#(and bulky his brother to death but details) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hollyethecurious · 2 years

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CS AU: Conviction (5/?)

Summary: The story had been front page news for months. Scandalous details of a married woman of low birth and with limited means, murdering her husband; hatcheting him to death in order to save her own life and that of her unborn child - or so she claimed. No evidence to support her allegations of abuse had been presented during the trial, but in the end, it was the fact that Mrs. Cassidy was with child that saved her from a verdict of murder in the first degree, a judgment that carried the death penalty for both men and women alike. As an act of mercy, a lesser charge was issued, one that spared her life but now made her Misthaven Penitentiary’s problem to contend with, and more specifically, the Captain of the Guard charged with keeping order within its walls.

A/N: My apologies for not updating last week. While I am determined to maintain a regular, weekly schedule, I'm afraid I've fallen behind on my wiring, and therefore I can't guarantee there won't be more skipped weeks. Now that my homeschool semester is over, I'm hoping to get more writing time so I can catch back up. I just ask that y'all be patient with me.

Thank you for all the lovely comments! I treasure them, and am so thrilled y'all seem to love this story as much as I do! Also, thanks to my amazing betas, @snowbellewells and @kmomof4. Also, shout out to @sotangledupinit for the assist in defringing Killian for the art.

Rated T-M (for themes, mentions of abuse, murder, and attempted assault) / Available on ao3 and ff.net / buy me a coffee / add to tag list

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Snow swirled and the frigid air burned in Killian’s lungs. The scent of pine danced in his sinuses and tickled his tongue, the aroma of the season stirring those feelings of good tidings even though there had been no great joy in his days for the past few weeks.

Actually, that wasn’t completely true. Despite the rift between himself and his brother - a chasm that had only grown wider since his brother’s decree, forcing Killian from Swan’s presence and the pleasure of her company, while removing any comfort his might have given her - there had been moments of elation and gratitude to help lighten the otherwise gloomy December days.

Elsa had wasted no time in acquiring the services of a few masons and the blacksmith, converting the old offices along the upper level of the officer’s wing into a much larger cell for Swan and her swiftly approaching arrival. The men had offered their time and materials, free of charge, and word had spread regarding the prison’s forthcoming addition, spurring the townsfolk into actions of charity, not only for Miss Swan, but the entire prison as well.

The soft crunch of compacted snow, mixed with the shuffle of freshly fallen flakes echoed beneath Killian’s boots as he made his way up the long drive towards the prison. He stopped for a moment, adjusting the bulky item in his arms so he could tighten his scarf, a slight shiver traveling down his spine when the winter breeze whispered across the thin layer of perspiration dampening his skin from the exertion of carrying the object from town. A ring of faint laughter tinkled through the air, and Killian knew the carolers he’d passed in the village must be making their way to the prison.

He remembered lamenting many months ago about how they were to make it through the winter without the assistance of the convent. He never would have imagined the outpouring of care, kindness, and compassion they had received from the town’s residents, from necessities like foodstuffs and fuels, to the indulgence of new clothing for the prisoners and a collection for the officers’ uniforms, as well as decorations and community visits to help lift the population’s spirits. Killian could not remember a more festive or exhilarating Christmas season in all his years, and though Elsa had certainly had her hand in making it happen, Killian knew the true prompting that had brought the whole town together to rally around Misthaven Penitentiary was Emma.

A cloud of vapor briefly hung in the air from where Killian had exhaled heavily. Emma. His Swan. Not a day had gone by that he had not thought of her, and not simply because the work being done on her new cell was happening, quite literally, before his very eyes day after day. He’d timed his arrival during those first few shifts he’d reported for duty with when she’d usually be out on her walks, so he would at least have the opportunity to see her, perhaps even speak with her. However, his brother had accounted for such an action and had issued new orders regarding her yard time. Now that they were back to full staff, they no longer had to depend on the off-duty night shift to perform the task, so she was worked into the day rotation schedule, usually escorted from her cell when Killian was in the training room with one of the new recruits.

The sound of his boot falls interrupted the quiet once more as he trod up the path towards the prison gate. Two of the recruits were milling about in the yard, most likely awaiting the arrival of the carolers. They snapped to attention as soon as they spotted him, one moving quickly to open the door for their captain, whose arms were still laden with an object he hoped to deliver before the visitors’ arrival.

It was a yearly tradition, the carolers beginning their Christmas Eve serenade at the prison before moving through town and finishing at the church for the Silent Night Service. They would spend some time visiting with the prisoners first, encouraging them with conversation and perhaps a small, gifted token, like a piece of peppermint or some other candy, to commemorate the holiday, then sing a few carols before moving on. Killian had always enjoyed the Christmas Eve caroling and the festivities it brought with it, the guards finding ways to make their own merriment as those off-duty joined the on-duty shift for a celebratory toast after the carolers departed, but this year… The rift between him and Liam would most likely sour whatever toast their warden made, and the only person with whom he wished to share Christmas he was forbidden from seeing.

That hadn’t stopped him from bringing her a gift, though.

Depositing the item in his office, Killian straightened his appearance, smoothing down his hair, which had become tussled by the winter wind, and took in a steadying breath as dread gnawed his gut. Never before had he been anxious to face his brother, not to this degree at least, and he wondered if the damage both their words and actions had caused to their relationship would be permanent. In addition to keeping his distance from Swan, as ordered, Killian had done all he could to avoid Liam these past few weeks, dispatching another officer to meet with the warden in his stead and begging off all of Elsa’s invitations to share dinner with them now he had his evenings free. When the rare moment occurred that he had to report to the warden’s office himself, he had been overly formal and guarded with a rapport of extreme professionalism, a conduct Liam had reciprocated in kind.

It had not escaped Killian’s notice that the officers walked on eggshells around them both, nor could he deny the strain it was starting to have on Elsa, who desperately tried to get the two brothers together so they might discuss the matter rather than allow it to continue to fester. Killian would be lying if he said the glimmer of tears in her eyes when he’d turned down the offer to spend Christmas with them hadn’t made his heart twist painfully in his chest, but he knew he’d only bring the celebration down with his sullenness, and he wasn’t about to make her sister or her sister’s family uncomfortable with the added tension his presence would bring.

Besides… Swan was supposed to be moved into her new cell Christmas morning, and Killian wanted to be there, even if he couldn’t share the occasion by her side or give her the gift he’d worked on with Marco himself.

Exiting his office, he glanced across the corridor as he passed the new cell and paused. Philip and Thomas - two of the newest recruits and set to make officer after the first of the year - were bustling around the space, depositing firewood into the nook beside the hearth and positioning the new furnishings into place, readying the cell for its new inhabitant. A copper tub sat in the corner, partially hidden behind a partition that would provide her privacy when she bathed, the fireplace allowing her not only warmth, but the ability to heat water without the assistance of the guards. A rocking chair faced the hearth, a fresh mattress was laid out upon the suspended frame on the opposite wall, and a wardrobe filled the opposite corner, ready for Swan’s and her baby's belongings to be transferred from the trunks they’d been packed in for months. A smile lifted the corners of his mouth, a moment of gladdened contentment pushing past the longing that had been hollowing out his chest cavity day by day.

“Do you need something, Captain?”

The question brought Killian back to his purpose. “No. Thank you, Thomas. Carry on.”

Leaving the recruits to finish their work, Killian turned and fortified himself before raising his hand to knock on the warden’s door. Dutifully, he waited until he heard his brother bid entrance.

“Killian?” Liam said, standing from his chair with a perplexed yet tentatively relieved expression. His hair was as unruly as Killian’s, but where the wind had been responsible for the younger Jones’ appearance, it seemed the chaotic nature of Liam’s hair had been caused by his fingers continuously running through the curly strands. “I was not sure you’d return for the festivities when Erik informed me you’d already left for the day.”

Killian lifted his chin, his hands tucked behind his back with his posture board straight as he addressed his warden. “I had an errand to run in town, sir.”

“I see,” Liam commented, wincing a bit at the curt edge of Killian’s formal tone. Making his way around the desk, Liam paused when he reached the front edge, wringing his hands for a moment before letting them fall to his sides. “I was sorry to hear you refused our invitation for Christmas,” he said. “And not because it means I must endure Elsa’s sister and brother-in-law without the aid of my li...er, younger brother.”

Killian’s brows twitched, nearly pinching together in disbelief at the correction. Was his brother attempting to make amends? It wasn’t like Liam to concede, to ever admit he might be wrong, and if it was his intention to make things right then it surely had to have been prompted by Elsa.

“I offered to take the Christmas shift so Thomas could spend the holiday with his wife. I felt the other recruits deserved to spend the day with their lady loves as well.”

“And the fact Mrs. Cassidy is moving to the cell across the hall tomorrow morning had no bearing on such an offer, I’m sure.”

Killian stiffened further, his posture becoming more rigid as he geared up for another row with his brother, but the spark of anger Liam’s quip had ignited was quickly snuffed out with his brother’s next words.

“Killian,” Liam sighed, stepping forward with placating hands. “I do not wish to argue with you. It is not my intention to…” Swiping a hand down his face, his brother exhaled and slumped against the front of his desk. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt,” he muttered, flicking his eyes up to meet the twin hue of his brother’s.

“She isn’t violent, Liam. Not truly. She acted in self-defense and I--”

“That isn’t the sort of hurt I’m referring to,” his brother cut in. “You’ve fallen for a woman who has been condemned to serve a five year sentence. What sort of hope could you ever have at a meaningful relationship? To say nothing of the baby she’s about to give birth to, a child belonging to another man, I might add. Do you truly wish to burden yourself with--”

“Emma is not a burden, nor is her babe. Not to me.”

“Aye,” he sighed again. “You’ve made that perfectly clear.”

Gesturing to the chair in front of his desk, he bid Killian to sit as he took a seat in the one beside it, eliminating the hierarchical divide between them and allowing them to converse as brothers.

“Have I acted in any way improper? Have my actions been perceived as untoward or unbefitting of my station?” Killian asked, wondering if Liam’s reactions might have been prompted by concerns voiced from idle gossip within town. The guards, and even some of the prisoners, had ribbed him a time or twice regarding Miss Swan, and he knew it wouldn’t take much for their teasing to give someone the wrong idea.

“Not as yet,” Liam assured him. “But I can’t have you skirting regulations, or taking advantage of your position, both as my brother and the captain of this prison, when it comes to Mrs. Cassidy. What sort of message would that send?”

“I have no intention of compromising my position here. The very last thing I wish to do is bring dishonor upon you or the other guards, to say nothing of my desire to protect her and shield her from even a hint of impropriety. For any aspersion cast upon her character could be used against her should the Board agree to grant her a new trial.” Killian shifted in his seat, leaning towards his brother with an imploring expression. “I won’t deny that I care for her, Liam. I won’t sit here and pretend that my feelings for her, or my regard towards her as an inmate, are no different than those I hold for the other prisoners within our care, but have I ever given you reason not to trust me with my duty? Do you really think I would put any of us in a position of potential ruin, especially when I have no bloody idea whether she even remotely feels the same way about me?”

“And what if she does?”

Killian’s breath rushed from his lungs at the prospect. He had not allowed himself the freedom to hope for such a thing, had only just begun being honest with himself about his own feelings and had not wanted to consider what it would mean for them to be unrequited.

Allowing himself a moment to seriously ponder his brother’s question, Killian determined, “It still would not change my conviction to perform my duty without reproach.”

Liam sat quietly, his expression stoic with a trace of hesitation within his features. Despite the anger and resentment he’d felt towards his brother these past few weeks, Killian did understand the position Liam was in. He could only imagine the war that must have been ravaging Liam’s conscience as the brotherly side - the one that wished for Killian to find happiness - battled against the responsibility that rested on his shoulders as warden, ensuring all those within his care and under his command upheld the requirements and expectations of their station.

“Liam,” Killian began, drawing his brother’s attention back to him. “I know you have to consider the ramifications of what might happen should you allow me to oversee Miss Swan once more, but…” he swiped his tongue over his lips, worried that Liam might see this argument as merely a ploy to gain access to the woman for whom he had just confessed feelings, “have you considered the potential consequences of undermining my authority and essentially telling the entire population I do not have your full trust as captain?”

Balking, Liam’s brow scrunched together and his hand covered the lower half of his face, his fingers lightly brushing the bristles that needed shaving as he considered Killian’s words. After a long, drawn out moment, Liam sighed.

“You’re right,” he conceded. “The impact of restricting you on your duties is more of an immediate concern than the potential hint of impropriety that might come from your continued association with Mrs. Cassidy.” Liam stood and Killian followed suit, a breath caught in his lungs as he waited for Liam’s ultimate decision. The pressure in his chest continued to build as his brother, once again donning his warden disposition, made his way back behind his desk. “Consider yourself fully reinstated to the full measure of your duties, Captain.”

A relieved exhale whooshed from Killian’s lungs, and he straightened his posture to formally address his warden. “In that case, I have a request.”

Liam rolled his eyes, then fixed them on Killian with a flash of warning. “Go on.”

“It is my understanding that any items not currently in Miss Swan’s cell have to be approved before they can be moved into her new one.”

“And you have something you wish to add to her furnishings?”

“I do.” The patch of skin behind his ear flared with an uncomfortable itch, and he could feel heat crest the tips of his ears. “It’s a, um… gift.”

“I see,” Liam exasperated, taking his seat behind his desk. “What sort of gift?”

Swallowing heavily, Killian replied. “A cradle. I, uh… I had a cradle made for her and would like to place it in her cell, with your permission.”

Certain his brother was about to rescind his earlier decree, Killian opened his mouth to plead his case once more, but was cut off by Liam’s response. “Very well,” he said. “Why don’t you set the cradle in the cell, then…” His brother clearly warred with himself for a minute, his gaze flickering about the room until he finally came to a firm decision. “Have Philip, Thomas, and Erik begin to move her things. You can oversee the transfer to her new cell tonight.”

“Liam…” Killian breathed, unsure of what else to say in response to such an astounding order.

“Elsa suggested it might be kinder to let her awake Christmas morning already settled, and since the evening schedule will already be disrupted due to the visitors and carolers, it might be best for the move to happen this evening rather than in the morning.”

While all of that might be true, Killian knew it was an excuse to justify the decision. Although he knew his brother was not ready to voice any sort of support in what might be Killian’s eventual aspirations towards the woman, the evidence that he was not wholly against them was clear enough in both Liam’s expression and his command.

“Can I leave the task in your capable hands, Captain?”

“Aye, Warden,” Killian said in a duty-filled and appreciative tone. “Thank you.”

Liam waved him away, fighting the affectionate expression threatening to overtake his visage, and Killian promptly heeded the dismissal, lest his brother change his mind. After setting the cradle within Swan’s new cell, next to the rocking chair facing the hearth, he located one of the recruits and told him to assemble the others so they could begin moving Swan and her belongings. Fidgeting for a moment, Killian straightened his appearance and took a calming breath before crossing the catwalk to the other side of the prison. When he reached her cell, his chest was near bursting with joy from being in her presence once more. He silently stood and watched her for a moment as she packed away her things in preparation of her move, a tune lightly humming from her lips.

“Good evening, Swan.”

She whipped around towards the bars, a gasp falling from her lips which were parted in a startled, yet elated expression that encompassed the rest of her features.

“Captain Jones,” she exhaled, taking a few tentative steps forward, her expression now turning concerned as her eyes flicked towards the offices adjacent to their current position, though she could not see them from her vantage point.

“It’s alright,” he assured her, knowing Elsa had informed her of the restriction the Warden had placed on him. “I’ve been reinstated in all matters of my duty.” Producing the key to her cell, he unlocked the door and swung it wide. “Including overseeing the transfer to your new accommodations this evening.”

“This evening?”

“Aye,” he replied. “That is… if you’re ready.”

Casting her gaze around the tiny cell, crammed and cluttered by items she’d accumulated from those who’d come to care for her and her child every bit as much as he had, Swan turned her eyes back to him and nodded. The recruits arrived, ready to gather her things, and Killian waved her forward, removing her from the cell so his men would have room to work. Standing with his charge, Kilian shifted uncomfortably as an atmosphere of tense anticipation and awkward expectation surrounded them.

“You look well,” he commented, keeping his gaze focused on his recruits as they emptied her cell. “Have you been… well?”

Killian wanted to kick himself for his clumsy manner. Weeks apart and this was how he opened conversation between them?

“I have been mostly well,” she answered. Movement pulled his attention down to where she was running her hands over her belly, fuller and more rounded, reminding him of the time he’d lost with her.

“Are you getting enough to eat? Enough exercise? Enough sleep?” He wanted to know everything he’d missed, and whether there was anything he could do to help make up for his absence. Not that she would have been as negatively impacted by it as he had.

“Granny has been seeing to my nutrition, and I’ve had a bevy of visitors to walk with. We’ve been fortunate to have had such mild weather until this week.”

And now they were discussing the weather… this was not how he’d envisioned their reunion.

“Sleep has been an issue, though,” she confided softly, adjusting her stance.

“I imagine it must be difficult finding a comfortable position to rest in given how big the babe has gotten.” Shutting his eyes in mortification, Killian cursed himself for the implication of his words. The late stages of pregnancy had made Emma fuller in many places, but she was no less beautiful to him than when she’d first arrived with her condition barely noticeable beneath the layers of skirts and corset. She was still stunning, and always would be.

“Oh, uh… y-yes,” she stammered, eyes cast down. “Physical comfort is challenging these days, but that is not the only reason I’ve found the nights difficult.”

Recruit Erik signaled that everything was ready, keeping Killian’s mind from spiraling at the inference that it was his absence that had made sleep an issue for her, that she had perhaps missed his presence during the night shift. Clearing his throat, Killian led Swan around the corner towards her new cell, only to be stopped by the affronted tone of Will Scarlet.

“Oi! You weren’t gonna leave without saying goodbye, were ya?”

Swan rolled her eyes, a humoring smile blooming across her face. “I’m just moving to the other side,” she reminded him.

“Aye, but I won’t see you.”

“You never saw me in my current cell.”

“But I could talk to ya. Who am I gonna talk to now?”

“Hey!” a voice shouted from the cell beside Scarlet’s, preceded by the face of Al, another common thief who had arrived around the same time as Will, pressed against the bars. “What about me?”

“What about ya?” Will snapped. It was no secret the two had a bit of a rivalry going between them, each of them espousing their superior skills in their given criminal profession, which Killian found ludicrous considering their expertise had not been sufficient enough to keep them out of jail.

“Alright,” Killian interceded, gripping Swan’s elbow to prompt her along. “That’s quite enough of that.”

“Wait!” Will pleaded. “I’ve got something for the missus.”

Killian paused and glanced down at Swan whose brows were knitted together as she peered through the bars to see what it was Will was retrieving. When the man came back into view, he had a small item clutched in his hand, which he thrust through the bars toward her.

“Here,” he said. “It’s for the little knipper.”

Swan took the object and turned it over in her hands, a breath of fondness and gratitude releasing from her lungs as she tenderly ran her fingers over it. The thief must have used straw from his mattress and cloth from his blanket in order to construct the small doll Swan now held against her chest next to her heart.

“Thank you, Will,” she said, a small catch of emotion evident in her voice.

“You’re welcome,” Scarlet responded, “And Happy Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Swan reciprocated, her eyes glancing up to Killian’s to indicate she was ready to proceed, a misty sheen making them sparkle as she stared up at him.

An unpleasant sensation churned in Killian’s gut as they crossed the catwalk, and without thought, he voiced his realization. “You care for him.”

“Will?”

“Aye.”

“Well… yes,” she answered, causing Killian’s heart to sink. “He’s been a dear friend to me. A comfort and distraction from the reality of our circumstances. I shall miss him and feel terrible that my moving will deprive him of, not only my company, but of Belle’s as well.”

“Belle?” Killian inquired, halting their steps in front of his office. “You mean, Miss French? The librarian?”

A sly smirk briefly lifted the corner of her lips. “The same,” she confirmed. “She’s been visiting me more and more these past few weeks and arrives earlier and earlier, conversing with Will as she waits for me to wash up or finish my meal.”

“What on earth do they find to converse about?”

A giggle worked its way up Swan’s throat, shaking her shoulders and causing a smile to bloom across her face in response to his incredulous tone. Killian could not stop his own smile, heartened by Swan’s exuberance and thankful his assumptions regarding Swan’s feelings for Scarlet were unsound.

“Believe it or not,” she replied. “Will is rather well read and asked Belle if she would bring him books when she brought me selections from the library.”

Killian hummed, intrigued and still slightly dubious at such an unlikely pairing. Prompting them forward, he ushered her towards her new cell, then stood back as she entered, allowing her time to become acquainted with the space, not that he could have entered if he’d been so inclined. A shuddered gasp left her lungs as she slowly surveyed the space, and Killian’s chest tightened when she pressed her fingers against her mouth in order to hold back the emotion he could see shimmering in her eyes.

“Elsa took up a collection for the wardrobe,” he informed her, hoping a catalog of the items might help in alleviating her current turmoils, despite the positive connotations that had evoked them. “Marco provided it at cost, but many within town, and even a few of the guards, contributed towards it.”

He paused as she swung open the door to peer within, then inspected the drawers on the other side. When she made her way to the corner where her wash basin and stand had been placed next to the screened tub, Killian continued on, “The hip bath is from Granny. A spare one she had on hand at the boarding house. The guards will continue to bring water for your daily use, and a full portion will be brought up once a week for you to use in the tub.”

Reaching up, he scratched behind his ear, his cheeks burning and likely as rosy as her own when she turned away from her bathing corner and fixed her attention to the fireplace and items inviting her to enjoy the comfort of the fire. Delicately, she lowered herself onto the rocking chair and swallowed tightly at the sight of the cradle.

“The chair is a gift from Marco.”

“And the cradle?” she asked in a strained yet touched tone. “Is this his handiwork as well?”

“Actually,” Killian began, his throat equally as tight. “The cradle is a gift… from me.”

Her head snapped up, eyes wide and watery, lips parted in disbelief.

“Marco fashioned it for me,” he credited. “But the finishing touches and the carvings at the head were all done by my hand.”

Dropping her gaze back down, she leaned over and reverently ran her fingertips over the intricately carved swan and cygnet motif. “It’s beautiful, Captain,” she breathed. “Thank you.”

“You are very welcome, Swan.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Killian ensured no one else was about as he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket. “I have something else for you as well.”

He fixed his gaze back on her in time to see her brush away tears before she stood and made her way over, knowing he was not permitted to enter her cell whilst she occupied it. Turning the gift over in his hands, he shared, “When I spoke with your solicitor, he did not seem optimistic in regards to your belongings.”

“I know,” she said, a hint of melancholy underpinning her frank tone. “He told me as much in one of his letters.”

“Right.” Of course she’d been in contact with Mr. Hopper even though he’d been unable to visit as of yet. “Well, I know how much your collection of shells meant to you, so I wanted you to have this.” He placed a ribbon wrapped sea shell in her hand and explained, “This is from my collection. The first I ever took from Misthaven Beach after Liam and I relocated here. Nemo took us and encouraged us to take a shell as a commemoration of sorts. A symbol for a new and prosperous beginning in this new land.”

“Oh, Captain.” Her eyes misted over once more as she stared at the swirls of pink and cream iridescence. “I cannot possibly accept this. It must mean the world to you.”

“Aye, it does,” he confessed, “But I want you to have it.” He raised a hand to stay her objection. “At the very least,” he said. “Keep it until you have the beginnings of your own collection once more. You can return it to me after you’ve replaced it with one you select to commemorate your first seaside visit with your wee one. How’s that?”

She gave him a slightly disgruntled look, but the glimmer of delight in her eyes ruined the effect. “I suppose that’s acceptable.”

As she walked back to the fireplace, gently arranging the shell on the mantle, Killian noted how she kept pressing against a specific spot on her stomach.

“Everything alright there, Swan?”

“What?”

“With the babe,” he clarified, gesturing to where she was rubbing her belly. “Is he unsettled?”

Waving off his concern, she said, “He’s just unusually active right now. Typically, he’s calmer in the evenings, but ever since you arrived he’s been quite energetic.” An amused sound huffed from her lips, and she added, “If I didn’t know better I’d say he missed the sound of your voice almost as much as…”

Her words fell away, the rosy hue of her cheeks deepening as she cast her eyes back towards the fire, unable to hold his gaze. Killian could barely draw breath from the way his heart had swelled in response to her words, but he did not wish to cause her further discomfort, knowing she had not meant to reveal, or perhaps even imply, that she had, indeed, missed him.

“I cannot even imagine the wonderment of having a life within you,” he said, turning the topic back to the babe. “Elsa’s sister, Anna, once let me feel her baby kick whilst pregnant with one of my brother’s nieces. It was…”

Filling the void as he tried in vain to find a word that would encompass the experience, Swan offered, “Would you like to feel the baby move?”

Without thought, Killian exhaled an ecstatic, “May I?”

With her bottom lip tucked between her teeth, Emma approached and took his hand. The sensation running up his arm from her touch was nothing in comparison to the feel of her abdomen jumping beneath his palm. An awed breath fell from his lips and he could not contain the chuckle rumbling through his chest at the babe’s exuberance.

“Hello there, my little one,” Killian cooed softly, his fingers brushing over the soft wool of Swan’s dress as her child continued to stretch and kick against his touch.

“I was right,” Swan murmured, causing him to glance up and meet her tender gaze.

“About what, love?”

Covering his hand with her own she said, “He missed you.”

Swallowing thickly, Killian wet his lips and chanced, “Just he?”

Tucking her lip between her teeth, Swan gave a small shrug and timidly confessed, “I may have missed you, too.”

Shuffling his feet forward, he inched closer, as close as he dared get while still remaining on the proper side of her cell’s doorway, and heartfeltly declared, “And I you.”

An indeterminate amount of time passed as they stood there, gazing into one another’s eyes while waiting for something - though Killian did not know exactly what - to happen. He knew he should step back, should remove his hand from her and put appropriate distance between them, but he couldn’t seem to make himself do so… until someone cleared their throat from a few feet away.

Killian’s head swung around and he snatched his hand away while hurriedly taking several steps back. Attempting to gather himself, he forced a more professional demeanor in the face of their audience, and greeted, “Miss French,” with a respectable nod.

“Captain,” Belle reciprocated cheerily with an expression that gave away none of the shock or disapproval she might be experiencing at having witnessed a more intimate moment than he and Swan had any right to share. If anything, her furtive glance when she approached and greeted the woman she’d come to see suggested she may not have been shocked or disapproving at all.

“Merry Christmas, Emma!” Belle exclaimed, handing over a parcel to Swan and pointedly ignoring the red glow emanating from her cheeks. “How lovely that they’ve let you move to your new accommodations already!”

“Y-Yes,” Swan stammered, collecting herself. “Would it be permissible for Belle to come inside and have a look around?” she asked Killian, her gaze not quite capable of meeting his now that they had company.

“Of course,” he replied. “You are welcome to invite any of the ladies to see your new surroundings. Just not the men.”

Emma nodded and gestured Belle inside as the librarian prompted her to open her gift. Tearing away the brown paper and brightly colored ribbon revealed a small collection of books, the pages of which Killian had seen Swan pouring over a number of times.

“I know those are your favorites, so I was able to acquire extra copies so you would always have them on hand rather than having to wait to check them out and have me bring them to you,” the librarian said.

“Oh, Belle! Thank you!” Emma embraced her friend, then made her way over to the mantle, neatly stacking the tomes next to the shell he’d gifted her.

Killian was about to take his leave so they could visit in relative privacy when inspiration struck him.

“Miss French?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Your gift has reminded me of a matter I had wanted to speak with you about.”

“What matter is that?”

“Whether you might be inclined to help curate a collection here for the prison’s use and train an inmate to act as librarian.”

Belle’s mouth fell open, stunned. “You wish to start a library here?”

“Aye,” Killian replied, catching Swan’s confused and questioning gaze. “I thought we could set it up in Miss Swan’s old cell and wanted to recommend Will Scarlet as its potential overseer.”

“Will? Uh… that is,” Belle stammered, a flush of pink sweeping across her cheeks.

Swan’s gaze narrowed with a conspiratorial gleam, and her lips twitched from where she fought back a smirk.

“Indeed,” Killian pressed on. “He’s up for parole in early summer, and I think taking a role of such responsibility would go a long way in convincing the Board to grant his appeal.”

“I… that is…” Belle continued to stutter.

“Perhaps you and I can discuss it more after the holidays?”

“Y-Yes,” she replied, enthusiastically. “I would be delighted to assist in such an endeavor.”

“Marvelous.” Tipping his head towards them, Killian bade, “Have a lovely visit then, ladies.”

“Thank you, Captain,” they both replied. Belle turned to begin exploring the cell, and most likely to hide her expression of glee, giving Killian one last opportunity to meet Swan’s gaze, which flickered with mirth and gratitude, prompting him to throw her a wink before he left them to their visit.

Rounding the corner, he waved Recruit Thomas over and told him to keep an eye on things regarding Swan’s cell and visitors whilst he finished up a few things within his office that needed his attention. No such work awaited him, however. What he really needed was a few moments to himself to get his head back on straight. Leaning against the closed door of his office, Killian berated himself for how far past propriety he had managed to fall in just a few short minutes. He’d promised his brother he would not compromise his duty, yet given the first opportunity, he’d crossed the line of good form and the standards expected of his station.

This was going to be more difficult than he’d anticipated, especially given the confirmation from Swan’s own lips that she had missed him every bit as much as he had her.

And that acknowledgment made any fault in his decorum that evening all the more worth it… which should not be the reaction of his current state of mind.

A heavy sigh expelled from his chest, and he ran his hands through his hair and down his face. He would simply have to do a better job of keeping his feelings in check. Perhaps it had simply been the length of their separation that had made their reunion all the more charged? Perhaps, in time, and with more frequency in their encounters, the effect they had on one another would lessen and become more manageable?

He could only hope so, else Liam would have him transferred to the penal colony at Glowerhaven up north and several miles out to sea.

Killian did settle in to accomplish a few tasks to distract himself, only emerging from his office when he heard the carolers beginning to assemble on the main floor of the prison block. Immediately, his attention went to Swan, who had been led out of her cell to the corner of the upper level so she could view the chorus below. Standing dutifully at her side was Thomas.

“Isn’t your wife here this evening?” Killian questioned in Thomas’ ear, his voice low so as not to disrupt the singing.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Then why don’t I relieve you, so you and she can enjoy the festivities together?”

“Thank you, Sir,” Thomas replied, nodding towards Swan before he departed towards the back stairs that would take him to the area in which the other guards and visitors usually assembled for the performance.

“That was kind of you,” Swan murmured under her breath. “I know Ashley will appreciate it.”

“It’s nothing, Swan.”

Emma swiveled her head to glance up at him. “It’s not nothing,” she told him.

Killian swallowed past those emotions that were welling up within him once more and turned their attention back to the carolers. It was no use, though. With each line and lyric of joy, each melody and message of hope, each tune and tiding of love, Killian’s heart swelled and constricted, his hands flexing at his sides in some vain attempt to expel the sensations and temptations threatening to overtake him. His fingers brushed against Swan’s, whose hand reciprocated the touch until their pinkies wrapped around the other’s, connecting them as they responded to the invitation to join in on the final selection of Silent Night.

As Killian listened to the myriad of voices, one rang in his ears brighter and sweeter than any other, calming and fortifying him as she sang of another young woman round with child in less than ideal circumstances. It was then he realized he had a new duty before him; a duty that would ensure the mother with child beside him would know nothing but peace and care and love and devotion as she brought her child into the world and cared for him in a place more humble and harsh than any manger. While they would not be free to court or have encounters of a romantic sort, Killian no longer felt honor bound to hide the care and devotion he felt for her, and with time, when she was ready to receive and accept it, he would make his love for her known as well. For he did love her, that much was clear to him now. He loved Emma Swan, and he would wait for her, even if it meant waiting until her five year sentence was completed.

He was in this for the long haul.

Escorting her back to her cell, Killian asked if there was anything she needed.

“No. Everyone has been so kind and generous.”

“Then I shall leave you to rest,” Killian said, closing her cell door and reluctantly turning the key in the lock before pocketing it. “But I’ll be back for the morning shift.”

Emma curled her hands around the bars and peered up at him through the empty space. “Then I shall see you in the morning, Captain.”

“Aye,” Killian replied, reaching through the bars and sweeping a wisp of hair from her face. Tucking it behind her ear, he noted the catch in her breath. “Merry Christmas… Emma.”

Tilting her head to nuzzle her cheek against his hand before he withdrew it, she wet her lips and gazed up at him once more. “Merry Christmas… Killian.”

Chapter Six

#cs ff #csff #cs fic #cs au #captain swan #cs 1800s prison au #conviction #words by hollye

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starlightshore · 2 years

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AWWHH tysm for the compliments <3 really made me smile!! Speaking of your Danny Phantom AU, I have another question about it!: Do Sam and Tucker like. Know that Danny's half-ghost? This question spawns from the little comic you made a few days ago and I noticed that they didn't... seem to know? If they do indeed not know, will they ever find out?- Jevil Anon

ah i see how that'd be confusing! that was a "nobody knows AU" (which was probs easy to miss me saying that with all that text i added to the post).

basically, it's a fandom-known au where, well, as its says on the tin: nobody knows Danny's the phantom. the reason i drew that AU was because I'm doing DannyMay, a phandom event where throughout all of May, we follow a list of themed prompts for the full month.

my AU is more so my "take" on the show's story, blending fanon and canon. aspects of my take have some fanon headcanons (some are my own, but most are common fanon):

(read more cause its long)

Danny kept his freckles growing up

said freckles glow in ghost form (which look like stars! Danny loves astronomy so its a fun character detail)

blue Phantom (to match how Vlad and Dan are blue)

^ mine's reasoning is that Danny's form/powers are based on being photographed by Sam at his time of death

Danny has lichtenberg scars (from being electrocuted)

having electric powers (though mine is actually light based powers that has electricity as an off shoot)

^ powers are more limited in general, just standard ghost abilities and the above

trans and Latino Danny

the full cast is some form of LGBTQA+

Jazz takes after her father, being more bulky. (cause no way both kids would be scrawny!)

tucker is a twitch streamer. his popularity stagnates/shrinks once he becomes busy with ghost hunting

Team Phantom has a TikTok

the portal is sentient, their name is Liminal Gates

the ghost portal was funded by Vlad (who has a different relationship with the Fentons than in canon) and has it hushed up by Nondisclosure Agreements.

Slow burn Vlad is evil reveal

season 3 didn't happen LMAO

Sam uses she/them and Clockwork use they/them

Dani (with an I) is called Ellie (this is for accessibility reasons like screen readers as well for general less confusion)

Ellie is not a clone but rather an alternative timeline Danny with a drastically different life. (because I think cloning is too morally horrific and illogical to write)

Slow burn Villain Ellie Masters (complete with a full story arc)

ghosts aren't aliens but rather traditional ghosts (for the most part, there's exceptions)

after a while, Danny's main objective is helping ghosts cross over to the after life.

ghost zone is a different spacial dimension (with a bunch of pseudo science takes from a high-school understanding of dimensions LOL)

pure ectoplasm is corrosive to flesh

halfas are time paradoxes, they're fusions of multiple timelines merged into one person

Fanon made characters: Wes Weston and his older brother, Kyle Weston. (extremely loosely based on background characters)

I think that's it for now! I'm sure five minutes from now I'll think of something and go "darn it!"

a lot of that is self indulgent or part of my "i'll work on this AU once in a while" attitude over the last few years -w- usually i'll check the DP tag once a month or so, but I'll have times (like rn) where I hyper-fixate on it. DannyMay really being a big reason I'm focusing so hard as well

#personal stuff #sams replies #dp talk

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koiryuu · 3 years

Text

fuck it. rating the swords in cql by fuckability.

thanks to a certain extra chapter i now cannot watch the untamed without thinking about the logistics of fucking the swords. so im gonna rank em based on overall sexiness of design of course, but more importantly, by practical insertability of the hilt. its 4am.

Lan Wangji's sword (Bichen)

the whore that started this all. good ol bichen. this is the only sword we have canon information on the genuine fuckability of. solid, attractive design, for sure, though personally it's a little blocky and boring for me. the main part of the hilt is well-shaped, with a subtle wavy topography in what looks like quartz or ivory, not bad at all. the sword exudes icy air as well which can certainly be a point for it if you're into that, or a point against if you're not keen on getting frostbite in the worst possible place. but there's one big problem here; the shape at the end of the hilt seems very problematic in terms of insertability, so much so that I wonder if the prop designers knew anything at all about the fate of this particular sword, or if they did, and they deliberately tried to make it as unfuckable as possible to hopefully put that thought out of everyone's minds. but we're all thinking it anyway. 6/10 godspeed wei wuxian.

Wei Wuxian's sword (Suibian)

oh honey, this is a stick. this is a branch. very aptly named "whatever", suibian is overall an "eh" in the looks department. in some shots it looks more shiny and finished, but in others it seriously looks like a piece of wood from the forest floor. it's like the swordsmith heard what wuxian wanted to name it and decided to stop trying. the metal detail lends a little to it, and i do have to admit that the blade itself is a lot sexier than the sheath, there's also something to say about its loyalty in sealing itself for only its master, but in its everyday look, it leaves a lot to be desired. the shape of the hilt is not bad, and it has no obstructions at the end, but i wonder exactly how finished the wood really is.... 3/10 ow ass splinters.

Jiang Cheng's sword (Sandu)

ok now this is a sexy sword. very good overall look. this sword is a hot goth that you spot from across the mall food court that you will never talk to, because you know it is too good for you. sandu has its aesthetic figured out. the deep purple, the quilted pattern, the entwined snakes? hell, sandu is too good for jc himself. the frog at the end may be a slight problem for cowards, but it's nowhere near as bad as bichen, and has the ridges down the hilt to make up for it. 8.5/10 the name is metal as fuck too.

Lan Xichen's sword (Shuoyue)

not terrible in design, though it's honestly just bichen's less hot brother. the bulky dull metal looks somewhat cheap and thin, but i do like the double chains on either side of the sheath. the hilt itself is a more exaggerated texture from bichen, and is that same pretty opaque white, but of course the glaring problem here again is the end. this looks like a nightmare to insert, to at least double the degree that bichen is. this is a plug, but not in the way you want it to be. shuoyue does, however, gain something for being the sword in the most homoerotic and tense scene, jgy's death scene, so that's redeeming, i think. 4.5/10 just fuck bichen instead.

Nie Mingjue's saber (Baxia)

ouch. ow. nothing is more hostile and outright unfuckable than baxia's little head of spikes. sexy design but at what cost. you'll have a better time fucking nmj himself tbh. 0/10 not even a sword.

Jin Zixuan/Jin Ling's sword (Suihua)

sexy in an insufferable rich asshole way. so pretty but so infurioratingly stuck up and arrogant it drives you insane and you can't stop thinking about it. the gold detailing is a little much, but like, in a good way. the blue on the sheath is a perfect touch. hilt is smooth and unproblematic, with the buttons for a little extra something, good shape, if not a little short and underwhelming. suihua overall is not a bad sword to fuck, but you better not fall in love with it. 7/10 is he gay or just european.

Xiao Xingchen's sword (Shuanghua)

if shuoyue is bichen's less hot brother, then shuanghua is bichen's sexy cousin, even down to the frost magic. the design is immediately one of the prettiest right away, with the silver design on the sheath and the pretty clean matte white. the structured hexagonal shape of the hilt is incredibly interesting, and the intricate engraving is a nice touch. the end does have a similar problem to bichen though, but while it is more rounded outwards, it's also not disconnected the way bichen is so it's up to you whether it's better or worse overall. 7/10 everyone's sword crush.

Xue Yang's sword (Jiangzai)

holy shit this is a hot sword. i know i previously haven't been commenting on the blades because they're usually sheathed in the pictures i find, but how can i not acknowledge the aesthetic of this blade. everything about this sword overall is exceptionally beautiful, and just the right amount of evil to suit xy. the hilt is very smooth and a bit tapered in shape, very nice. biggest problems is that it does have a tassle on the hilt, and the very end is a flat piece of metal, which might be sharp and would bring down insertability significantly. but i really can't find it in me to lower the score of this beautiful sword for that. 10/10 but the manhua version is even sexier.

Wen Chao's sword

i literally would not be making this post if not for this nameless beauty right here. this sword, in its bold, yet refined design, is the entire reason i thought to myself, hm, maybe you could fuck more than just bichen? it's honestly such a shame that i can't find a higher quality image of this sword, so you'll just have to trust me on this one. the exaggerated, swirled ridges spiraling down the hilt are... needless to say, very intriguing, and the head of it is not only rounded for ideal insertability, but is such a perfect cap shape too. there is absolutely nothing wrong with this sword, down to the design of the sheath, except for the man that carries it. take it out of his hands and put it somewhere more useful. 100/10 i think im genuinely sexually attracted to swords now.

#mo dao zu shi #mdzs #cql #chen qing ling #the untamed #tagging this with every fandom tag because if i had to write this you have to see it #legit i started this as a joke and now after two and a half hours of writing it i am fully and completely attracted to swords #im gonna sleep now #nsft

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remosdeerica · 3 years

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Batshit AU Pt #2: The Grandkids

So I mentioned in the last post Batshit AU Pt. #1 that I cover Dick and Jason's kids but since I've been thinking (read: fantasizing) about the future of the Batfam I figured I'd just do a post with ALL the grandkids!

Just a heads up: this is a LONG post.

First we shall start with the Grayson's:

Mar'i and Jake (Jake is not my original name I've seen it pop up in other media- dunno if it's canon in any timeline but I'm going with it).

Mar'i Grayson: Mar'i is the biologically daughter of Dick Grayson and Koriand'r of Tamaran (aka Starfire). Kori is unknowingly pregnant after one last one-night-stand with Dick before going back to her home planet to take over as queen. Unfortunately, because of Kori's sister Komand'r (aka Blackfire) causing civil unrest to try and usurp the thorn from her, Tamaran becomes unsafe for Mar'i as she is Kori's only heir.

-Kor'i goes back to Earth with an infant Mar'i and begrudgingly hands her over to Dick so she can live with him and be safe from Blackfire.

-Kori of course visits while she can but has a lot of responsibilities on Tamaran. When Mar'i is older she is able to go back to Tamaran to visit her mother.

-A few years later when Dick and Barbra get married, Barbra officially adopts Mar'i. Seeing both Kor'i and Barbra as her mothers Mar'i decides so call Kori "Mama" and Barbra "Mom/Mommy".

Jake Grayson: don't have much of an exciting backstory for him. He was basically just an orphaned infant Dick and Barbra decided to adopt after his bio-parents had been murdered.

Now he have the Todd family:

Because I am a heartless monster I decided that since Roy died in the comics without any sign of Lian and Jason was pretty fucked up about it, I would have Jason adopt Lian because Roy wasn't round to take care of her. So this is basically what happened:

Lain Harper-Todd: 1 year or so after Roy's death, Jason is visited by Jade Nguyen (aka Cheshire) who is carrying an infant Lian. Jade explains that she hadn't realised she was pregnant with Roy's child until after he was already dead and since she is not ready to give up her life as an assassin she states that Lian is better off without her. She then asks Jason if he would be willing to take Lian in as Roy's former partner (read into that how you will).

-Jason agrees, and decides to hyphenate her last name Harper-Todd so that she will always have a piece of Roy with her even if he can't be there for her in person.

it's not that I don't think JayRoy is cute! It's just that I honestly I don't really picture Jason dating anyone in my mind and the thought of him being a single dad is just precious. I'm also allergic to OC's (of my own making) so I usually try to keep to characters that are at least canon in some timeline and Lian was the first to come to mind.

Also I'm a angst-hungry monster so...

Drake-Wayne/Dowd/McGinnis household:

Lol, this family has too many names.

I already went over Terry and Matthew McGinnis' backstory in Batshit AU Pt. #1 but if you are too lazy/ don't feel like reading it I'll try to make sure to cover the important details.

Terry & Matthew McGinnis: A few years down the road, Tim is the current Batman and married to Bernard Dowd (my new fave batship). One night on patrol he finds the boys hunkered down behind an garbage container and approaches them.

-Terry is extremely protective of his younger brother Matt and becomes immediately aggressive, swinging a baseball around and threatening Tim to leave them alone.

-Tim finds it admirable/endearing that Terry is willing to face Batman alone in order to protect his brother and tells him so. He then asks them where there parents and and Matt (trusting Batman) tells Tim that they were killed by the 'Bad Men' who are now looking for he and Tarry.

-Tim is worried for the boys safety and offers to take them to the Police, but Tarry only says that they already tried that and that there are spies in the GCPD who ratted them out to the 'Bad Men'.

-Tim figures out that the boys are in more danger then he first realized and takes them home with him in order to protect them.

-Tim eventually finds out about Project Batman Beyond, an experiment orchestrated by A.R.G.U.S. in order to create the perfect child to usurp the Cowl and give A.R.G.U.S and 'in' with the Justice League and the super-community as a whole. A part of this project is making sure the children are biologically Bruce Wayne's in order for them to also gain influence over Wayne Enterprises.

-Tim realizes that there is no real safe place that he can send the boys and after discussing it with his husband, Bernard, the two decide to adopt the boys.

I think this adoption story is one of my favourites. Especially because I find the idea of Bernard not at all being surprised by his husband brining home black-haired blue-eyes orphans, hilarious.

Bernard: I figured since you are now Batman it was only a matter of time.

Tim: >:(

Wayne-Kent situation:

DamiJon is one of my absolute favourite ships in existence. But since both boys are so young in canon my version of their future relationship truly is creature of my own design, I will explain them a little and then the kids. I'll be quick about it. Promise. (There is also a 2 part series I'm working on that goes into my version of events called "Jon and Damian" if anyone is interested. Jon's chapter is done but Damian's is still in the works).

Jon: he is the one that I really have to explain. I call my version of him "Dark-ish Jon" or 'dark ish jon' for the tags. For those of you who already know the deal (or don't really care) y'all can skip to the *** for the kids.

-basically Jon was kidnapped by Jon-El (Clark's Kryptonian Bio-dad) in order for Jor-El to mold Jon into the perfect weapon for his plan to conquer the universe. They have a machine that Jumps through various timelines so no one can find them, and Jon-El trains/tortures Jon for 2 years.

-Jon eventually discovers new powers that allow him to kill Jor-El and escape but he ends up spending the next several years trying to find his original timeline.

-He eventually meets the Legion of Superheroes that help him get home, but once he arrives home he realizes that for him it has been 7 years since he was kidnaped, but only 2 weeks for his family/friends.

-Because of this he and his family find it hard to adjust to the new situation and Jon ultimately decides to return to the Legion but visit occasionally.

Damian: Honestly I don't think I really have to explain much about Damian for y'all to get the kids but I do want you to know:

He has long hair

He has peirced ears

Possibly tattoos?

He's has more of a slim figure than Bruce's bulky one

He is a fashion icon and kinda has 'bitchy white girl' energy

Bacically he very pretty and looks a LOT like Thalia

And yeah. The two eventually reconcile after Jon is done moping in another timeline and they decide to retire from crime fighting and build a cottage/farm and live in peace.

***

Athanasia: So she is actually Bruce's bio-kid from the Injustice timeline. And for my AU she is still Bruce's biologically and she does recognize him as her father, but because she and Damian are 13/14 years apart and she knows him better she lives and defers to him as her caretaker. I shall explain:

-Athanasia was created by Thalia in a fit of madness after Damian's death. Because of what happened to Damian, and because Athanasia turned out to be a girl (and therefor Ra's would have no use for her), Thalia keeps the little girl locked away and a secret so that no one can harm her.

-Years pass and Athanasia has never seen the outside would. Eventually something happens (will depends on the Fic -because I will get around to writing this shit eventually) and Athanasia is given to Damian (the only other person Thalia ever told her about.)

-At this point Bruce is getting older and most of his current children already have their own kids, so both he and Damian agree that because Athanasia is mostly attached to Damian and doesn't really know who Bruce is outside of being her father, that she will live with he and Jon.

-Athanasia get's older and eventually meets another girl at her school named Carrie Kelley. The girls form a quick bond, Carrie's louder personality complementing Athanasia's more quiet one.

Carrie Kelley: being best friends with Athanasia leads to Carrie spending a lot of time over at her house. This allows Jon and Damian to get to know the girl and become quite fond of her.

-one night after a sleepover at Jon and Damian's house with some of their other friends, Carrie's father comes to the house drunk and carrying a shot gun. He accuses Jon and Damian of being pedophiles because of their sexual orientations and calls them a variety of homophobic slurs.

-It's his attempts at shooting Jon that leads to Carrie calling 911 and having her own father arrested.

-Because her mother had already left and Carrie only had her dad to take care of her, Jon and Damian offer her a place in their home and eventually adopt her along with Athanasia when the girls are teenagers.

So, yeah! That's it for now. I am absolutely obsesses with this AU. I just love the idea of Bruce deciding to take in Dick leading to him having an army of children and grandchildren so large that all family gatherings have to happen at the Manor because nowhere else is big enough.

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aspiring-bl-writer · 3 years

Text

This is a short story set in the Warhammer 40,000 universe, detailing a Death Guard attack on an Imperial world. The story is told from the perspective of an Imperial Guard lieutenant as his unit is saved by Adeptus Astartes from the Red Scorpions Chapter, who are obsessed with maintaining the purity of the Imperium and protecting humanity from any possible contamination.

They lurched forward in waves, unnatural and rancid figures, resembling the Adeptus Astartes, but their countenances blighted, sullied with the stench of decay. Swarms of flies clustered around them as the figures shuffled on deformed limbs. Their rusted suits of armor were greasy with a mucus oozing from pocked carapaces diffused with sores. They held oxidized, grime-coated weapons in twisted limbs disfigured by foul disease.

Despite their decomposing appearance, these disgusting parodies of Space Marines were formidable enemies. Wherever their weapons hit, the Imperial Guard fell, strains of crippling sickness spreading through their bodies. Weapons barely even fazed them, blasts and bolts absorbed into gnarled fusions of tissue and ceramite plate. Although the Guardsmen outnumbered them many times over, nothing seemed to interrupt the lethargic, scattered march of the Plague Marines. A discordant symphony of piercing shrieks, guttural death-rattles and the buzzing of warp-spawned pests followed them.

Lieutenant Selwyn Barras cursed the day he had ever set foot on Ephesos. His regiment had come to the feudal world in response to bombastic claims that the dead were rising and slaughtering the human population. Barras’ superiors had put down the preliminary reports to the superstitious hysteria of barely-civilized serfs toiling in dark lowlands, growing meager rice in paddy fields. Following their deployment, however, regimental commanders soon assessed the blunt reality. Epidemics had ravaged Ephesos for months, but rather than alerting Terra to the outbreaks, the planetary governor had remained doggedly focused on ensuring that the world supplied its regular tithe of rice bushels to the Imperium. The governor and his staff had been the only ones off-planet to know about the hastily-dug mass graves containing the hundreds of thousands of peasants claimed by the spreading pestilence. The governor had broken his silence only when reanimated corpses had clambered out of their crude, shared tombs, ravaging all living things discovered in their paths. Fortunately, the mindless undead could not hope to match the exceptional training and veteran leadership of an Imperial Guard regiment. Rot rendered once-human bodies into soft meat easily torn apart by laser fire. Defeating the zombie hordes had proved more time-consuming than challenging, and in a matter of weeks, most of Ephesos’ key cities had been reclaimed by the Astra Militarum.

Nature had not borne the plagues, nor their horrific creations. Unbeknownst to everyone, a Death Guard warband had instigated it all, and they were none too pleased at the disruption of their plans. They had attacked the Imperial forward positions overnight, hobbling across the horizon, a slow but thorough razing of all opposition. Regimental headquarters had instructed Barras to defend a dilapidated fortification along a stone wall running from a great river to a small inlet of a distant sea. The primitive masons who had constructed the barricade, with their limited knowledge of the larger universe in which they lived, would never have fathomed that their bulwark would someday be a citadel for the Imperial Guard against infernal demi-gods.

“Not much we can do without plasma weapons, much less armored support,” Barras murmured to himself, chewing on his lower lip. He let out a troubled sigh.

Commissar Aelia Tremelle, an ever-present face on the frontlines, could read the concern on Barras’ face as they observed the Plague Marines easily routing the forward positions. “The Emperor protects!” she yelled over the din of battle. What Tremelle lacked in persuasion she made up for in force of will. She was an ardent believer in the Imperium, and it was not hard to share her certainty, to emulate her zeal and unquestioning loyalty. Usually when Barras spied Tremelle’s peaked hat and fancily decorated coat, it bolstered his morale, reminded him that the all-powerful God Emperor safeguarded humanity, against enemies both material and immaterial.

This time was different. He reckoned by morning it was more probable he and the rest of the unit would be host to maggots rather than Tremelle’s unflappable passion.

He buried his pessimism, though, knowing he could not risk revealing it. Tremelle would have used it as an excuse for a summary execution, but that was not Barras’ main fear. He was more afraid that his despair would dishearten the rank-and-file, the men and women who depended on him for strength and guidance. Tremelle inspired them with moral purity, but it was from Barras they looked for leadership. If they saw him wavering, giving in to doubt and fear, they would resign themselves to annihilation. It was unlikely they could win against heretic Astartes, of course, but victory was not the goal now. Their objective was to offer the strongest resistance they could muster, to not give a single inch freely to the approaching traitors and their Chaos overlords.

He grabbed the Aquila necklace he wore and pressed it against his lips. Readying his bolt pistol, he turned from Tremelle to face the soldiers who had fixed their wide eyes upon him, their las-rifles primed. His heart thudded in his chest in anticipation as he searched for the words. “Have no fear! We will never surrender! We fight for humanity and the Emperor! All of you: die standing! Be ready to greet the Emperor with pride!” Tremelle cheered first as he finished, a booming hurrah, which the enlisted ranks copied with raucous shouting of their own. The speech, as brief as it was, had done its job.

Barras lifted himself up, aimed toward the Plague Marines, and fired. Lasers flashed past him, hitting their targets with great accuracy, but with minimal effect. The Death Guard traitors kept up their relentless march, cascades of shells spewing from their filth-encrusted weapons. Beside him, the side of Tremelle’s head exploded in a gory mess. Her corpse toppled over seconds later. A determined Guardsman took her place. Tremelle had often spoke of her demise in hallowed, sacred terms, promising it would be a noble sacrifice. In truth, Barras saw nothing poetic or dignified about it. Instead, he just wished that he would meet his death as quickly and unexpectedly as she had.

“Look!” Barras swung his head around and saw a trooper pointing heavenward. Following the upturned finger with his eyes, Barras noticed a trail of fire blazing across the sky. It looked as though a meteor storm had suddenly broken out over Ephesos, another ominous omen to go along with the dead rising and demonic corruption. He could not long take his gaze away from the oncoming scourge; their drumming bolters would not permit them to be ignored. Each concussive shot that landed sent dirt, blood and viscera flying. It took every ounce of willpower to take decent aim and fire, and every fiber of his courage not to lose his nerve when he saw a Plague Marine disregard the shot when it landed. The only weapon he possessed still serving its function was his faith, faith in the Emperor, for it was that alone that kept him rigid to where he stood.

Providence appeared to reward that faith. As the apparent meteoroids drew nearer, gaining ever more spectacular speed, it became clear they were something else entirely. They were drop pods of the Adeptus Astartes, and with ear-popping booms they plunged into the earth to the west of Barras’ position. Rocks and rubble sailed high in the air. Almost immediately pod doors whisked open, releasing their enormous occupants.

The head of every soldier in Barras’ unit, the lieutenant himself included, had turned to gawk at the Space Marines with awe. In their power armor, they stood just over eight feet tall. To call them colossuses would barely do them justice. Despite looking their human appearance, they were nevertheless alien and threatening, exuding auras of overwhelming violence. Their faces were hidden behind their helms, muzzle-mouthed and skull-faced, with piercing red lenses. Their armor was a pale tone of gray with yellow trim, and on their left pauldron a red scorpion raised its stinger menacingly against a white circle. In fluid motions, they smacked their bulky gauntlets on the stone eagle emblazoned over their breastplates before breaking out into sprints toward the Plague Marines. It seemed absurd that giants could move with such amazing celerity.

Barras’ eyes were fixed on the goliath leading the charge. While his brothers mostly fired bolters, he carried a two-handed maul with two heads, each swathed in a powerful disruptor field. Letting out a growl that sounded distorted and wolfish through his helmet speakers, the Marine swung his gigantic hammer and pounded an unsteady Plague Marine square in the chest. The sparking force field around the hammer’s head flashed on impact, amplifying the already inhuman strike to insane levels of strength. The Plague Marine flew backwards, landing and skidding around twenty yards away. Not dwelling on what he had just done, the maul-wielding Marine shouted to his comrades: “Let free the retribution of the Emperor, my brothers! Purge the unclean!”

Unbelievably, the fallen Plague Marine rose again, a crater on his chest, dazed but not nearly incapacitated. It took a few more steps before being engulfed in a searing fireball. Many of the Marines wearing the scorpion heraldry carried flamers, and were using them liberally to submerge their Death Guard foes in infernos. The consuming blazes did little to dismay their shambling targets, and most of the Plague Marines continued firing their bolters and swinging their blades even as the flames scorched their armor and burned away their fetid flesh. Rather than seek their survival, they seemed to welcome death once it was credibly offered to them, as if it were some cherished gift.

One of Barras’ soldiers let out a whoop of deliverance, sparking a chorus of additional supportive yells. With renewed dynamism, the Guardsmen resumed firing volleys, even if it was a weak supplement to the strength and firepower of their godlike saviors.

A small quantity of Plague Marines had died, but more were closing in on the attackers. Methodical salvos of bolter, flamer and plasma fire from the loyalist Marines thrashed the ranks of the Death Guard reinforcements, but few were stopped, and eventually the two forces met. A helmetless heretic, his head resembling a moldering shriveled prune, grappled with the Space Marine commander, a humming chainsword gripped in one tremendous fist. His dark moss-colored armor leaked with an unknown sludge. The Space Marine commander tried to shove him away, but his gauntlet slid clear due to the slimy gunk. The Death Guard warrior lunged, slashing his chainsword across the commander’s shoulder and blood sprayed where the chain found purchase. The commander did not cry out; instead, he slammed his elbow into his opponent’s belly and leapt backward, trouncing his maul onto neck and head. Like the rotted fruit it resembled, the Plague Marine’s head broke open, bone and brain obliterated in an eruption of sopping carnage. The decapitated body fell away as more enemies loomed.

The scene became a festival of massacres, a carnival of blood and brutality. Barras watched as a Space Marine died, an axe plunged into the space beneath his helm, and he fell to the sound of his own gurgling blood. One of his battle-brothers swept up his dead comrade’s bolt pistol and emptied the magazine into the killer. He was instantly set upon by a Traitor Marine carrying a combat knife, which in Barras’ much smaller hands would easily have been a broadsword. The Chaos-corrupted Marine drove the serrated blade into the gap between breastplate and helmet before wrenching it out. He stabbed repeatedly, laughing a sick wet giggle, until the Space Marine collapsed. The heretic was so caught up in his mania he did not even notice the Astartes commander swinging his maul until it landed on the Plague Marine’s back, shattering his spine. The hammer rose and fell over and over, quickly turning the soldier of Chaos into mere pulp and slush.

The battle was even, with the Space Marines winning slightly, but Barras wondered how long that would go on. The Death Guard Marines, though few in number, were only stoppable by extreme use of firepower or overwhelming brute force. In a conflict of pure attrition, the advantage lay with the nigh-invulnerable plague-bearing juggernauts. They were, Barras thought to himself, avatars of the inevitable entropy in the universe, the unpleasant but nevertheless harsh truth that all things, no matter how glorious or precious, would someday collapse and congeal, falling to ruin. Even the Imperium of Man, for all its splendors and righteousness, would at some point vanish from the universe, just as the brightest suns in the galaxy would someday be extinguished….

He was shaken from these heretical thoughts by the rumbling sound of Thunderhawks howling above him, their wing mounted guns blasting away. As the shells landed, the Plague Marines exploded in a series of detonations. With almost stoic passivity, the more distant Death Guard survivors were also torn apart by over-sized battle cannons spewing high-explosive rounds, others shredded by the shrapnel created by the rounds’ shell casings. The aircrafts banked around as they passed overhead, coming in low to the ground. When they landed, they unloaded streams of Space Marines, around twenty in each. From one, an enormous war machine strode clumsily down an exit ramp, roughly thirteen feet tall and just as wide. It moved in thumping, lazy steps, and its arms were weapons: the left was a steel arm capped by a wide chainsaw fist the size of an adult human, and the right was a long cannon with coils along its length that glowed dull blue.

The battle ended soon thereafter. Barras’ men, exhausted and mortified by their brush with certain death, relaxed their discipline and slouched against the walls, some leaning on their firearms. The only thing keeping them warm and energized was the relief of surviving, of having won a gamble with fate and come out the victor. They had earned their rest. Barras felt the urge to join them but stopped when he spotted the Space Marine commander with the maul moving towards him. He snapped to attention, as nervously as he had done in the officers’ academy. He did his best to remain composed, but reflexively blanched at the noisy bluster of servos from the Marine’s armor joints.

The Astartes set aside his maul and with gauntleted hands removed his helm. Beneath it, his head was bald and leathery tan, marred with crisscrossed scars. His eyes were a light and watery blue, blank, unfocused. Barras smiled softly, hoping a relaxed and warm expression would obscure his uneasiness before one of the God-Emperor’s chosen. Of course, he knew the galaxy contained more futile tasks. “I’m Lieutenant Selywn Barras, my lord,” he managed, “and we’re extremely glad to see you…”

“I am Brother-Captain Creon Mindarus,” the Astartes interrupted, “of the Red Scorpions’ Fourth Company. My orders are to purge this quadrant of the planet. Inquisitor Xanthus of the Ordo Malleus informed us that the traitors of the Fourteenth Legion were attempting to summon a powerful daemon, a harbinger of rot and ruin.”

Barras nodded. “Well, it would appear your mission was accomplished.”

“Not yet,” Creon said quickly. “Our orders were to cleanse this planet of Chaos taint, Lieutenant, and for us, that means all who were exposed to the corruption on Ephesos. Your unit has been deployed on the planet for several months, has it not?”

Barras arched an eyebrow. “Y-Yes, my lord, to wipe out the walking dead…”

“A task you did satisfactorily,” Creon replied with a cold monotone. “Yet, it was an error sending your regiment here. Despite its many commendations, you have one inherent flaw: you are mere humans.” He titled his head to one side briefly and clicked his tongue. “Well, most of you, at least. Your regiment has squads of abuhumans, yes?”

“Y-You mean the Ogryns?” Barras stammered. The Imperium of Man believed in the supremacy of humanity over the universe, but it nevertheless utilized near-human creatures in parts of the Imperial Guard. This included the gigantic mutants known as the Ogryns, as loyal as they were big and stupid. They made excellent shock troops, even if their very existence suggested tolerance of genetic mutation, which in turn may have invited spiritual corruption. “My lord, I have nothing to do with…”

The Astartes captain raised a hand to halt the protest. “It is irrelevant. Even without the presence of abhumans among your units, your regiment has been exposed to plagues and poxes your unmodified immune systems could not resist with guaranteed success. Rather than risk allowing you to leave Ephesos and potentially infect others, spreading the Chaos taint, we will have to liquidate your regiment as part of our operations.”

Barras went ashen as the blood drained from his face. His jaw dropped several centimeters and his eyes grew wide. “T-This is wrong! We did our duty!”

“As was appropriate,” Creon responded with indifference. “Nevertheless, you cannot claim direct descent from the Emperor himself, as we can. Even few Astartes chapters truly do.” There was no pride on his lips; he spoke matter-of-factly. “To protect the Emperor’s faithful, we must cull those susceptible to the insidious corruption of Chaos. You have always been told you may give your life for the Emperor; today, you will.”

On instinct, Barras moved to run. Obviously the Astartes was faster. He reached out and clutched Barras’ neck in his gauntleted fingers. The Guardsman struggled in the grip, choking for air. Creon tightened his hold, crunching bone and cartilage with barely a tensing of his muscles. Lifted off the ground, Barras’ feet kicked for solid contact, but soon went limp. The Astartes dropped him to the ground, where he fell with a thud.

By this time, the worn and weakened soldiers of Barras’ unit had noticed the execution of their commander. As they struggled to process what they had witnessed, they failed to notice that the charcoal-clad Space Marines had encircled them–and were now pointing their bolters, flamers, and plasma guns in their direction. Creon made a small motion with his hand. The Marines fired, cutting down the surviving Guardsmen with no mercy.

As las-fire and flame reflected in his blank blue eyes, Creon said: “Purge the unclean.”

#warhammer #warhammer 40k #wh 40k #40k #40k fanfic #40k fiction #red scorpions #adeptus astartes #space marines #death guard #chaos space marines #imperial guard #imperium #black library

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orangepurin45 · 3 years

Text

𝐂𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐦𝐞 𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐎𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐫!! - 𝐂𝐨𝐩! 𝐈𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐳𝐮𝐦𝐢 𝐇𝐚𝐣𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐗 𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐏.𝐭 1

WARNING: Guns, some Yanderish themes (Oikawa is protective of Bara-arms), Blood, Drug dealing delivery, 🔞triggering sexual content 🔞, Angst, Fluff?, Slight!IwaOi, Mentions of past humiliation & trauma (high-school bullying)

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

This is my first time writing btw. Happy Reading! if not the exit is over there 👉🚪.

Papers sprawled all over the desk, strings attached each other to another. A loud sip from the bulky man and a paper flip to side then eyes rose up to the photo of you grinning like a mischievous fox with red lips and taunting eyes screaming "CATCH ME IF YOU DARE," vibe Hajime grit his teeth glaring at your dirty face.

L/n Y/n, also know as the dark phoenix, Japan's most notorious drug dealing, homicide, and man-woman torturer and murderer in the whole country.

Everyone fears you.

Everyone obey at you.

Everyone believes you are the end.

Everything they think, you were responsible of all of this.

"Iwa-chan! Chief wants you to-..." Tooru spokes but was stopped by the sound of Iwaizumi's chair screech. He stood up, shadow loom under his gaze as he walks out the door.

"Wait! Iwa-chan I was supposed to...!

SLAM!

Inform you, " he finished, his lips turned downwards at the cold room, his chocolate eyes scanned every detail of the room then stopped to your portrait of your scary taunting face.

"Thanks a lot, Y/n-chan... But I didn't know you were into kind of... mess, " he smiles sadly, tracing his fingers at your photo. Lips tighten softly at the flashback, of yourself and the other 3rd years. How ironic to see your sweet, sweet smile in the memories compare to your now scary one.

"But I'm not letting you hurt Iwa-chan...That's a promise!,"

He points at your portait, eyes of determination and protection to swearing to blood to bone of himself not want his childhood friend be hurt. He turned away as long he lives

He will never let Hajime's life on the line.

Blood splatter, and small packet of white powder in the sachet all over the floor. Blowing your gun, hot steam coming out of the hole. Soft red lips upturned wickedly, your loyal subordinates gathers the small plastic packets inside the black bag.

"Bring it on the trunk immediately," You grinned as they nodded, immediately running towards your car.

Although, all happiness and rainbows has to ended when your car exploded and a familiar gunfire break a loose killing at off your men in sight.

"Oh dear... here we go again," You giggled then smirked, eyes delighted to see the man, who is obsessed of you being arrested.

How cute! 💕

"DARK PHOENIX!!!," Hajime yelled, eyes filled with fury and justice glaring at your calm figure. His teeth angrily clench pointing his gun at you.

"What a pleasant surprise!... I never thought you were such a party pooper, Iwaizumi-san! I'm absolutely...hurt," you pouted furrowing your brows playfully at him, to which he just flinch remembering a memory, looking down at the thought.

But you took this opportunity to snatched the gun off of his Iron grip by sitting on his shoulder then do some acrobatics before jumping off his broad shoulders then before jumping back then throw him on the ground with a headlock.

"You know it was all good~ back in the day! My mom always taught me to take care of what mess it was...And that was me she was talking about, "

He grunt, trying to wiggling his way out of your grasped but no avail the tightness is stronger than he expected. You giggled when you heard him yelped.

“Let ME go this is instant! I’m gonna make sure you’re gonna rot in prison!,”

He shouted, throwing his saliva right at your face at each sentence he threat for you. But you only grinned, eyes in mischief and raising a brow at him.

“Oh please~ Cry me a river! Your the cop here aren’t you gonna do it but instead you’re just laying under me...shame on you Iwaizumi-san,”

Silence ... You saw how he looks down and saw sorrow at his face, seemingly remembers something, you hummed a growing smile on your soft lips.

“Ne, Iwazumi-san Do you remember the day Oikawa-san humiliate me?,”

He snaps out his trace, then looks at you eyes as larger as the china wares.

“You didn’t help me back then, instead you let him do what he did to me,”

Rains started to pour, as the steaming car slowly deflates it’s flame little by little by an hours. Hajime’s heart dropped at the statement.

Yes, It’s true he did only watched.

He just...didn’t know

He didn’t know what to do If he did help you back then.

Because of a certains rumors that you seduce your father, your uncle, other male students in any campus. That’s what Oikawa made up, He thought realising it.

You rejected Tooru because you view him as a brother only and nothing more.

“Isn’t because of Oikawa...was it?,”

“All of that wasn’t true SHUT UP!!,”

Unrealising you let him go and back yourself away from him, giving Hajime to sit up then slowly stood. He saw suprising seeing you hitting your head, slapping and punching your head. Snot and tears and all, pulling your hair out, heavily breathing then whimper and cries. Hajime was about to approach you giving the comfort you deserve, you deserve long time ago that he was going to give if he helped you.

But being a fucked out mentally ill you are, Throwing your head back flash of lightning. Red eyes and nose all bloodshot. Wet Hair stuck on your face.

“FUCK THEM ALL FOR BEING NAIVE ASS BITCH THEY KNOW NOTHING ABOUT ME!!,”

“Y/n I-,”

All of the sudden a hooded man engulf you in an embrace then took you, jumping in each delivering cubes. But before he left, he shot Iwaizumi by the calf making him grunt then kneel down to hold where the shot is.

“IWA-CHAN!,”

Oikawa runs afront of him, and by anger he tried firing his bullet back at the hooded man but failed when he fired back to disarm him then fled at the scene.

“That bitch had company I see... Iwa-chan are you alright,”

After the rage diminished into concern laced tone, he pulled Iwaizumi up throwing his arm over his shoulder. Gazing in greater concern at him.

Or Love, so to speak.

“Everything will be all right, Iwa-chan I already called back-up,”

Hajime grunt, he unlatch himself off Oikawa suprise at the action he give, he stumbled and winced but he then glared at Oikawa.

His heart ache’d at the facial expression, shattering to him into pieces.

“Get off me I can take care of myself, I’m not some type of baby being taken care of,” He explains, he took a second to look where you feld and the hooded man went, A breath escape his lips and just stumble ahead.

when the back-up came, they help him guide back inside the ambulance.

“I told you I can take care of myself! Lay off!!,”

“Japan needed you Iwaizumi-san...So you’ll be needing our guidance for now,” The medic discipline and explains The Cop as he guided Hajime at the back of the ambulance.

He click his tongue before the paramedics lift him up in ease onto the ambulance.

Oikawa on the other hand, chocolate-colored eyes darkens at the moment of Hajime's pained expression when he taken the bullet that strike his calf.

And the sorrowfulness of his face when he was about to hug you.

His staring directly at your self-hate state as if he was that main guy at a certain love story, but a fucked up one.

He wanted to comfort you so badly that he might forget you'll stab him by the back. He grit his teeth, his knuckles turning white at point of view of your being.

But first he had to make sure you will be torture to hell where you belong.

"Oikawa-senpai! Is everything is going to be alright?"

A turnip head guy pops out, eye'ing in concern at the ambulance where Iwaizumi resides in, left the scene. Tooru took a deep breath, as he face his youngest colleague with that well-covered smile.

"It's alright! There's no need to worry! Cause' He will have the greatest care in the hospital... For awhile I think"

"Oikawa-senpai... Your palms are bleeding"

Kunimi pointed out, staring boredly at the fresh wound that have his blood run down his fingers to his knuckles.

He hadn't realise in mad anger, he clawed his palm so bad at the thought of you gonna ruining Iwaizumi's life.

"Ahhh! My hand slipped in the strawberry jam! My bad hehe"

(；^ 3^）✌️even though it was rather darker than the sweet jam itself, Kunimi could tell it was a lie. He could tell the deep nail marks on his palm and blood mixing under his nails too.

"Uh... Okay I guess..." He pretend to buy it, much of Oikawa's satisfaction.

"Okay back to work! We need to investigate this piece of shit of a burning car!" He grin happily as he skipped towards the steaming car, not caring about the rain pouring down.

Hope you rot in hell Y/n dearest or else one touch on Iwa-chan and you are gone he thought with a deep frown thinking about you makes Oikawa sick upon his stomach but hopefully that one day, you'll be captured and rot in jail.

Or maybe suffer in death sentence because of the multiple crimes you make.

Hope you suffer He thought with sadistic grin.

-End P. T 1-

That was not I expected, but judge all you want all because of the grammar I've been working is still under- construction and I've been using writing stuff like this because of a certain mental stability I've got... Not all that set aside. Thank y'all for reading don't forget to leave a heart or not because due to my ungrateful grammar that make you sick... I'm sorry about that and I apologies for being born... Is all

-orangepurin45

#iwaizumi x y/n #slight iwaoi #first writing #haikyuu x reader #iwaizumi hajime #x reader #criminalxpoliceau!#Minors don't interact #blood #imnervousethisismyfirsteverwritinghereintumblr #skskskksks #yandere oikawa

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missingjackklinehours · 3 years

Text

Mo(u)rning Dove

@spnarchangelweek <3

Rating: Teen & Up (Gen Lucifer & Gabriel)

Warnings: Major Character Death, Derealization

Fic & Playlist available on AO3! (feel free to read under the cut, however!)

Dendrite; His wings are like crystallized dendrite, Lucifer notices.

Intricate patterns of iridescent gold branches engraved in each fulgent feather of his. Rays of daylight that dare reflect off the Messenger’s butterscotch wings are ardently absorbed to preserve his internal light—He burns far brighter than any star could begin to comprehend.

Lucifer can feel his warmth when he allopreens Gabriel’s dendrite-etched feathers. The thriving fledgling squirms uncomfortably under his working hands, his budding golden feathers twitching with each gentle pluck. His petite form leans away from Lucifer’s algid touch, and he whines with a callow pout when Lucifer prudently guides him back. Lucifer attempts to soothe his baby brother, amicable words of a story falling from his polar lips to allay Gabriel’s discomfort; Gabriel always loved his stories.

The gold expands as he develops. Complex veins of sunlight-drenched sheen contour the coverts of his pinions. The shinier they get, the brighter he burns and the more pleasant light he intakes. Gabriel emits brilliant luminescence like no other, and his sun-kissed wings like dendrite are proof.

Lucifer combs through gold with every softly recited word of a tale. Gabriel has grown to melt into the Morningstar’s wintry touch, listening attentively to the plot of his elder brother’s story. He is eagerly expectant; His big brother always comes to him with newer, longer, better anecdotes during preening season. Gabriel adores every one of them, though when he feels Lucifer culling the last of his unkempt and grimed feathers, he pleads with full, star-struck sky eyes to hear the lullaby that first lulled him to sleep, long ago. Lucifer teases him with fondness in his irises, but he gives in—He always does. It’s hard to say no to Gabriel when he looks that jubilant.

“... dream on, dear little child…”

Gabriel has already complied to the lullaby’s verses by the time Lucifer adeptly tweaks the last sliver of gold. The Morningstar’s waning notes fade out, though his boreal fingers still find themselves in between honey, dendrite-embedded feathers. Gabriel snores like a little beast, and Lucifer can’t help but grin at him as he gingerly caresses his slumbering brother’s effulgent wings.

The luster of his gold is brightest against the pristine cream of misted clouds. By the time Lucifer teaches Gabriel to fly, he’s become a beacon in the night. Lucifer’s frosted fingers tag one of his younger brother’s radiant wings, sniggering as he calls out “you’re it!” and soars swiftly in the other direction of Heaven’s lilac skies. As much as he tries through his giggles, Gabriel can’t keep up, and they both know it.

He’s growing too fast. At times, Lucifer reminisces on the distant era he was able to hold Gabriel in his arms. His dendrite-pattern had hardly blossomed then, and Gabriel’s gold hadn’t shimmered as bold. As he looks at his younger brother now, he sees curious divinity. Gabriel’s getting old enough to where Lucifer can’t shield him from danger, and it makes the elder angel anxious.

The snow of the Morningstar’s fingers drag further, deeper into gold. Gabriel’s wings are evolving, the golden bliss of his spirited light washing vividly over Heaven. The Messenger no longer leans in, nor away from Lucifer’s preening; He simply hums, swaying in rhythm with the breaths of Lucifer's story. No matter how old he gets, he always loves to listen to his big brother’s voice. When Lucifer is nearly finished grooming auric feathers, he happily anticipates Gabriel to plead with him to sing their lullaby. Instead, Gabriel turns to him, and his golden light seeps through his wide smile, a trickle of celestial sun through pearly teeth.

"Luci, can I pretty please do yours?"

Lucifer is taken aback. Gabriel has never offered to preen his feathers; Lucifer's wings hadn't been preened since Michael had taken up his part of Heaven's responsibilities—It had been a long time. Lucifer’s matured wings flex automatically in thrill at the mention of grooming. Gabriel acknowledges it, and he brightens, if possible. His little brother is giving him that look, one of so much inspired euphoria with such a rush of nostalgic innocence that he looks no different from the very first time Lucifer preened his teensy, yet complex feathers.

Lucifer can’t refuse.

His wings of vermillion are far larger, though far more disheveled than Gabriel’s have ever been; The young Messenger has always had Lucifer to care for him. Gabriel’s clement hands are profoundly gentle, like refreshing spring rain drizzled on feverish skin or a tenderhearted baby dove nuzzling gratefully against its mother. Even at viscid spots where his vermillion adheres in thickly bedraggled clumps as a result from neglect, Gabriel’s touch remains serene and delicate. Lucifer feels more tranquil than he has in centuries—It’s as if he’s mindlessly drifting amongst endless indigo seas of winding galaxies and Gabriel is sweetly guiding him by the hand through the silver of stars. Lucifer now understands why Gabriel loves Heaven’s preening season.

A faint ghost of a mellifluous melody draws him from his wafting reverie. Gabriel is humming, a saccharine purr carrying a familiar harmony; It’s their lullaby. Lucifer picks up on the part his baby brother is humming, and he nimbly sings along. He watches intently with a splitting simper when their sitting shadows in front of him swell as Gabriel’s golden light brightens merrily at the pleasant sound.

“... in the sky, stars are still fading away…”

Gabriel’s effulgence is rapidly dawning to be more blinding than any entity in existence. His stellar golden feathers branch out further and his daedal dendrite details seem to crystallize in a more radiant fashion. Lucifer genially revels in his bright brilliance everytime they unite. Though, it’s far from the only thing that’s improving in Gabriel; He’s much quicker than before. Lucifer has to exert all of his energy to keep ahead when briskly gliding away from his little brother after he tags his butter-flushed wings. He deliberately assumes that Gabriel will inherit his Heavenly duties soon, with his speed approaching the potential Father saw when he named him as Heaven's Messenger.

Gabriel isn’t the only one who’s changing.

Lucifer is altering—morphing—wavering. The Mark of Cain is an irritant upon his ivory skin, his grace, his mind. He’s growing colder, and he feels the need to be enigmatic. Father is never wrong, because Father is absolute. It’s firmly ingrained in his mind, and it’s been that way since he was a fledgling. Lucifer repeats it to himself as he observes Lilith, the first woman, refuse subservience to her created equal, Adam. He watches silently when she leaves the perfect haven Father had meticulously created for her, and he watches in bemusement as a flock of his determined siblings attempt to forcibly return her to Eden. She is resilient, and Adam is egotistical and very flawed; Lucifer desperately tries to comprehend why his Father, instead of establishing that they are equals, creates Adam a new partner and banishes Lilith from ever returning to Eden.

Father is wrong. When the belief dawns on him, Lucifer has an epiphany—a twisted thought follows. The Mark of Cain sears like it never has before; A scorching white fire that engulfs his entire being, scalding the abundance of all his infinite eyes and fiercely igniting his vermillion wings in grandeur flames. Despite the famished embers from within, he feels frozen and trapped under a bulky sheet of ice, breathlessly viewing his life continue without him as he drowns in desolate, boreal seas.

Lucifer has unequivocally changed; He is different. Gabriel is the first to notice.

Preening season has arrived. Lucifer is much colder, and the raw bite of his frost elicits a vicious shiver when his fingers pluck gold feathers. His cautiousness is replaced by dissociation, the younger angel is wincing. Lucifer feels distant, and Gabriel thinks he is lightyears from his brother despite him being mere inches away.

Lucifer abstractly traces dendrite when he’s nearing the final unkempt clot of feathers, absentmindedly humming a familiar tune. This time, Gabriel says nothing. His scintillant wings tense up at bitter ice fingertips picking at his golden light.

“... down here, a dying dove crawls…”

The lyrics have changed. Lucifer feels numb; Gabriel feels scared.

It’s the last expression Lucifer sees from Gabriel, and it’s the last thing he remembers when he returns from Eden. He is abruptly a liar, he is a liar without deceiving. He is no longer the Morningstar. He is the Serpent.

Michael’s rigid voice is echoing, lightning is cracking, angels are wailing. His Father's—his Father who is wrong—light feels cold. Lucifer can’t hear, feel any of it. The thrum of a familiar lullaby is beating in his ears. All harshly fades away when he promptly perceives that the burning white fire that had smouldered within him is suddenly reality, and it is reflected on vermillion wings. He is physically falling, a lightheadedness clouding his consciousness, and when he forces open his forlorn eyes against the whizzing wind, he sees smoke. Lucifer screams.

Vermillion is ablaze. He is frightfully alone as he fleetly plunges into an unknown abyss, an alien place that is farther from home than he can begin to comprehend. A despairing attempt to frantically flap his wings ensues, but they only twitch. He tries again in a panic, and the insatiable white flames tease him with a hungry smirk. The Serpent relents in his feeble attempts to salvage his wings, squeezing his eyes shut again and dreadfully awaiting impact.

Lucifer can’t help but wonder if gold would be more successful.

He is going to be the dove. He is the dove.

𓏧༻🕊️༺𓏧

Gabriel is grown; It’s Lucifer’s first observation.

A foolish little part of him expected him to never age, forever remaining the same sweetly innocent fledgling that Lucifer once held lovingly in his arms. Forever lasting the same playful angel that struggled to tag him back. Forever retaining the same ambitious persistence to hear his big brother’s stories. Forever seeping golden washes of sunlight through his toothy beams, harboring the brightest light in existence within his being.

This time, it's Gabriel who has changed; He has dimmed significantly. Lucifer misses his light.

Lucifer maps the faint outline of his brother’s golden wings with his eyes, burnishing cracks through the universe’s perceptibility to accommodate him. Lucifer had frequently thought about the refined softness of the gold between his fingers when he was imprisoned, and he’d pondered about who would care for them while he was away. Who would pluck his fledgling’s feathers during preening season, who would tell him stories and lull him to sleep? In this moment, Lucifer can see that nobody has; Gabriel’s gold is matted and besmirched.

Gabriel was alone, just as he had been.

He wields a blade, Lucifer acknowledges. Gabriel intends to kill him, despite the blatantly obvious fear in his true form's numerous uncertain azure eyes. Lucifer can sense it from miles away. It’s the same look he’d worn when Lucifer had last allo-preened his brother’s butterscotch wings—The look he’d bore when Lucifer sang the last notes of their lullaby, one he’d twisted to mirror his emotions at the time.

Gabriel’s hands slightly tremble as he raises his blade behind his brother, reluctantly creeping forward. Lucifer’s tarred wings twitch like they did when he fell, and he imperceptibly rubs at the deity blood stuck between his fingertips in anticipation.

He doesn’t want to be the dove again.

He turns. The fear in Gabriel’s irises is more decipherable, so visible that Lucifer can nearly catch up on all the millennia he’d missed in this very moment. Lucifer is catatonically speaking, though he barely understands it himself. The blade is resting like bait against Gabriel’s skin, a tense pressure that Lucifer can almost feel against his own chest.

Lucifer wants to see his baby brother’s light again.

He does. The blade is abruptly buried in Gabriel’s being, and his brother’s fear is gone. Intense radiance of pure, euphoric sunlight envelops Lucifer as Heaven’s Messenger’s last flicker of light shines, just as he was meant to do. Brilliant light is blinding; Gabriel’s is alluring. Lucifer is warm for the first time since his wings were searing, and he thinks he hears the memory of Gabriel humming their lullaby. Gabriel feels like home, he feels like the fledgling he once knew. Lucifer feels like himself again. He sees gold.

It’s over as quick as it began.

Lucifer is alone again. Though, now, he stands over the fledgling he’d raised, the fledgling he cherished, the fledgling he loved—His fledgling. His wings are no longer gold, no longer luminous. They are gloomy, blackened shadows against the hardwood floor. Lucifer’s stomach twists in knots, spurts of swelling emotions he hadn’t felt in years swirling sourly in his being, and he drops Gabriel’s blade.

Gold is black. Gabriel is gone.

That same foolish part of him expected there to be nothing but raw sunshine where Gabriel now lies, for his vessel to evaporate and his grace to rejoin the bright star he was created from. Instead, he sees vermillion; a thin stream of it dripping in blots against the floor.

Lucifer can’t help but notice the way his blood oozes in a familiar dendrite pattern. Dendrite; Gabriel, a grand cluster of light so brilliant, his gold wings streaked with crystallized branches of it.

The Serpent leaves, the whispers of a certain tune in his head. He hopes it can conceal the shrieking sound of his own convoluted thoughts.

He doesn’t want to be the dove again. Gabriel takes his place.

#spnarchangelweek #Lucifer and Gabriel #lord im sorry yall this one is sad #IM DYING HAHAHAHAA THE GIF IS FRIED 😭😭😭#archangels spn #spn archangels #my fics

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katsidhe · 3 years

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15.20 Final Thoughts

Supernatural is over, and somehow, despite itself, it did the very best it could to please me. That was always going to be an impossible task. But truly, sincerely, that finale was as close to my desires as the show could ever bring itself to come, and so, so much closer than I ever dreamed it would dare.

I am so, so glad that no other regular characters were involved (Bobby aside, but he was brief). How better to encapsulate their own emptiness? How fundamentally fitting, than in the epilogue to their final battle, wherein the entire world beyond them was erased, the wider universe is merely set dressing for them to move through. And it was so quiet this way. This finale wasn’t overcrowded or rushed. It kept its own peace. And it preserved the tangible claustrophobia that 15.19 invoked: that tangled, lovely, solipsistic, toxic conviction that these are the only two people on earth that matter.

It’s unclear exactly how much time passed between 15.19 and 15.20. I like to think it’s been at least a year, given that they’ve settled into routine and that their grief seems less fresh. (Although yes, the concept of Dean dying on his very first hunt without a resurrection available is hilarious, I must confess.) Their calm domesticity, their peace, was lovely to watch (Sam kicking the laundry machine! Sam with wet hair! Sam running! Sam cooking, Sam looking a little less bulky than usual, and happy!) But man, it really is Dean’s world, isn’t it? Even the DOG, which really, really, really could reasonably have been primarily Sam’s, was Dean’s dog first and foremost. Then on Dean’s say-so, they get in Dean’s car to drive to a pie festival for Dean. Sam is perfectly content to go along with all of it.

As if we hadn’t gotten enough delightful fanservice, we also got one last scene of Sam threatening to torture someone to death. :) what a king.

I love that Dean died to an OSHA violation while fighting a random loose end from season 1 (which, by the way, I CALLED IT, I am so proud of myself). It’s perfectly mundane. I truly and deeply do not understand anyone complaining that Dean should have gone out in a way that’s more epic. He’s been there, done that, guys, and remember how miserable it was? Now there’s no cosmic safety net. Dean died in a broken down old barn, saving some kids. Moments like these are when Dean is at his best, at his most fundamentally sympathetic: when he’s not trying to control the shape of the universe or dictate righteousness or let his anger drive himself down into a destructive spiral. He’s just putting his money where his mouth is. He’s not making a broad moral statement. He’s simply putting his life on the line to defend someone who needs defending. It is not an unworthy end. It’s so much better than going out to, god forbid, God.

Did Dean earn a lifetime of peace? The concept of just desserts is fraught. But I also don’t think it’s something Dean wanted. He wanted to keep killing things in tetanus-infested barns until he died. He got what he wanted. And while the arc of his wants has adapted over the years, MOTW hunting is fulfilling for him.

Dean’s deathbed speech was, oh man. It got me good. Like many of the things I loved in this episode, it was quiet. No desperation, no revising history (or not too much, anyway). Just, “stay with me, please. I love you. Tell me it’s okay.”

The quiet of Sam’s grief, alone in the bunker. How still his face is, until for a little bit it crumples again, and then it comes back and goes still. He’s not trying to control his reactions or press back against his sorrow. There is no work to do, nothing to avenge, no one to find, nothing to defeat. He is alone, and the washes of visible grief simply come and go in waves that he doesn’t try to fight or force.

I need the gif of him flinching at the toaster. His startle reactions are my favorite thing. He’s alone underground, there is not a living soul for miles and miles, he’s just buried his brother, not for the first time, but this time, he knows, for the last. And the goddamn toaster goes off and he cannot control the way his heart leaps up into his throat and the way every one of his muscles tightens.

Sam grows old. Sam. Grows old. Sam grows old! SAM GROWS OLD.

Ohhh my God, Sam grows old. Without Dean! Without hunting! Without Cas! With people outside that claustrophobic world, beyond the four tight walls of SPN, beyond the people approved by Dean and by Fandom, who give him peace and love and fulfillment! SAM GOT OUT. Even with the truly terrible wig the image brings me to actual tears. I cannot believe SPN would allow him to have this. I cannot believe that the show let him be happy without Dean. I want to read the set of novelizations about Sam’s recovery.

Of course this was the only way for Sam to get unwound, and of course it had to happen offscreen in flashes. Thank god for the ambiguity. There’s so much potential there, years and years, we were simply told: and at some point Sam’s life gets better, at some point his mental health improves and he feels safe enough to start a family, with someone, and at some point he has a child, and he dies peacefully, he dies loved and with people who love him, and dammit I’m getting weepy again.

Sam quit hunting. Not in a sudden jolt. We see him leaving the bunker on another job. But when he leaves the bunker, he leaves for good. He has so much knowledge, but he does not preserve the Men of Letters. He does not honor their legacy of extermination and experimentation. Maybe he gives someone else the keys, for the books. Or maybe he’s digitized it all, and maybe it’s done.

Maybe his wife is Eileen, or maybe it’s Amelia, or maybe it’s Piper or Cara or maybe it’s someone new. Maybe it’s not even a woman. And maybe she’s a hunter, but I hope she isn’t, and when Sam tells her, haltingly, in fits and starts, the bare outline of the truth, she looks at him and she believes him. And she understands the shape of the trauma he carries, even if Sam can’t quite speak the details, and maybe Sam goes to therapy. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he wakes in pain and fear for many years, but over time, it dulls.

Sam’s son is still a young man when Sam is on his deathbed, probably in at least his eighties. Think about the mountain Sam had to climb to reach that point. How many years and years of work did it take before Sam felt safe enough to want a child? How long for him to gently conquer his terror at the legacy his blood might carry: Lucifer and Azazel are dead, he knows this, but how long before he lets himself believe it enough to permit the risk? And then he raises his child, not in fear and loneliness, but with love and support and care. And he makes sure his son is protected, that he knows to salt his thresholds and ward against demons, but his son will not suffer the way he suffered.

Maybe he untangles his thoughts about Dean, maybe he learns that to feel angry with his brother is not to betray him or to dishonor his memory, maybe he comes to a more complex understanding of their relationship. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he simply enshrines Dean, and Dean’s memory becomes ever more golden and untarnished, and the Impala becomes truly an altar. The details of how Sam carries Dean with him—the watch, the car, the absurdly large photos, his son’s name—perhaps these are played straight, and perhaps Sam never finds a more nuanced love. In the meta sense I think we are certainly meant to think this. We are meant to see Dean deified here, canonized into a saint. We are meant to view Sam’s fifty more years of life as worship, as a dedication and an offering.

This is the long shadow of the finale. These are the things untouched by necessity and by design: this is Dean’s apology in 15.18, this is Sam not wanting an apology, and not wanting to hear Dean offer one. This difficult work was always and inevitably going to be elided. But there is so much time, decades and decades, offscreen, for Sam to come to a quieter peace.

I think he can do it.

I think Sam can do anything.

I’m crying again.

I really didn’t think I would cry much about the finale. I thought I would cry at the concept of the show ending, but not at what the ending was. I didn’t think any details would actually affect me. But then Sam got old. I am truly and genuinely hung up on the canonical image of Sam finding peace. Good god. He had GLASSES. Help.

My chief complaint (aside from that absolutely awful Carry On cover, why oh why, they should have just played the original again), if I felt at all like complaining at the moment, would be how happy this ending is. But I can’t begrudge Sam that. I can’t even get too mad at the scene that I was SO SURE I would despise: that of Sam and Dean content in a Heaven that is now apparently Great, Actually (even though a prison dimension with an open floor plan is still a prison dimension, but hey, I guess we humans can’t leave earth either). Supernatural clearly wanted Sam and Dean to not be facing down an abyssally bleak afterlife, and I think I’d be complaining about the lack of bleakness a whole lot more if it didn’t have the (perhaps unintended??) side effect of giving Sam even more freedom from Dean than SPN already deigned to give him. Sam isn’t in a shared cell with Dean. He can be with his friends and his wife and his son.

One of the fundamental questions of SPN is, would Dean ever let Sam go? And it’s a question that the bulk of s13-15 has rendered moot with Sam’s growing passivity, and one that 15.20 neatly dodged. And I’m glad it did, because I wouldn’t have liked whatever 15.20 had to say on the matter. This deflection feels true to the spirit of what the show has become.

It was impossible for Sam to find peace while Dean was still alive. And on its own that kind of says everything, doesn’t it? And Sam is still forever denied the peace he truly longed for. Sam didn’t want death to force Dean’s hand. Sam wanted Dean to want to let him go. But the only way Sam and Dean could heal is apart. The potential of their relationship on earth becoming untangled is forever precluded, explictly. And yet Sam’s freedom is validated, Sam is allowed what he sought in season 1 and season 8, Sam is something beyond a hunter and Dean’s brother, and the show let him be, the show let him grow.

Supernatural said Sam Rights, and the world shook.

#spn spoilers #sam and dean #15.20 #final thoughts #sam and romance #sam and peace #just leave me here to die #I did not realize how relieved I'd be #I do not believe how much tension has left me #at the realization that I liked this ending #and of COURSE there are so many people complaining about sam's peace #but guess what!!!#this isn't season 8!#this time the show agrees with ME!#SAM HAS riGHTs!

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stars-below · 3 years

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Something Worthwhile

i've had the idea for a cross-over between these two fandoms floating around in my head for weeks now bcause of this post (which i've seen before, but attributed to dell instead), and i've decided to make it everyone else's problem

(soon to be cross-posted on ao3)

Stan is lying low when they find him, trying to figure out how to skip town before his latest get rich quick scheme comes to it's inevitable conclusion. Has about 40 dollars to his name, jack shit in the way of anything to eat and is running dangerously low on options.

There's a knock at the door, sharp and polite, and his first instinct is to run. The window in the bathroom is wide enough that just maybe he could-

"Hello? I know you're in there- the receptionist said your car hasn't moved in a week..."

The voice that chimes through the door is this chipper little thing. Polite, like some house caller, but her cheerful tone sets his nerves on edge nonetheless. Stan says nothing, one hand groping blindly for the revolver under his mattress.

She lets the silence hang for a good ten minutes before she invites herself in. The shitty motel lock clicks as it puts up a pitiful fight, and then the doorknob starts to turn. Fuck.

Stan barely has time to move before the door opens. The gun (not loaded, but better than nothing) is tucked in the pocket of his jacket pocket, and he's halfway to the kitchen (where the bat is hidden above the fridge), freezing in place. Leaning at the vacant console, aggressively casual.

"Hi! Really sorry for barging in like this, but I don't have a lot of time today, and it's very important that I got to you before much longer." The woman that steps inside his shoddy motel room is a small, neat woman with a clipboard and a strapped briefcase she sets by the door absently. She has thin, round glasses, and her hair pulled back in a neat little bun, not a hair out of place. From head to toe she's dressed like someone with somewhere to be, and just looking at her makes the grubby motel Stan's living in (not too bad for his standards) seem all the worse. She has a calm, carefully neutral expression that's probably supposed to be nonthreatening, but it just makes Stan think about how he has none of the cards here. About how she's standing between him and the door, and all the things that could go wrong if he just bolted right now. "You know, you're a surprisingly tricky man to get a hold of."

Stan pushes away the fight-or-flight impulse, rolling his shoulder like he's not bracing himself. "Listen, doll, I, uh, I don't know who you're looking for, but-"

"Your name is Stanley Dalton Pines." Her voice is sharp, with careful enunciation. Professional in a way that says 'I could be doing something important, but instead I have to waste time with scum like you'. "You are 24 years old, and haven't had a stable address since you were at least 19, likely younger. You have a twin brother with polydactyly that lives in Oregon, and an ex-wife in Las Vegas. You have a family history of heart disease, and your Great-Aunt Candace died of pneumonia last year. Have I missed anything important?"

The implied threat is delivered in a flat, almost disinterested tone, like she's reading off a series of increasingly mundane facts. The pause at the end seems to warrant response, but Stan can't get it to sink in. Can't even acknowledge the apparent news about Aunt Candy, can't seem to think at all, grip on the gun stuffed in his pocket going limp. He's not exactly unfamiliar with being threatened by collectors, or unhappy customers, or former partners, but he's never had anyone threaten his family before, not so directly. None of the thugs that want him dead have ever found Ford before.

He curses under his breath, back pressed against the dingy wall like it'll keep him safe, and rolls with it. "L-Look I c'n have Frankie's money by Friday, I promise, just gimme- Fuck, just gimme a few days here..."

"Relax, I'm not with Mr. Casale." A teasing smile against that purple lipstick. "Or Mr. Hannigan, or Mr. Lindsey, or Miss Sokolov."

For a moment, Stan relaxes. Lets out a slow breath, bullet dodged. And then she keeps talking.

"Actually, i have an opportunity for you, if you'll give me a minute." She smiles, her voice growing friendly and chipper, like she hadn't just broken into his space and vaguely threatened his family. Like she has something to sell, and he's just the sucker she has in mind. "My employer's been, well, we're pretty much always looking for fresh faces and your work with, ah, Mr. Ferguson brought their attention to you. I can't say they're all that impressed with your efficacy, but we think you could be of real use to us."

Stan's posture goes slack, and he gives the woman the flattest look he can muster. "Not interested." In his experience, the only dependable job was one you had to take care of yourself. A random opportunity stumbling across your path was trouble more often than not, if not an excuse to get yourself killed.

Her lips purse at that, and Stan can see the mental calculations she's running through. Tips his fingers on the scale a little, moving to the kitchen and accidentally bumping into the flimsy table on his way with a clumsy grunt.

"I see." She eventually frowns. "I can't imagine they'll be happy to hear that." There's an irregular bulge in the bag she's left at the door, a bulky shadow that, to Stan, can only be a gun, but the woman makes no move for it.

Stan busies himself with getting a glass of probably-clean water, not wanting to give her any excuse to think she can sell this, but he can't help but wonder anyway. Can't stop himself from getting a little nosy, from wondering just how little this employer of hers thinks he's worth. So he asks, gaze not leaving the back of his hand, "how much? Not that I'm, uh, interested, of course."

The woman hums at that, showing a flash of teeth. "250 thousand a year, for three years. Well, you would be filling in for one of our more experienced men for the first year or so and we would assess from there, but the contract would be for three years; there would, of course, be the possibility for further work, if you were a good fit."

Everything's kind a blur after she mentions just how much she's offering. Stan's not stupid, not stupid enough to lose his head over empty words at least, but the thought of making that much money that quick makes his jaw drop a little. Makes his head spin, and suddenly he's trying really hard not to actually consider this lemon.

Stan forces out an awkward laugh, and runs a hand through the back of his hair. "And, uh, who'd I be killin' for all that?"

He expects her to deflect, to hesitate and say that 'it's not something he has to think about', and 'technically'. He half-means it as a joke, and definitely expects her to treat it like one. He doesn't expect the speed, nor the nonchalance with she replies. "No one who wouldn't be trying to kill you. Not that you're interested, of course."

Stan grunts, fumbling for a clumsy "'course."

"I should add," the woman frowns, flipping through her clipboard absently, as if for something to do with her hands. "That although the position we're offering is technically espionage work, you would be out in the line of fire more often than not, and there's not much your team would be able to for you do if you get caught. Though, ah, we do have an optional contractional clause on-hand for men with families like you; if something should happen to you before your contract was up, your salary would be paid out in full to your next of kin, regardless of how much longer it would be."

As it turns out, Stan might still be stupid enough to fall for this after all.

The staggering amount of money is undeniably enticing, and the thought of something more permanent than hustling from city to city is an added plus. The idea of sneaking off and faking his death, getting a nice little nest-egg once the thrill of whatever they're asking him to do runs out. That, and the way she phrases the whole thing, like Stan's some family man going through a rough patch instead of just another deadbeat grifter. He tells himself it's the honest, open way she talks about it, but he can't deny the effect her words have.

"I..." He hesitates, greed and ambition and better judgement warring in his mind. "C'n I have a minute to think about it?"

"Of course." She smiles at him, brilliant white teeth and keen eyes. "It'll take me a few days to get the rest of your paperwork together anyway. Get your thoughts together, and I'll be back with a more detailed offer."

Stan gulps, tripping over himself to get to the door and show her out. Reclaim some of the solitude that he'd just been drowning in, that familiar vice settling in his chest.

#gravity falls #tf2 #stan pines #miss pauling #red spy!stan #i should have gone back to look at some references for miss pauling bcause im starting to think she doesn't have a bun actually?#but whatevr #this takes place during the game in tf2 #no this doesn't work with established canon at all but I don't care #we're gonna pretend okay

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eirabach · 4 years

Text

Backlash [4/5]

Gordon + Used as Bait and who am I really whumping here I’m not sure anymore. Myself, I think. For @godsliltippy and @badthingshappenbingo and on ao3 here

The recycled air in the cargo bay is so thick Alan almost chokes on it, his gloves too bulky, his boots too heavy as he scrambles up to Four’s entry port and turns his laser on the lock without a moment's hesitation. There’s a steady sort of hissing sound as the door cracks open and the two atmospheres seek an equilibrium, and this wouldn’t worry him particularly if it weren’t for the blue and yellow helmet that rolls morosely past him to clatter to the floor. Idiot. Why’s he taken his helmet off again and they’re in space and hasn’t he told him --

Whatever Alan has or has not told Gordon burns away to irrelevance as he finally manages to crawl into the cockpit. It’s not a large space at the best of times, but with Four’s nose battered and burnt it seems smaller, claustrophobic almost without the bright lights, without Gordon. It’s a tiny little space. There’s no reason it should take Alan as long to spot him as it does, only that --

Only that maybe, he doesn’t want to.

Doesn’t want to acknowledge the sight before him because -- because he’s seen this before. Just once, but that had been enough. Way more than enough. He’s had a lifetime’s worth of seeing his brother lying still and bloodied in his own ship and -- shit. Shit, what’s happened to his face ?

There’s blood, blood everywhere, thick red streams that have run from closed, swollen eyes, dark clots at his throat, at the corner of his mouth and Alan -- Alan can’t help it.

The noise he makes isn’t a scream, not quite, nor is it a moan. It’s something worse than that. Something darker and deeper that crawls up his throat, out of his mouth, fills the cockpit. Fills the commlines. Fills his ears and he’s dead, isn’t he ? Gordon’s dead.

“Alan Tracy, please listen to me!”

He hasn’t realised he’s biting his tongue until he releases it, spluttering iron and bile as Eos snaps at him again.

“Gordon Tracy is not dead. He is injured. Commence triage.”

“Eos I --”

“Airway,” she says. “Breathing. Circula --”

“I know,” he hisses. “I -- okay. Okay.” He pulls off his gloves with trembling hands, allows himself two beats to swallow his terror, then -- he’s a professional. It shouldn’t matter that he’s crying.

He’s as gentle as he can be as he moves Gordon into the recovery position. The space is too cramped for it really, but he’s afraid to move him, afraid that the purple-red blotches in his cheeks and the heavy swelling of his eyelids point to some horrible head injury that Gordon won’t thank him for saving him from. Coma. Paralysis. Brain damage. He hovers his cheek over the bruised mouth and rests two shaking fingers against the carotid artery. Counts.

“57,” he says, hands already scrabbling for the med kit stowed away behind Gordon’s seat, “slightly elevated for Gordon, but -- where’s all the blood come from? And what the heck’s happened to his face?” Alan rocks back on his heels. “He’s not gonna be happy about that. At all .”

“I cannot see how that would be a priority,” says Eos, and he almost, almost smiles.

“Sure you can’t. Can you --” he takes a breath then, realisation flooding through him. “John? John can you get a med scan?”

The comm hangs for a moment as though there’s a lag, before John’s voice rings out, terse and strained.

“Biometrics suggest head trauma, subconjunctival haemorrhage, perforated eardrum right ear -- possible intracranial bleeding thanks to excessive negative G --”

“He’s had a stroke ?”

“I’m just reading it out, Alan.” John’s voice is clipped tight, and normally Alan would understand, would sympathise, but Gordon’s just lying there and John’s just --

“He’s your brother !”

“I am aware of that, Thunderbird Three. Get the mobile scanner will you. I need -- I need Grandma to take a look.”

Grandma .

Alan had muted Scott and Virgil in a fit of pique, but they won’t have muted him. They’ll have been listening and -- oh shit. Oh shit .

He hits his comm. Winces. Waits.

Nothing happens.

The Island, Scott, is silent.

“Grandma?”

There’s a weird sort of scuffling sound, muffled voices, and then, clear as a bell, “Alan, sweetheart. I have no visual. Get the mobile scanner and talk me through.”

He’s already dug it out of the kit, already holding it above Gordon’s face, and -- “John thinks he’s had a stroke.”

“I know.”

“Did I --” The words catch in his throat, heavy with guilt. “Was it me? Did I do it?”

“I don’t know what you’re --”

The scanner buzzes into life and he holds it as close as he dares to Gordon’s bloodied hair, his swollen face. “Did I do it ? The G forces -- Gordon’s not -- he’s not trained for it like me or John or, or Scott -- I didn’t -- I forgot --”

“Gordon knows what he’s doing, kiddo, now move the scanner toward the back of his -- yes like that, there’s a dear. You hold on now okay, give me a second. What do you see?”

Alan knows, in a vague, disconnected sort of way, that Grandma doesn’t actually need him to talk her through Gordon’s injuries. The med scan will have given her every detail down to the molecular level. But it’s something -- it’s something to do while he waits for her verdict. While he waits to know .

“Swelling around the eyes, subcutaneous hematoma -- there’s blood around his mouth but his airway is clear. Heart rate is 57bpm.” He pauses. “He hasn’t moved, Grandma. Not once.”

“All right,” and it’s the funny thing about grandmas, and about Alan’s grandma in particular, that things might be about as far from alright as it’s possible to be and yet somehow she makes him believe her. “He hasn’t had a stroke, but he is concussed. He may have hit his head during the explosion. I assume he wasn’t wearing his helmet?”

“Yeah, you assume right.”

He feels his grandma’s sigh right down to his bones. “That boy will be the death of -- right, okay Alan. Poke him. Hard as you can.”

“Uh --” Alan looks down at his unconscious brother. “Where?”

“Wherever you think it’ll hurt.”

“Jeez, Grandma. I’m telling him it was your idea.”

“You’ll be very welcome to, when you wake him up.”

The red-purple blotches spread across Gordon's face are the obvious target, but Alan can't quite make himself touch them. Instead he sends out a silent plea for forgiveness, and drops his elbow right into his brother's crotch.

The reaction is blessedly immediate. Gordon arches, making a horrible sort of gasping, retching sound as he attempts to crawl away and Alan has to put both hands on his shoulders and squeeze before he manages to hurt himself even worse.

“Hey, hey Gordon, it’s okay. It’s me. You’re all right.” A sob escapes him, relief bubbling up behind his eyes. “You’re all right.”

“All right?" Gordon's voice is rough and unsteady but notably, infuriatingly, Gordon. "You -- in the -- I need that Alan!”

The sob warps into a wet little laugh. “Not what I heard.”

“For fuck’s sa -- what the hell happened.” Gordon's wild, frantic bloodshot eyes flick around the cockpit, never settling, never focusing and Alan's relief freezes in his chest, drops to his stomach like ice. “Turn on the -- turn on the lights will you?”

“What?” Alan waves the med scan light in front of eyes more red than brown, but he already knows, doesn't he. He knows and god. So does Gordon. His hands are plucking at Alan's uniform, at his wrists, and the fingers that finally grab hold of the med scanner are pale and clawed with fear. “What do you -- what do you mean turn on the lights? The lights are --”

Those eyes again, wide as they can be with as swollen as they are, blood in the eyelashes. Pupils huge and black in a sea of red.

“Al," And it's a small sound, too small, little and sharp and horrible, a piece of grit that Alan knows he’ll be carrying around with him for the rest of his life. “Al, I can’t see.”

#thunderbirds are go #gordon tracy #thunderbirds #alan tracy #used as bait #godsliltippy #clare vs writers block

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fogsrollingin · 4 years

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Title: calculated losses, chapter 1 Author: fogsrollingin fandom: Supernatural Story details: Sam & Dean, rated PG-13, 1.1k words. Summary: my 3rd entry for @whumptober2020! Prompt filled is no 3. “held at gunpoint.” This is the first of a three-chapter story (each chapter after this will be another fill 😱😊) Chapter 2 on Tumblr | chapter 3 on tumblr || full story on AO3 || FFnet too

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆　calculated losses, ch1　｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

They were in a tiny grocery store staffed by precisely one cashier and one stockboy. Ambushed in a teeny tiny grocery store in a damn one-horse town just off the interstate.

Dean was disgusted.

He'd been teasing Sam, warning him away from the bodega sushi and preparing to stop Sam from petting the bodega cat too when a frazzled man dressed in tatters burst in, babbling Russian to the cashier until he got behind the counter. Before they even knew it he'd gotten the cashier in a headlock. The cashier struggled for a few moments and went limp. The Russian let him down to the floor gently.

"Hey," Dean shouted. He didn't have a plan but whatever.

"Dean," Sam admonished. Dean shrugged. He figured if the man was armed he would've used it on the cashier, and Dean could take pretty much anyone in hand-to-hand.

The Russian looked up, expression sharp and calculating, and immediately pulled a gun on them.

"Shit," Dean drawled, raising his hands up with Sam. The Russian's eyes were hard, his aim steady and true. Dean tilted his head and took stock of him again. This man had real experience behind him. Initially Dean had written him off as homeless, his form bulky because living in the elements required insulation. Now he could see the guy was packing though, and the raggedy layers were a great cover. Dean's lingering hopes he could negotiate with an addled bodega robber dwindled to nothing as he realized this guy was not at all an addled bodega robber.

Before he could figure out how he did want to play this, the man spoke with a completely normal American accent. "You two, move to the back."

"You're not Russian either. Great," Dean muttered bitterly.

"I said NOW."

Dean saw Sam flinch out of the corner of his eye. He wasn't doing too well lately. Dean felt he was missing something crucial but he'd been putting off any heart-to-hearts hoping Sam would come to him on his own. Or maybe hoping he wouldn't, that he could handle it so well that Dean wouldn't even have to know about it.

Depending on the day and his mood, Dean felt either spiteful or guilty about how he was handling Sam. Neither of those feelings really galvanized him to change things as they were though and so Sam would flinch when he didn't used to, or he'd forget to eat, or he'd pop pills when he didn't think Dean was watching. Dean had investigated the last one two weeks ago. He'd found both uppers and downers, indicating his younger brother was heavily regulating his, uh, energy. Dean had no idea what to do with the information. Sam wasn't off his game, and it's not like Dean could call him on it when he himself was a functioning alcoholic at this point. So Sam could be a functioning pill-popper. Whatever.

They shuffled to the back where the, uh, American-Russian had ordered them. The one remaining employee rushed out. The stockboy. "Hey sorry, you're not allowed back here." He stopped, taking in their faces and the gunman fast approaching. He gave a strangled yelp as the man cold-cocked him. He crumpled to the floor.

The man looked up at the brothers, motioning with his gun for them to step over him. "The back." His voice was low, deadly.

They got through the double acting doors. The noise of processing and maintenance machinery increased.

"Stop. Turn around."

The brothers did as they were told, hands still in the air.

"You a hunter?" Dean asked.

"No," the man replied. "But I was hired by one."

Dean shared a look of suppressed alarm with his brother. Hunters were pretty bad mama-jamas. For a hunter to hire a merc was nearly unheard of.

"My name is Lucas."

"Lucas, what if I told you we'll double your pay for this?"

Lucas scoffed. "I'd say 'with what money?' Now on your knees, hands stay up."

The brothers did as they were told. Sam got down first, uncharacteristically spacing himself away from Dean. Dean shot him an inquiring look but Sam ignored it. He kept steely eyes on the gunman.

Dean bit his lip. He'd long since stopped putting himself in front of Sam when faced with death down the barrel of a gun, but now when it happened they always remained in tight formation if they could manage it. Dean needed Sam close, needed to be able to grab him, cover him if things went wrong. Sam probably felt the same way. Or, at least he thought he did.

Offput, Dean adjusted his stance and knelt so he was right up next to his little brother. Sam shot him a rueful smile he couldn’t really decipher.

“You two started the apocalypse," Lucas announced. The brothers looked up to see the merc had pulled out a really nice cell phone. He spoke to them while looking at its screen; he was recording video. "Lucifer now walks the earth. Do you deny it?”

Dean huffed. “Well when you put it like that-”

“No. We don’t. Just shoot us and get it over with,” Sam waved dismissively

Dean nearly cricked his neck to stare at his brother, incredulous. Even Lucas blinked, surprised, tilted his head past the edge of the phone to look directly at him.

“Sam.” Dean rasped.

Sam clenched his jaw but didn’t look at him. Dean frowned, increasingly irritated because Sam was starting to scare him.

He made a call and feigned laughter. “Sam's just kidding. He’s, um, stressed," Dean said lamely. "Do not execute us. How ‘bout that, Lucas?”

Sam just continued to eye the hunter. Lucas stared back. He shifted his weight, unsettled, looking between them.

"What is this?" Lucas asked, casually gesturing with his gun between the two of them, "One dares me to shoot, the other begs to live?"

Dean winced, not understanding what they were doing either and hating it. That's when Sam decided to face Dean, his expression solemn and pleading.

“Trust me,” he said, specks of earnest green and hazel boring into Dean, telling him he knew something Dean didn’t.

Dean pressed his lips together. He was frustrated but he wouldn't show it with Lucas. But he wanted to know, wanted to shout at Sam and demand some damned answers now. For fuck's sake, Dean thought they’d had enough with secrets. Or at least the big "it's okay if we die" kind, at least. Dean swore and spat on the ground.

Sam turned back quickly. “Do it,” he said, almost like a dare, and just as Dean looked up again, he heard Sam scream "no!" A sharp explosive pop! and then everything went black.

To be continued... Author’s Note: Ah! Cliffhanger! Sorry to do y'all dirty 😈 but promise this fic'll be wrapped up by the end of the month. Thank you so much for reading. If you enjoyed, please kudos/comment/what-have-you. Much love, 💛 Alex

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last-of-the-jaded · 4 years

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After having willingly given the last month of my life over to MDZS and it’s Live Action counterpart I wanted to compile a list of my favorite aspects of both (including spoilers). Both the original Chinese Novel and it’s stunning 2019 Summer Release counterpart are breathtaking in different manners, but if you are looking for a quick recommendation, I do recommend going for the drama first as it will simplify the further consumption of content if you decide you want to partake in more.

What I love about THE UNTAMED:

The symbolism of the cliff at Nightless City, and how that entire scene marks a clear shift in Wuxian’s mental state as well as the overarching story. Similarly, how in the end it is Wuxian who throws himself off that precipice to sure death. This detail provides a direct comparison between his mental state at this moments and Cheng’s after his core was squashed, while also touching on an unique level of disparity and regret that is unrealized in the novel at this point (considering how this isn’t how Wuxian dies in the written version)

Xiao Zhan and Wang Yibo. I’ve made posts about this already so I’ll spare you another essay (Here and Here)

Jiang Cheng’s entire character arc. Seeing him fully fleshed out, utilized, and properly human within the drama made it hard for me to swallow how shallow he often felt on paper, especially in the early chapters. I get that this is partially due to the youth sequences in the book being written completely from Wuxian’s POV, but for me there is something incredibly human and genuine just lacking from the version of Cheng on paper that stood out so gorgeously for me in terms of his drama counterpart. Wang Zhou Cheng did an amazing job bringing out his raw emotion and anger on screen, lines were delivered in a manner that truly solidified this characters growth and vulnerability to me. For such a new actor within his field he did a brilliant job, and is the reason I have so many damn emotions concerning Jiang Cheng’s character arc. (I have a million analysis pieces typed up on my blog if that interests you)

The sequential order for the flashbacks was incredibly easy to consume. It helped to keep events and motivations clear. I understand why the book was able to skip around in a more winding mysterious manner, but from a drama standpoint I massively appreciated being able to consume the events leading up to Wuxian’s demise in consecutive order. The first few episodes were initially extremely confusing to me as a new watcher, and it’s only when the flashbacks hit that the plot-line solidified as well.

The female leads! Yanli, Qing, and Mianmian having larger roles and development was absolutely a plus. Everyone had the same intentions and feel as they did in the original, just more fully fleshed out since they were given time to interact within the world. As a bonus note seeing Madam Yu and hearing her bullshit on screen, said out-loud in the bitchy tone her actress gave her, made her 10X worse and from an antagonist perspective I massively appreciate that they were able to make me despise her so damn much.

Everyone important to the past storyline being involved in the Gusulan Study Sessions under Lan Qiren. This was a simple and effective manner of introducing everyone and having characters feel involved and interactive from the get-go. I was honestly a little disappointed that not everyone was included when I went on to read the novel.

Ning and Wuxian’s interactions early on. Their dynamic in the show was given life, and felt genuine in how it shifted over the course of Wuxian’s trails and misfortune. I love how they included Ning in the early on portions of the series, especially the Caiyi Town waterborn abyss debacle where Wuxian saved his life. It just added more layers to an already intriguing dynamic that plays a massive role overall.

The wolf torture scene. This added a whole new layer to Wuxian’s fear of dogs, while still completing its job of giving Ning and Wuxian a reason to interact and grow. Not to mention the example of Wen Sect Torture Tactics really added to the inhumanity of the sect while sparking our main character’s growth and self-sacrificing nature.

The symbolism behind Yanli’s and Cheng’s dreams. These dream sequences give a glimpse into the heads of two complex character’s and honestly added so much background motivation to their storylines. I loved these details and how much analysis us all as viewers can put into them.

The rain scene. Wuxian telling Wangji he would prefer to die by his hands. The first tears watchers see from an incredibly strong and willful young man who has always appeared stoic. (I cannot express to you enough how sad I was that this scene didn’t take place in the novel)

Wuxian’s mask. I understand logistically why they had to do this from a filming perspective (I mean if you have someone as good looking and Xiao Zhan, damnit you are going to let him look like him as much as you can) but I honestly really enjoyed the smaller details they included to make it work plot-wise. I also appreciate how it was designed as a prop considering it actually altered Wuxian’s features in a manner that made him harder to recognize due to its bulky and carved nature.

The secret underground cave in Cloud Recess under the bathing pool. The whole meeting between Wangxian and the female sect leader. I enjoyed this detail and how they expanded upon it when it came to the burning of their sect home and the survival of their people.

Wangxian’s relationship. Their subtle, trusting, gentle way of showing love. On an additional note I appreciate how it never once felt like I needed to discuss consent with the characters (coughNOVELcough) because everything between them was healthy and playful.

The soundtrack, costuming, and bts. I understand that this was a low budget production (compared to the majority of traditional dramas) and honestly I appreciate what we were given taking that into account. They stayed true to the essence and message of the story. I love the manner in which the costumes became a part of the characters and everyone had a clear style. The soundtrack flowed amazingly well with the scene and tone shifts (this is disregarding how fake their instrument playing looked because I’m still not over how off the finger movements appeared at points). The behind the scenes content on its own could win an award - it made completing the show a million times more satisfying because I do believe that the people working on set had fun (somehow even while filming during the hottest time of the year)

The name of the drama. When you reach that moment when you understand why it is called such - it’s a tale of the rise and fall of Wuxian.

The ending scene. I know it’s not the ‘stereotypical happy ending’ fans wanted, but it perfectly fit the tone and message of the piece as a whole. I love the ending. It felt right.

What I love about MDZS (NOVEL):

The Yi City Arc. It’s worth reading for this part alone. Motivations, logic, and everything just hit so much harder. I do appreciate what the drama gave us, but like, once you’ve tasted this version it’s really hard to go back.

Empathy. In general seeing Wuxian use empathy within the novel just works so much smoother. His little anecdotes and analysis while in stasis reliving ghost’s lives gives it a realism that it’s lacking on camera.

Second Siege of the Burial Mounds. The way the novel sets up this part and actually makes it feel scary with hoard mentality makes it work so much better. It feels like there is a weight to this moment. The waves of corpses are terrifying, and the exhaustion of fighting for hours gives it a level of humanity that makes what Wuxian and Wangji selflessly do stand out even more. Not to mention, the leftovers of the Wen Sect fucked me up. I bawled. This is another detail that I would legitimately read the entire novel over for just to experience.

Wuxian being fucking terrifying at points. Playing with demonic energy and losing control is supposed to be scary. In the novel it honestly felt that way. Seeing him slowly get worse was heartbreaking. Watching how people’s opinions on him skewed, and how he dealt with looks, pressure, and weight on his shoulders, took this arc to a whole new level. The way demons and ghosts flocked to and around him in public added a level of horror that was unsettling and necessary.

Wuxian actually losing control. In the drama they added another flute player to sort of work around Wuxian having to accept the result of his failure. In the novel, there is no such thing - and I love it. It’s another dowsing to the pain and suffering Wuxian has to accept and learn to overcome. It makes him coming back a decade later - to live and achieve and get revenge - feel different.

Action scenes and gore. If something is called “The Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation” you expect some blood, and damn do I appreciate that the author made stuff have impact. I wish the drama had a bigger budget so they could have done the wounds and cgi more justice.

Wangji rescuing Wuxian after the first raid on yiling, and choosing to suffer together, hated by the world, rather than lose the love of his life. I love the use of the cliff in the drama, especially the imagery of Wangji trying to hold Wei Ying up before ultimately falling, but the route the author took in the novel is so much fucking worse. Like I cannot even imagine the pain Wangji went through.

Lan Xichen opening Wuxian’s oblivious eyes. Best brother ever. This entire scene, leading up to the final battle, is like downing a shot and waiting for it to hit. It deserves a standing ovation.

The details in the Xuanyu of Slaughter cave sequence. Every little tell that Wangji gave - he really did fall in love young.

Mingjue’s corpse. The separated limbs, angry spirit, holding bags, and everything made sense because of description.

Wangji explaining how he got the brand mark over his heart. All of his scars. Fuck. There’s inferring, and then there is having it described to you from the person directly and feeling as your own heart dies.

Lan Zhan’s insane arm strength. This is a detail that deserves recognition.

Wuxian’s inner analysis of Nei Huaisang at the end. This was fully formed and actually had some payoff.

The clear comparisons between Mengyao’s fate and what happened to Wuxian himself. Once again you can infer in the drama, but having it clearly implied in the book hits different because when someone becomes a public pariah it’s easier to go with the public outcry than try and defend them. “Nobody knew with more clarity than Wei WuXian that nobody would care and nobody would believe”

Ning protecting Jin Ling and Jiang Cheng in a manner directly parallel to how he killed the people they cared for.

Jin Ling’s realization about being unable to hate anyone in the end. You feel for this kid. You want to see him grow up well.

The beginning set up chapter. Hearing what happened in the past vaguely through spreading rumors and small talk without seeing it for yourself adds a level of intrigue. It has greater mystery than just seeing the scene play-out and cutting away.

Everything making sense in general with no plot holes. It’s one of those things where in television no matter how well you do, you can’t possibly include all the needed details. With the drama you have to infer a lot, and sometimes you will get it wrong. In the novel it really is just much easier to make sense of. This also included the pacing as well. Timeskips make sense.

Kissing. Smut. Damn, it’s so nice to have actual payoff for the slow burn.

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