, you are a friend. I am so grateful to have the relationship we do, I know how lucky I am. Although we butt heads and get snappy with each other, I know I can always count on you to be there for me when I need you. I know you’ll be proud of me. I make sure I’m doing that every day. I love you so much, mam.
Yours,
Steph x
An Open Letter to My Mother Dear Mother Sam, With my 20th birthday fast approaching, I've realised many things. I haven't taken enough opportunities to tell you how much I love and appreciate you since I hit my teen years, especially those rocky few years where I was so horrible to you for no good god damn reason other than I was drinking and being an awful human.
#appreciation#childhood#children#education#lgbt#lgbtq+#lifestyle#long reads#love#memory#mother#open letter#parenting#personal#relationships
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Hello Supercult West! This is Supercult South Bad Movie Professor Cameron Coker (BS in “Alternate Endings” with a minor in “Not Even Queen Can Save This One”) and I’m reaching out to you from across the country to help hype tonight’s screening of Highlander 2: The Quickening!
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In 1986, The Highlander flopped lifelessly into theatres making just $12.9 million back of its $19 million budget. Directed by Russell Mulcahy, starring Christopher Lambert and Sean Connery, and distributed in collaboration with the infamous Cannon films group, the Highlander was about a race of secret immortals living on the fringes of society who are destined to meet and slay one another in ritual combat until only one survives and claims the prize of unlimited knowledge of the universe. Though the film was received poorly initially, it gained traction in Europe and developed a strong cult following especially in the home video market. The soundtrack contains several songs by Queen such as “A King of Magic” and “Princes of the Universe” and even inspired Brian May, Queen’s lead guitarist to write the song “Who Wants to Live Forever”, which was also included in the film. Overall, The Highlander is a pretty decent cult film that, if nothing else, helped immortalize the tagline: There Can Only Be One.
And then there were two.
“I’m Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. I was banished from the Planet Zeist 500 years ago — and I cannot die.”
Insert Shakespeare joke here.
Can we make hand touching a scream game for this film?
Christopher Lambert refused to use a plastic sword at first, until during an accident he cut his finger down to the bone with his 22-pound broadsword. Learn from Chris, kiddos.
Did you know there’s a Highlander Animated Film? Did you know that it’s better than THIS film?
BUCKLE UP! IT’S THE LAW!
Other than James Bond, this might be the only other character Sean Connery has ever played in multiple films.
This is called the Quickening. It’s less erotic than it sounds and looks, we promise.
There can only be one, unless it’s a franchise, then it’s more like 5, but we ignore the second one.
“Remember, Highlander, you’ve both still got your full measure of life. Use it well, and your future will be glorious. And perhaps don’t spend it making crap movies.”
An alternate ending, “The Fairytale Ending”, was shown in some European theaters. Louise and Connor magically return to Zeist, embrace in front of a field of stars, transform into light streaks, and fly off into space.
Director Russell Mulcahy disliked the theatrical cut so much that he left the premiere after only fifteen minutes.
Highlander 2: The Quickening, released in 1991. It too was directed by Russel Mulcahy and starred Christopher Lambert and Sean Connery. It was NOT distributed by Cannon, the same people who brought us Supercult Classics American Ninja, Bloodsport, Puss in Boots with Christopher Walken, and Over the Top, the movie about Sylvester Stallone arm wrestling, which by all accounts this should have been a good thing. However, that is where the good things about this film come to an abrupt end.
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Highlander 2 is quite possibly the most incomprehensible film we’ve seen this year. It takes the idea of medieval immortal warriors swinging lightning-infused broadswords at each other and decided to beat it with the shitty sci-fi stick until it’s unrecognizable. Here’s some key words associated with Highlander 2: The Ozone Layer, suit-fitting montages, the planet Zeist, dystopia, hover sleds, cyborgs, 500 years ago, opera, evil capitalist businessmen, ancient Scotland, the distant future of 1994 (just a few years AFTER the release of Highlander 2 itself), spinning fan blade death traps, giant metal dome shields, the Evil General Katana, astral projection, 5 years later, aliens. Now spend half an hour brainstorming how any of those things might connect to each other. I guarantee that anything you come up with will be 20 times better than what got sent to theatres in 1991.
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It only goes downhill from there. Previously important characters are made irrelevant, previously simple concepts are made unbearably convoluted, and throughout all the hoverboard sword fights, slightly hot and muggy dystopias, and goofy lightning effects Sean Connery still manages to be a charming son of a gun in a veritable sea of complete stupidity. Oh yeah, Sean Connery is in this, I guess, even though his character died in the first movie.
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Most of the actors hated the film so much that they wanted to quit in spite of their contractual obligations to the film. Michael Ironside, who plays the villain Katana, said, “Yeah, listen, I hated that script. We all did. Me, Sean, Chris, we all were in it for the money on this one. I mean, it read as if it had been written by a thirteen-year-old boy. But I’d never played a barbarian swordsman before, and this was my first big evil mastermind-type. I figured if I was going to do this stupid movie, I might as well have fun, and go as far over the top as I possibly could. All that eye-rolling and foaming at the mouth was me deciding that if I was going to be in a piece of shit, like that movie, I was going to be the most memorable fucking thing in it, and I think I succeeded.”
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Highlander 2: The Quickening was a critical and financial disaster. Roger Ebert gave it 0.5 stars out of 4, saying, “This movie has to be seen to be believed. On the other hand, maybe that’s too high a price to pay.” Highlander 2 has a 0% on Rotten Tomatoes and from a $34 million budget grossed less than half that amount. There are even a dozen different cuts and endings for the film as different distributors, the director, and even the producers tried their hand at editing, adding special effects or voice over, and removing or rearranging elements of the film to make the whole somehow less atrocious than the parts. Highlander 2 was so bad that future films in the franchise outright ignore it altogether and instead follow the story and mythology established in the first film, leading many fans to redub the third film “Highlander 3: The Apology”. The original theatrical version of the Quickening is considered by many to be one of the worst films ever made, and certainly the worst film of 1991. But I dunno man, we’ve seen Cool as Ice, and that’s pretty bad too, so I think we’ll watch it anyway and see how it stacks up.
In all our centuries of Supercult, nothing could prepare us for this.
Supercult West is proud to present, Highlander 2: The Quickening!
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Highlander 2: The Quickening Hello Supercult West! This is Supercult South Bad Movie Professor Cameron Coker (BS in “Alternate Endings” with a minor in “Not Even Queen Can Save This One”) and I’m reaching out to you from across the country to help hype tonight’s screening of Highlander 2: The Quickening!
#1990s#Action#adventure#Christopher Lambert#Fantasy#Highlander#Highlander 2#John C. McGinley#Michael Ironside#Queen#Roger Ebert#Russell Mulcahy#sci-fi#Sean Connery#sequel#The Quickening
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Mollymauk Tealeaf wakes up in a grave by the road ten years after he died. Things have gone a bit wrong since then and he might be the only one who can set things right… since it’s the Mighty Nein themselves who’ve gone wrong. AU: Where Molly comes back to yell at his super-powered Level 20 friends. (AO3 - part1) (AO3 - part 2) (AO3 - part3) (AO3 - part4)
Molly hits the ground. Not hard, but he hits the ground, like someone dropped him gently. The grass cushions his head, presses into the nape of his neck. For a moment he lies there blinking. The air’s warm, his jacket pooled underneath him, his fingers slack in the silk and embroidery, one knee bent up while he lies there breathing. A silver bowl of moonlight hangs full in the sky above him and the sight feels so familiar, so comforting, Mollymauk feels a sting suddenly of homesickness and relief he hadn’t been previously aware of.
He sits up slowly.
There’s a person with long black hair sitting cross-legged at his feet. They’re hauntingly pale, beautiful, and familiar. Their armor bristles with raven feathers and shines in places but consumes the light in others. Their cloak gathers as shadow on the ground beneath them and they’re looking at Molly with an expression he interprets, faintly, as the sorrow of bystanders. A helpless empathy. When Molly just stares blankly at them for a full ten seconds, they get up and move to kneel beside him. When he doesn’t knowledge the move, the stranger touches his shoulder. Gently. Like they might brush a wound.
“Hey,” says the stranger.
“What happened?” Molly rasps. He presses palm to his face, realizes there are tears on his cheeks. “Shit.” Molly wipes the dampness with the back of one hand, swallowing. “Why did he do that?”
“I don’t know,” says the stranger. “But I’m sorry.”
“Heh, I thought I was supposed to fix things.” He reverses his hand, finishes drawing off his tears with the heel of his palm. “He looked… he knew I was me. I could see he – fuck.” Molly drops his face briefly into his hands, breathes, drops his arms again. “What the hell was I supposed to do?”
The stranger shakes his shoulder until he looks up at them. Their eyes are dark, holding his gaze fully, drawing him in with physical gravity that pulls Molly’s head to the left. They touch the side of his face with the back of two fingers and before Molly can wonder what they’re doing… the façade buckles a little. Their brow knits with a phantom pain.
“Do you want to stop?” they ask.
“What?”
“I’m your guide and your guardian, Mollymauk Tealeaf. I can do either. Just say which.” And when Molly just stares, confused, he goes on urgently, “I’m tasked to you. I’ll guard you here while you fight on… or I’ll take you up right now and guide you back to the Moonweaver. It’s your choice, alright? Always. I’m with you either way.”
Molly slips a wry smile. “I can’t stop. Not really.”
The stranger, who Molly knows now is certainly a reaper, falters. Then sobers.
“No. Fuck that. You can stop. You don’t have to do this –”
“No,” Molly says. “I have to.”
There’s a pause. “What do you want to do?”
“Give me a minute. Do we have a minute?”
“We always have time here.”
Molly pulls his legs up a little, arms draped over his knees, staring down the slope of the hill to the quiet meadows beyond. When this goes on long enough, the raven knight takes a seat beside him, mimicking his posture, and likewise waits in silence. Eventually, because it seems like the thing to do, Molly tips over slightly so he’s leaning on them, his cheek resting against their shoulder. The feathers tickle a little. The stranger doesn’t seem bothered.
“Oh, fuck me, I guess.” Molly sighs and sits up again. “Alright. Send me back.”
“Hey,” says the raven knight. They move to kneel in front of him, taking Molly’s face gently between gloved hands. They slap him gently on the cheek and smile. “Just stay alive.”
“Easier said than –”
They grab his shoulders and shove Molly straight down to –
Molly jolts alive, hard, sucking a loud, ragged breath. He’s lying on his back in the sand and someone is cradling the nape of his neck, a hand pressed against his chest. It takes a dizzy moment for the stars to clear from his eyes and his vision to refocus, the face overhead sharpening slowly and for a strange moment Molly is baffled by the anxious pink and gray firbolg that clarifies over him. He’s not sure who else he was expecting though.
“You’re okay?” Caduceus says sounding shaken.
“I am?” Molly says.
Caduceus ignores his question.
He makes a hand motion, says a word, and presses his thumb against Molly’s forehead. It’s familiar. Molly recognizes the Death Ward magic as it takes root in his soul again. A warm net to pull him back from the cold. It’s only then Molly notices that Caduceus is bleeding from the forehead, red slick soaking the downy fur from his right temple to his throat. He doesn’t seem bothered by it.
“Are you okay?” Molly manages.
“That’s a funny thing to ask considering you were dead a minute ago.”
“Yeah. Funny that. Ugh. My head’s ringing.”
“Yes, being dead will do that,” says Caduceus and then he pushes Molly down in the sand. “Can you just hold still for a minute?” He waits to see if Molly resists. “Okay. Thanks. Just need to do one thing…”
His hand withdraws and he yanks a pouch from his belt. There’s pre-mixed vial of what looks like ground red crystal and spice which he crushes in his palm, ignoring the blood it draws. He uncorks a flask of what must be holy water and pours it over his closed fist, then he starts to speak. Molly feels the air… twitch, then shiver, then hum. Caduceus is completely thralled by the spell, speaking non-stop, softly, eyes closed. Steam rises off his closed fist.
Which is about the moment Molly hears something explode.
He sits up on his elbows and looks past Caduceus.
There, sitting on the beach and glowing faintly, is a large pale dome of solid magic. At its center is Caleb Widowgast. He’s looking very, very harried. He’s pulled a scroll from his pocket, has it open in front of him as he reads it, mouth moving, glancing distractedly up from time to time.
It’s admirable concentration considering what’s going on outside.
Yasha – lovely Yasha whom Molly knows best from the road, from nights under carnival tents, and the chaos of circus lights and laughter – is presently a screaming pillar of lightning. She hovers a full twenty feet above the beach. Her wings are out, but they don’t move or seem to carry the air beneath them. Rather, sheets of shadows are spread like the thin skin along their frame of bone, sparking with black necrotic energy. In Yasha’s fist is the massive black sword he saw before.
She’s presently hammering her sword against the top this dome.
Which doesn’t fully encapsulate the scene, because every time she swings the sword, the air ignites at the point of impact, detonating outward in a furious wind that tosses Yasha’s hair and knocks sand across the beach. She’s hitting the shield so hard, with such force, Molly can feel it in his bones it would cleave stone like butter. The air stinks like ozone and the cold tang of necrotic magic. Over and over and over she hits, tireless, machine-like. Psychotic.
Molly’s never seen her like that before.
“I said don’t move,” says Caduceus, starting Molly out of his horrified trance.
The firbolg firmly plants a hand against Molly’s chest and thumps him flat on his back again in the sand. His other hand, the one he used for whatever spell he was casting, is empty and covered in ash. He peers down at Molly, frowning.
“I’m serious. Don’t move.”
Molly gives him a baffled look and hisses, “You want me to play dead?”
“Yes.” Caduceus rather industriously brushes Molly’s hair into his face, ignoring his sputter. “Stop.”
Molly obeys mostly because he’s too indignant and confused to be contrary. Caduceus looks over his shoulder toward Yasha. She’s breathing heavy, bare shoulders heaving, having swung back in the air to wind up for another attack. But the moment she sees Clay she freezes. As if she’d been waiting for him to signal her… and the cleric shakes his head.
Son of a bitch, Molly thinks and starts to get up, but Clay gestures and Molly feels the familiar seizing wrench of Hold Person, the spell latching into his spine like a creeping vine around his nerves. Molly still manages to snarl, struggling invisibly against the enchantment, through his teeth.
“What the bloody fuck are you doing?”
“I’m sorry,” Caduceus says beneath his breath, “but she won’t win if she doesn’t keep her rage.”
Molly immediately looks (with just his eyes) to Yasha. She’s still floating aloft but is shaking her head frantically. She presses her fists to the sides of her temples, the sword in her hand like it weighs nothing. Her face contorts with silent, animal agony and for a moment she curls in on herself. Then she screams.
Lightning strikes and burns the beach bone white and in the split second between one moment and the next, her hands slam into the dome, her sword pinned flat against it.
“CALEB!” Her voice is deafening. She slams her fists against the barrier, screaming, “WHAT DID YOU DO!?” Then almost sobbing, “WHY!? WHY DID YOU DO THAT?”
But Caleb doesn’t seem able to answer. He’s frozen, staring up at her through the shimmering pane between them, just watching the fallen aasimar as she wails. As she hunches like she’s wounded, her fingers digging into the layer of magic and sparking with current where she touches it. She stares down through it like glass in a shop front to the man who just killed her friend and for a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of the ocean on the shore.
“Drop this spell,” Yasha says.
“So you can kill me?” Caleb asks, almost in wonder.
“Drop this spell,” Yasha snarls. Her eyes ignite. The sword in her fist reacts to her and the blade flares, burns white phosphorous bright and becomes blinding shard of pure bottle blue starfire. Yasha’s eyes are composed of the same arrested lightning. She rears back and slams a fist into the dome. She screams, “DROP THIS SPELL AND FACE ME!”
“You’ll forgive me,” Caleb says. “You’ll forgive me when I get Beau back.”
Then the scroll in his hand disintegrates.
Immediately, a screaming tear opens with a crack in the air to some 200 meters behind the dome and disgorges a massive, howling, two-story tall mass of rust-red muscle and bone. Giant gorilla-like arms slam down, driving enormous twin pincers into the sand. The beast pulls itself from the hell dimension it was summoned from, its head a horror of distended fangs and a crown of jutting horn, fiendish eyes burning red in deep sockets of bone. The air goes sour with the stench of the fire plane before that brief, shrieking window tunnels shut behind it.
And then there’s a glabrezu standing on the beach.
“Oh,” says Caduceus. Then, “Darn it.” He brings his wrist to his mouth, speaking into the charm on his wrist. “Yasha. I just cast Forbiddance on the ground around Caleb. Sorry. I didn’t want him to run.”
“Height?” comes Yasha’s voice, distracted.
“Sixty by sixty by ten.”
“Good. No matter what he says, you keep him here for me.”
Yasha looks up from the dome, staring at the snarling pit-beast across from her the way you look up when a door opens in a room, then she looks back down into the dome where Caleb is still looking up at her. Her palm is pressed still against the barrier and from there she pushes gently off its surface. She floats up and back, until she’s over thirty feet up. Her sword hangs by her knee.
“Keep your wall,” she says. She grips the hilt of her blade and black veins begin to pulse slow from her eyes, spidering her face in dark capillaries. “I am deathless, Caleb! You can run if you want but I am coming for you!”
And then she vanishes. A lightning strike of magic leaves an after image. She reappears simultaneously directly in the air above the glabrezu. Screaming, she slams her sword point down straight into the top of its spine. The sky splits again and a bolt of lightning forks from the sky, jagging to the hilt of the sword like a grounding rod and the glabrezu howls. Yasha tears the blade free just in time to be backhanded by a gigantic forearm, the force of the blow sending her in a rocketing trajectory straight into the side of a cliff-face 200 meters out. She craters through the rock like a meteorite… then immediate wrenches herself out from the rubble.
“Caduceus,” says a Caleb’s voice suddenly, distracting Molly from the extremely upsetting vision of his best friend fighting a pit fiend. “Dismiss your spell or I’ll summon something actually dangerous and I’ll put it right on top of you. You have ten seconds.”
Clay blinks, one long ear flicking up slightly. “Hmm. No.”
Then, clearly from the pendant, “You think that casting ring makes you powerful? I gave it to you, Caduceus. Don’t try this.”
The firbolg shrugs. “Killing me won’t dispel the effect. Do it if you want, but you’re not teleporting away now.”
There’s a pause.
Then Caleb says quietly, “You want her to kill me, Clay?”
Caduceus says nothing and across the beach, Yasha dives out of the sky. She rips her sword across the titan’s back with a massive two-handed swing that knocks it staggering into the sea. Lighting strikes again, illuminating it as Yasha cleaves her blade down again with such monstrous, unfathomable force it splits one giant clavicle, snapping ribs as it carves down. Blood floods the waves. Her wings flare, dripping blood and sea water.
“You think I won’t kill you too?” Caleb asks, ignoring the battle entirely.
Caduceus kneels there. Says, “You just killed a dear friend. I don’t think you’ll kill another.”
Across the beach, Caleb slams a fist into the inside of the dome wall. “Drop the spell, Caduceus! Don’t make me hurt you!”
“No,” says the cleric.
“You were never one of us,” Caleb hisses. “You were just Mollymauk’s replacement. I killed Molly! Do you understand? You think I won’t kill you too? Because let me tell you: of all the Nein, I’ve always found you the most expendable.”
Caduceus’ enduring calm seems to flicker, for just a second. “You don’t mean a word of that.”
“Drop the spell or I’m going to –!”
The gunshot rings out across the beach.
There’s an impact against the top right of the dome, a spark of arcane light that implodes to a single, burning singularity… then the bullet unleashes a wave of arcane power that Molly cannot identify and the dome shatters. No. It disintegrates. Caleb lunges back from the wall, stumbling. As he dome falls, a fresh shield of blue magic spins up from his hands… just in time as the second gunshot puts a slug into the magic at Caleb’s knee.
He looks… honestly, devastated.
“Nott?” he rasps.
The third gunshot ricochets off the shield and Caleb immediately starts to run. As he does, the makes a two-handed gesture, presses his hands to his chest and – with sudden and a shocking burst of speed – sprints straight to his left.
Caduceus immediately says a spell word. Caleb shouts one back. Nothing happens. Caduceus lunges to his feet then. The firbolg’s voice, usually so steady, takes on a sudden lion-ish sub-vocalization and he roars, “STOP!”
And Caleb, seized by the sudden arcane command, doesn’t quite stop… but he trips, staggering, forcing his way through it...
The fourth shot hits him in the back of knee.
So he doesn’t make it to the edge of the anti-teleportation field. He goes down.
Nott appears then, as if from thin air, on a cropping of rock about twenty meters away to Molly and Caduceus’ left. She’s standing up, her hood sliding from her hair as she shells a spent cartridge from the chamber of her weapon, the long metal barrel weirdly matte in the half light of the coming dawn. Her eyes glow slightly, lantern yellow as the wind buffets her hair around her small, round face. For a moment she just stands there, unmoving, listening to Caleb scream though a shattered kneecap.
Through the communicator, Molly can hear Caleb wailing, over and over, “Why?” Saying Nott’s name and just, “Why are you with them?!”
“I’m sorry,” Nott whispers. She’s shaking. “I’m so sorry, Caleb.”
Then she turns and immediately shoots Caduceus. He wasn’t expecting that so it nails him, easily, in the upper right torso and puts the firbolg down like a sack of bricks. Clay hits the sand on his back, crying out just once, his long body curling instinctively in the sand. He clutches at his ribs, at the collar of his armor, choking as shell-shocked lungs fail to draw in oxygen. There’s no blood though. Just the airless stunning effect of being shot, almost point blank, through his armor.
Nott is sobbing at this point. She’s doubled over, her weapon still braced against her shoulder. Two teammates felled in less than ten seconds and she’s weeping.
Clay’s hold person charm unlatches itself from Mollymauk’s spine about then.
“Nott,” he says immediately. He pushes himself into a sitting position. “Hey, Nott? Nott, it’s okay. No need to get dramatic. Okay?”
Her head snaps up. She stares down at Molly from her sniper’s perch.
“Molly?” she croaks. Her eyes are the size and shape of two coins in her face.
“Hi,” he says. “Please stop shooting people?”
“How are you not dead?” says Nott. She sounds like she’s in shock. “He… he killed you. You’re dead. No one can survive that.”
Molly tries to be calm in the face of his own rattling terror. “Clay brought me back again.” A beat. “I think.”
“You can’t… that’s not… You can’t do that! No one can–!” Nott’s eyes go wide, horrified. “You have to stop Yasha,” she whispers, dread welling in her pretty gnomish face. “You have to stop her! She’ll kill him! She’ll kill Caleb! Go! GO RIGHT NOW! PLEASE! I know he hurt you but–?!”
Molly is already on his feet.
He sprints, bee-lining it straight toward the water, a blur of magic-accelerated tiefling as Nott’s enchanted rings launch him at twice his usual speed from a runner’s crouch toward the shore. He glances, just once, in Caleb’s direction as he comes parallel and sees the wizard staring at him. Time slows, not truly but in that infinitesimal second of recognition Caleb’s face is rigid with shock, confusion, and a strange undercurrent of terror as the thing he just killed goes running past him. Untouched. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but Molly thinks he looks a little relieved.
Then Molly keeps running, headlong into the sea.
“YASHA!”
Beyond the breakers, he can see: The glabrezu is dead. The enormous mass of its body floating like a whale corpse in the waves. Yasha is literally kneeling on top of it. Screaming and covered in gore, she just keeps hacking, each blow spraying another burning gout of blood. Soaking her hair, covering her shoulders, her armor, dripping off every line of muscle. Lightning flashes in the distance, illuminating the waves around her, shining off the blood that coats her skin so thoroughly she herself looks like a flayed thing tearing into the corpse. Some primal aasimar instinct driving her into a frenzy against the hell-spawn.
Molly hits the water, wading out to his knees in to shallows.
“YASHA!” He cups two hands around his mouth. “STOP!”
She freezes halfway through a downswing, startled from her killing. The sword drips in her fist. She turns to face him, her soaking hair swinging heavily from her head. Her eyes, burning like twin suns, seem to extinguish when she sees him. Molly drops his arms and waits. He watches her stand to her feet on the mass of demonic flesh beneath her. She bends at the knees, then launches into the air and in a single arching bound is propelled the full distance.
She lands heavy in the shallows, clumsy in her haste. She drops her sword and it blinks away.
“Molly?!” She sprints toward him, water splashing up behind her. “Mollymauk!?”
She slams into him before he can reply, instantly closing him in a blood-soaked bearhug that staggers them both for a moment. He ignores that and grips hold of her armor, fingers digging into the sticky hot slick. Her hair is a stinking, sulfurous rat nest of gore against his face, but he ignores that too. Her fists are knotted in his cloak and in the back of his hair, gripping so tight it hurts a little.
“He killed you.” She’s whispering frantically. “He killed you again. I thought…” She makes a strangled noise. “I didn’t think how much worse the second time would be.”
“I’m okay, Yasha. Alright? Come back to me for a second.”
She makes a gutted sobbing sound. “Don’t do that again!”
“I’m really trying, dear.” Molly’s throat feels raw. He grips at the leather straps that crisscross her back, breathing slowly. “Hey, don’t kill Caleb. I know he did that business back there but don’t. Alright?”
“Okay,” she whispers. “Okay, I won’t.”
Molly glances over his shoulder.
Caleb has dragged himself another ten meters on his elbows through the sand. He has some kind of glowing stone in his fist and he’s looking at the pair of former carnie performers standing together in the ocean. Yasha’s cradling Molly’s head against her shoulder. The waves fill Molly’s boots with sea water. The cold doesn’t bother him because Nott’s enchanted earrings stave off the chill. Caduceus’ Death Ward lays warm in Molly’s chest. None of that seems like much protection against the echo in Mollymauk’s head – the one with a hand on his shoulder and a hand over his heart saying, softly, regretfully, “Die.”
But Caleb just lays back, his head falling in the sand like he’s very exhausted… or like a man who’s giving up on something. He grips the stone and in a flash of blue light, he vanishes.
And Molly feels something small, something loadbearing inside him, fracture.
“Shit,” he mutters into Yasha’s shoulder. He grips her tighter. “Fuck.”
If she feels him shaking she doesn’t comment. She just pulls closer until the tremor subsides.
Eventually, they walk out of the ocean.
“No, no, no,” Molly says, rushing up and shooing Nott away from Caduceus.
She’s currently helping the cleric sit up, gently, looking very, very sorry about shooting him with her rifle, but upon seeing Molly’s furious approach, she hops back like a startled hare. Molly stomps across the sand and with zero preamble seizes the front of the fibolg’s armor and yanks him very, very close. Almost nose to nose. Molly grins because he’s still nerve-shot and full of adrenaline and but also, he’s so angry he could bite something. A presumptuous fibolg will do.
Smiles are just the intermediary step to biting.
“You want to explain what the hell you did back there?”
Caduceus seems confused. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, no,” Molly grits, still smiling. “Don’t do that. I don’t take very kindly to people making assassins out of my friends. So let’s try that again.” Molly shakes him a little. “Why the hell did you fake my death?”
“You weren’t fake dead,” Caduceus says, puzzled. “You were actually dead, Mollymauk. I have to revive you. I don’t understand –”
“That’s not what I bloody mean and you know it. The moment I woke up, you cast a spell to trap Caleb on the beach. Then you told Yasha I was dead. You held me down to do it.” Molly glares. “If you want my friends to kill someone in my name, then you better do it when I’m actually dead. Not a second before. You understand me?”
Nott looks at Caduceus.
“Is that true?” she whispers.
Caduceus says nothing. Then, “I didn’t want Yasha to kill him… I just wanted him wounded.”
“Well, okay,” Molly says brightly. “That’s fine. Considering he literally talked me to death, I think wounding him a bit is warranted, but I think that’s something you need to tell your teammates. Why is just telling them not an option?”
Silence for a moment.
Nott and Yasha look at Caduceus and Mollymauk can feel it like gravity getting denser as they do. Two of the strongest women in the realm deciding what terrible thing they might be doing in the next thirty seconds.
“Because,” says Caduceus blankly, tiredly. “Nott loves Caleb. She loves him more than anything, in fact. She ran the moment he appeared, like I knew she would, because she didn’t want him to know she’s not quite on his side anymore.” He glances toward Yasha. “You swore to never use your battle trance again even on enemies, much less a friend. I’m sorry, but we need the Deathless Storm. We need Nott the Brave. Caleb Widogast is beyond us otherwise because you know, this time, he was holding back because he loves us. You know that.”
Yasha, standing off the side now, unfolds her arms from where she’s had them crossed over her chest. She is literally covered from head to foot in demon blood, her pale mismatched eyes bright spots in a canvas of wet red gore. Her face is blank as she moves forward. Her wings have faded but there’s a nimbus of darkness still along her shoulders, behind her teeth, and living in her stare as she kneels down and takes Caduceus’ left forearm in her hand and pulls him nearer.
He doesn’t resist her.
“You tricked me to break my vow?” she whispers.
To his credit, Caduceus looks pained. “Yes.”
“We are out here for the purpose of killing friends and you made me believe I’d lost Molly again… so I might kill Caleb too?” The empty horror in her stare is fathomless deep, her soul living out this dark alternate universe where Molly didn’t get up in time and she stood over Caleb Widogast’s corpse on a beach. “Do you think I would have survived that?”
“You’re strong, Yasha. You –”
“I am not strong!” she cries, grabbing him now by the shoulder as well, forcing Molly to let go and withdraw. She pulls Caduceus close, shaking him. Yasha’s eyes are running over now, a wildness in her that cracks her voice. “I am not! I ran to the storm because I could not face what happened after Thrazidun!I could not face what I did! I became a monster because I am not strong and you almost made me one again, Caduceus?!” She shakes him harder, mouth twisting. “Why?”
Clay seems frozen, paralyzed by the yawning wild grief in Yasha’s face. “I’m sorry. I – It’s just so important we don’t fail. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry isn’t good enough!” Yasha grabs him by the back of the neck, bloody fingers digging into the pink mane at the base of his skull. She yanks him close, pressing them forehead to forehead and she says, ragged, “I need to trust you! You’re our healer. I need you to be the one that takes care of us, Clay.”
“You can trust me,” Caduceus whispers. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
“Swear to me!”
“I swear, Yasha.”
And that seems to be enough, because Yasha makes this raw, animal sound and pulls the giant firbolg into a bone-crushing hug, getting blood all over him but he doesn’t seem to care. He goes rigid for just a moment, then wraps his arms around her and Molly sees a faint shimmer of healing magic start up in his hands, then spread across Yasha’s back, smoothing away scrapes and cuts along her arms, closing a gash on her brow. Yasha’s eyes are twisted so tightly shut, tears running clean tracks through the blood to her chin.
“We can’t fall apart,” she rasps.
Caduceus’ calm is very much gone. He grips her tight. “I won’t let that happen. I won’t. I’m sorry.”
It’s quiet for a moment. The ocean waves roar steadily in the distances, rolling relentlessly and indifferently forward while they struggle through a moment of terrible uncertainty – each looking at the other and wondering what terrible thoughts might be racing behind familiar eyes. The silence goes on for a while, the pale glow of coming sunrise expanding across the horizon in pale purple and pink.
Then, very quietly, Nott says, “So that’s still the plan?”
Everyone looks at her. She’s sitting cross-legged in the sand, shoulders slumped, head bent.
“I mean… I knew it was, but if Yasha is saying it out loud then it’s real, isn’t it?” She wipes her face with one hand and sniffs. “No point hiding it from Mollymauk. He’s already died again in the name of this thing we’re doing, so let’s be clear.” She looks up at Molly. “We’re bringing the others together because it took all of us to kill a god before. It’ll probably take all of us to do it again.”
Molly shakes his head.
“I don’t…” He looks back and forth among them. “You mean…?”
Yasha is not looking at him. Caduceus and Nott are watching him though.
Molly, who is covered in blood and four times dead, sitting on a battle-blasted beach and so emotionally spent it feels like there shouldn’t be a drop of feeling left in him… he feels a sting of panic looking into their sober, battle-worn faces. His instinct, immediately: To run away from it. Yell at it. No. Absolutely not. No. But in the face of their scars and the history of violence ten years old at this point, he feels paralyzed by the weight of everything they’ve done without him.
He’s suddenly a million miles away from the three warriors sitting on the beach with him.
“We have to kill Beauregard,” Molly says, finally. “That’s why Caleb tried to stop us. Because you’re coming for Beau.”
Go to part 5
#critical role#the mighty nein#mollymauk tealeaf#cr2#caduceus clay#yasha#caleb widogast#nott the brave#vaxildan#long post
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