#make his other summer skins canon you cowards | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

highfaelucien · 3 years

Text

Ardere - A Helion/Lady of Autumn Fic

y’all heathens made me have feelings so i wrote a thing. hurt/comfort, angst, all sorts. Tagging some folks who inspired this with their emotional dashboard shenanigans/that I feel would Appreciate the content. @exiledelain @confused-as-all-hell @asteria-of-mars @ratabrasileira @ladyvanserra @vanserrasvalkyrie @rarephloxes @queen-hypaxia

Title: Ardere

Length: 3.3k

Warnings: Mentions of domestic abuse, given Lady Autumn’s situation

Summary: Set during the High Lords meeting in ACOWAR. Canon compliant, I suppose, but do any of us care about that anymore?? Hestia, the Lady of the Autumn Court, seeks her oldest lover and comfort Helion for a stolen night of love and reconnection. Helion POV, emotional hurt/comfort, bit of angst.

Teaser:

‘" Hestia," he whispered, with the same reverence he'd speak the name of a goddess in her holiest temple.

Instinct bade him go to her, and he did not fight it. He didn't even try.

For a moment he thought she might refuse him, might insist upon caution. But the next she was in his arms, and as he held her close and breathed her in, he knew he hadn't been truly warm since last he'd been able to embrace her.

"Helion," she murmured into his chest.

The sound of her voice wrapped around his name was the sweetest torture he'd ever known. All Hyben need do to break him was ask him to defect in her voice and he would obey without a thought.

AO3: Link

"I cannot spare long."

The book he'd been flipping idly through dropped at once from his fingers at the sound of that voice.

Before he'd finished turning to her, her scent hit him. So warm, so inviting, it nearly knocked him back into his chair.

Then he beheld her.

The first time he'd clapped eyes on her, all those centuries ago, she'd left him breathless and stunned.

Like an Autumn storm that had ravaged every part of his being and left him, naked and awed, before its power and majesty. She had blown into his life with an unexpected abruptness as yet unmatched.

He'd been an arrogant prick at that age. Cauldron, he was still an arrogant prick. But he'd been used to everyone's eyes, male or female, following him as he moved through a room.

Those gazes found him and they didn't leave. He was High fae. He was a High Lord's heir. He'd been made to rule Day and to look damned good while doing it.

He'd been accustomed to being wanted, to inspiring lust and envy by simply existing.

Never, before her, had he been on the other side.

He'd never seen someone so beautiful. So consuming and captivating that he hadn't been sure of being able to win their lust and love with a simple smile and an effortless word.

She'd shaken something in him that day. She had entered his world and unmade him with a glance. Then reconstructed him, exactly as she'd found him, with one stark difference. At the core of the man she had rebuilt was a need for her. Not merely her beautiful body, but her heart, her soul. He'd known, in that moment, that she had him. And always would.

The years had taken much from her. And holy gods, did he know it. But they had not taken this, her ability to so thoroughly destroy him that he was reborn at once as her servant in but a single glance.

" Hestia," he whispered, with the same reverence he'd speak the name of a goddess in her holiest temple.

Instinct bade him go to her, and he did not fight it. He didn't even try.

"Helion," she murmured into his chest.

The sound of her voice wrapped around his name was the sweetest torture he'd ever known. All Hyben need do to break him was ask him to defect in her voice and he would obey without a thought.

For all that he made a show, and tell, if he was fair, about what the Cauldron gave him with regards to his body, particularly his glorious thighs, that wasn't his true pride.

No, the thing he held most valuable was his mind which contained the knowledge of a thousand libraries and more.

He didn't earn his name by clearing through spells with his thighs. Fuck no. His wit, his cunning, his intellect, that was where his true power, his true strength as a High Lord came from.

That was why Hestia had always managed to claim him so thoroughly. All these centuries later and he still couldn't think around her. Couldn't form a single coherent thought while her scent filled his lungs. It travelled from there directly to his brain, and filled it with stolen afternoons and illicit nights spent in the only place they truly belonged.

Drawing away, in itself an agony, but one he was rewarded for, as it let him look into her face.

He cradled it between his hands, so careful. so delicate. She was not a fragile woman, he knew that well. She was of the forge, with fire in her veins, and iron in her bones.

The world saw the silence, the frailty of her body, and the resignation of her fate and mistook that for softness, and docility. He knew better.

This woman put the heroes of the War to shame. Her strength, her courage, her will - if they had any idea they'd have written epic poems about her resilience and ballads to her spirit.

Drakon wouldn't have lasted an hour in her place. Had she been in his, the damned War would have ended so fast they wouldn't have been able to call it one.

Yet he held her with all the gentleness that was in him. Not because he feared she might break without it; but because he knew she would find none elsewhere.

His fingers tenderly brushed her hair from her eyes. Like her, their, son's it was a red as sure as blood. But hers spiralled from her in a cacophony of raucous curls. They were contained, now, with a thick leather band around her head. He would always remember them wild, and free, as she was meant to be.

As he moved them aside, he saw the shadow of a bruise around one of her beautiful russet eyes. Hidden well, but...

His body went taut, jaw clenching instinctively. She felt the tension coiling in him, and laid her hands gently over his.

"Don’t," was all she said, voice soft, but unyielding, like the sun’s gentle rays as it rose each morning.

"Not a heartbeat has passed for me since that day," he rumbled, voice deeper and darker than his usual light, playful timbre." That I have not thought about the choice that was made, and begged the Mother to let me change it."

She faced him steadily and said, " You know I made the choice that was available to mem" she moved closer, her body melting against his, like the hot metal of a blade folded around itself to create something more, "Not the one I wanted."

"I know, my hearthlight,” he whispered softly, sensing her smile at the old pet name he used for her, “And I would never blame you for that. But as for myself-"

A coward. This woman. This holy, burning creature. This caged forest fire... She loved a coward.

Hestia placed a finger to his lips, silencing him, " What good does it do," she murmured the rich warmth of her voice caressing him like a thick blanket on a cold winter night, “To dwell upon the past? To linger, in misery, and shame in a single moment of your immortal life?”

He opened his mouth to answer her, but she knew him too well, and silenced him with but a single look.

"Will your regret force back the sun?” she demanded with that quiet spirit he loved so keenly, “Will your sadness take us back? Will your guilt rewrite the pages of the history books which have been gathering dust in your libraries for centuries?"

She was such a small thing. She always had been. And seemed more so, held between his muscular arms. Yet she dwarfed him now.

Like the flicker of a candle flame catching and summoning a raging inferno to remind him she was but a fragment of a force of nature, bound in skin, but never truly caged.

"If I could have," he said at last, voice a little hoarse as though he'd inhaled thick smoke, “I would have done so a thousand times over. And paid any price to do so."

He had tried. He'd never confess it to another soul, not even to the Mother herself upon his deathbed, but he had tried. Tried to rip apart the fabric of all reality with nothing but his bare hands and love for her.

A part of him was still surprised that it had not been enough. Because it was. Reality had simply not accepted that particular facet of its existence.

"I know you would have, lucky fluke," all these years and still she called him that.

A name she'd hung on him to tease the first day they had met. He'd baldly called their meeting the Mother's own ordained fate. She'd laughed, with a sound like falling leaves, and named it, and him, lucky fluke.

Then, the words had been edged with mockery. Now they echoed with all of their history, with all of their fondness, and all of her love.

"But time goes on. That sun of yours still journeys East to West, and we still live with the decisions we made upon a summer's night a million fireflies' lifetimes ago."

" Hestia-" he began, but she quietened him once more.

"When I wish to look back, Helion, I shall find myself a mirror,” she said, with the strength that had held her together all these decades of pain and misery, turned upon him now to remind him that she would not yield.

“I will not live my life wading through times I have already endured,” she said, voice softer now, but no less intent, “I have no wish to allow him to cause me pain in the few and rare times that are my own. I shall make pleasant moments here, with you, and that is what I ask of you. To be with me. Here. Now. And to love me while we can."

"I am yours, Lady,” he breathed.

With the same breath he’d first pledged that to her centuries ago. Before the world had taken the freedom she craved so much, and given him a power he’d never wanted. A tattoo of her heart had etched itself over his own, in a vibrant red, a marker of the bargain he’d made. Unintended, but not regretted.

“From now until my sun fades from this world unto the next," he promised her once more, one hand over his heart.

"Until I find you there as well," she replied, as she had all those years ago, leaning up, while drawing him down, and touching her forehead to his.

He loved her. Oh, Cauldron, he loved her, and whatever the Mother had used to make her, he loved that too.

"Come," she said softly," Let us make the most of what time we have."

So they did.

"What do you want from me, Hestia?" he whispered, pressing the worlds into her thick hair, his face buried in the crown of her head.

She looked at him, and answered as she did each time with aching certainty, and absolute truth." Everything."

"Then take it." he whispered, a devoted priest at last within the presence of his deity, “All I have, and all I do not. Take it all."

So she did.

They had no need of words in that hallowed space when bodies and beings connected, skin to skin, and soul to soul.

The breath it would have cost to provide a vessel for their thoughts would have only felt like a barrier between them.

They had no wish for that.

He knew her thoughts. And she knew his. They did not need to share them with the air and fireflies.

For themselves, they gave voice to those thoughts in the lost language of lovers. Spoken in the gasps of breath and sweating palms.Thundering hearts, and hungering lips. Gasping lungs, and grasping touch.

And every thought the same: I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

Then came the quiet. The gentle tangle of limbs. Eyes closed, heartbeats aligned. Willing the dawn to wait for them.

They did not sleep. They would not waste time on dreams when they already had everything they could ever hope to find in that untamable oblivion already contained within their embrace.

"It has been some time," Helion said at last, loath to break the spell of the silent commune of their souls, but such was his nature,"I thought the most of you I would ever make love to again was the echo of our last time, the memory of you."

He shifted slightly, so that he could see her face, all peaceful lines and soft curls, her eyes still closed.

"Why now, Hestia? With him," his jaw tightened at the mere mention of that excuse for a male, "So close the risk-"

"Is minimal," she interceded smoothly. Still without opening an eye, she continued." I drugged his wine. He shall sleep until daybreak. At least."

Helion opened his mouth, then closed it, refusing to be drawn off course "You didn't answer my question."

"I thought the answer would be obvious to you, lucky fluke," she murmured.

"You know you reduce me to the wits of a mere mortal, hearthlight," he said, half burying the words in her thick hair.

" Hmm," she hummed, thoughtful, "Must I spell it out for you, then, brightheart?"

"If you would be so good, my lady."

She was quiet so long he thought she might have succumbed to sleep, despite their pact.

At last she said, quiet as an Autumn breeze, " Each morning, when I open my eyes, and watch the sun rise beyond my window, I prepare myself for pain."

He flinched, but she seemed not to notice, continuing calmly.

"This has been my burden to bear through all my years of marriage And I have borne it well, without falter, or complaint.

"I have known pain in many forms, and I have carried every one. But upon the horizon, I saw a new pain. One I had not confronted for so long. And I knew, in my soul, that I was not equal to it. That, at last, I would meet a battle I could not win. And so I found a way to avoid fighting it altogether."

"What did you foresee, hearthlight?" he forced himself to say.

"This war," she murmured, her ever-steady voice cracking in a way that made him pull her closer still. "This war came. And it claimed you. It took you from me when you had not been mine in centuries. And I could not abide that."

"I am always yours," he whispered fiercely.

"Peace, brightheart," she soothed, "I know that. But I had to feel it. I had to erase the idea that last time was the last. I had to have you, and hold you, and love you once more before the end. Or else I knew I could not face this war. Not alone."

He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head and held it, eyes closed, heart pounding, fighting every urge not to speak the words batting past the lump in his throat. But he had never been as strong as her.

"I cannot let you go this time, Hestia," he groaned, " I cannot sit idly, and smile, and tease while I've willingly let you go again."

"If I can find the strength to do what must be done," she said, with iron in her words, "Then you must find the strength to let me."

"I can't," he said, voice breaking. She found his hand and squeezed it, "I am a High Lord in my own right now, Hestia." he breathed to her." I could-"

"No, you could not." she said, firm, unyielding, a rock in an icy stream, with waters all around, that had not moved in centuries, and would not now.

"There is a war coming, Helion. Win or lose in a fight for me, it would shatter this fragile alliance, and any hope for Pythian. So you will do no such thing." she went on, before he could protest, "For we must win this war. For our courts. For our people. For our freedom. And for our son."

For the first time her voice broke. Before they fell, his fingers had already lifted to wipe her tears. the only ones she would shed. Not for herself. Never for herself. But for her, for their, son... She had never confronted him with it so boldly before.

He closed his eyes, unable to deny her. Unable to even deny her.

"We have to tell him, Hestia," he said, so softly.

"We must," she agreed, "But I have not been allowed to see him in almost three hundred years. And I will not have you tell him alone. As much for his sake as for yours."

He nodded, head bowed.

"Together, then. If I make it through what is to come."

Reaching up she took his chin between her fingers and drew his face down to meet her eyes.

"You will not die this war, Helion," she told him.

Her words flared with that fire she was forced to hide from everyone, everyone but him.

"Because if you try, I will drag the Mother by her hair to your grave and force her to dig you up for me."

He smiled at those words, at the certainty that she would do exactly as she said.

"That almost makes me want to try it, you know," he purred, tracing vague patterns into the bare skin of her shoulder with his thumb as he spoke, "Just to see you do that."

She actually growled at him which, from her, was enough to utterly dissuade him from the notion.

They lay in gentle silence together, until the velvet blackness of night bled to indigo, as the careless artist of time spilled the white she used to craft the stars into the sky itself and melted its darkness.

"I've always found it ironic," he mused, "That being High Lord of Day hasn't blessed me with the power to halt the sun, and stop the day from intruding."

"That is your duty, brightheart." she replied with a soft smile." You must assert yourself upon the land, its sleepy lovers, and restless thieves alike, and force them to make haste and more. Without you there would be no growth, no change, only stagnation and decay."

She cupped his face in her hand, a hand now lined, to show the life she'd lived. Without him. His heart lurched at the thought.

But her voice drew him back to her as she said, "And without Day, the nights would not seem nearly so precious."

He pressed a gentle kiss to her waiting mouth, silent thanks for her words, the feeling behind them. He held her eyes a moment more. spinning out this last bit of thread, like a frugal weaver making the most of fate's allotment.

Then he said, irritably, "I'm still going to have words with Thesan later today."

She laughed as he said that, but she laughed as she withdrew from him.

How fittingly ironic that the sweetest sound he'd ever heard paired in this moment with the bitterest sorrow he'd ever felt.

He watched her as she withdrew the new gown she'd thought to bring. At a silent glance from her he rose, still naked, and helped to seal her back into her cage of cotton and lace.

He combed and braided her hair, as he'd done a thousand times before. Then, heart aching, as it had a thousand times before, he spun a ward around her, to mask his scent where it mingled with hers. She could carry no reminders of this night save fragile memory.

Then, like the night, with one final kiss, she was gone. The chamber felt cold, even as it was bathed in his light.

Wordless, he pulled on a robe and strode onto his balcony to greet the rising of his sun.

It was a hollow warmth, compared to her, and brought him little comfort.

As he gazed ahead into his eternity. Alone, once more. Lonely in a way only she would know. For the world saw the friends he surrounded himself with, and the lovers he brought to his bed, without ever knowing the gaping void in his soul that he could never fill with them.

Closing his eyes, he drew in one last breath of her, of them, their scents still mingling on his skin, then banished it.

He turned towards the light, facing this new day, and begged the Mother to lend him even a fragment of his heartlight's strength that he might face it.

***

#helion spell cleaver #the lady of the autumn court #helion x lady of autumn #hestia vanserra #hearthlight #(that's what im tagging them)#(bc she doesn't have a name so im going OLD SCHOOL SHIP TAG STYLE)#this made me feel things #acotar series #text post tag #long post #my fic #mine #hearthlight fic #helion fic #hestia fic #mama lucien

43 notes · View notes

zukosdumbbitch · 4 years

Text

i don’t like bullies

originally posted on my ao3

pairing: zuko/gender neutral reader

warnings: canonical-type violence, a creepy dude is involved

wordcount: 1099

You were a runaway that had made your way into Ba Sing Se when you met the Gaang. You had befriended Toph one day at the marketplace. Her pale eyes made you question the young girl if she was alright making her way back home on her own and she didn’t hesitate to tell you that she was, in fact, a fearsome earthbender and, oh yeah, seismic sense. You told her you were an earthbender too and that you liked to practice bending glass. You got on well and she happily invited you back to where she was staying with her friends as you were nothing but a mere squatter at this point. Her friends seemed happy to take you in and you learned soon enough who they were and what they were up to.

Having been loyal to the Gaang since Ba Sing Se, you weren’t super eager to hear out Zuko when he found your camp at the Western Air Temple. But he seemed nice enough and appeared to feel genuinely guilty. You had little history with him, however, and it was hard to hold a grudge against someone that betrayed their own family to aid their once-enemy. You slowly began to spend more and more time with the firebender and he was, admittedly, a fun sparring partner. He opened up to you and you related to his anger with his family. It wasn’t long before you two became close. You liked sitting near him during dinner on particularly cold evenings because he was warm and you liked watching him blush.

One day, while you were staying at Ember Island, you and Zuko were tasked with going into town to find some food. The group didn’t have much from their stay at the Western Air Temple and you all quickly burned through whatever you found left in the vacation house that wasn’t completely rotten.

The farmers’ stalls of sweet fruit at the market drew your attention and Zuko told you he was off to find something more to his taste.

You were happily carrying a basket of fresh berries, mangos, and figs in the direction you saw Zuko walk off in when you heard a panicked shrill over the bustling of the busy area. You stopped in your tracks, your intuition overtaking your thoughts that someone was in danger. You heard it again and ran toward it, passing Zuko as you did so. He attempted to grab you and stop you to ask what was wrong, but you just paused to shove the basket into his arms. He scrambled after you as you picked up speed upon hearing the scream again.

Soon, you were at the edges of the market where few people were loitering about and some drinking in the outdoor seating of a tavern. You spotted what you were looking for.

A large man had cornered someone against the bricks of the tavern.

“Y/N! What is going on?” You heard Zuko hiss from behind you.

You put up your hand in response to quiet him.

“If you don’t quit screaming, I’ll give you something to scream about.” He growled.

“Come on, just come have a drink with me.” The large man leered.

“No!” The woman shrieked again as he tried to touch her. “I am trying to go home!”

You fumed.

You walked up to the man as Zuko hissed warnings at you.

You shoved the man’s shoulder back away from the woman. “Leave her alone!” You snarled. Your nostrils flared and your teeth were bared. The man towered above you, but you were furious at the sight, and you weren’t going to let a bully get away with his abuse, no matter how big.

“And what are you gonna do about it?” The man smirked down at you. “Do you wanna have a drink with me instead?” He reached down to grab the collar of your shirt, but before he could, you lifted your heel and slammed it down into the ground as Zuko called out.

The ground around the man sunk beneath him rapidly as he shrieked and only stopped at his throat. You heard the other men stand up and move toward you and you threw out your fist, shattering glasses and windows, and pointed two fingers to bring the sharp pieces to their throats.

You knelt before the poor soul you partially buried. “I said, leave her alone.” You muttered through gritted teeth.

“What have you done? You’ll be arrested for this!” He yelled indignantly.

“I don’t think I will.”

The man looked around. Witnesses still had glass to their throats. Zuko was poised beside you should he need to fight. “What are you cowards doing?!” The man yelled, “Go get help!”

You pushed the glass slightly into the skin of their throats and glared at them from your position on your knee. They dared not move a muscle.

The man beneath spit on your face out of frustration. You slowly turned back to him to wipe your cheek with your free hand. “I eat men like you for breakfast.” You bristled. You took your free hand into a fist and squeezed the ground around him until he cried out.

Zuko began to worry you were going to start drawing too much attention. “C’mon! We should go.” He whispered.

You stood up to face the men you held by their necks. “Think twice about harassing a woman again.” You snarled. “They might not be as helpless as you think.” You threw down your arm, the glass following the motion and stabbing into the dirt. Zuko grabbed your arm and tugged.

The men were too stunned to rush you as you left, but the two of you still hurried along, Zuko thankfully picking up your basket. You had forgotten about it.

Once you determined you were a safe distance away, you slowed down and the ground beneath you began to rumble. Zuko looked at you to see you were still upset, fists clenched at your sides and face scrunched up in anger.

“Are you okay?” He asked softly.

“I don’t like bullies.” You muttered quietly.

You felt Zuko’s hand begin to rub circles on your back. You started to loosen up and leaned into his side.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that angry before.” He said.

“Hopefully you won’t have to again.” You answered solemnly. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” his arm wrapped around your shoulders, “I get it. I don’t like bullies either.”

The two of you made your way back to the summer house without any further confrontations.

#nyx writes #zuko x reader #zuko imagine #gn reader #fic

64 notes · View notes

spookyceph · 4 years

Text

Good Graces Pt. 2

Finally got the second half of this fic together. Find it on Ao3 or the first part here on Tumblr.

Nothing explicit takes place, however, the non-canon talk is of a sexual nature. Also, Dabi is a masochist and likes being ordered around. But we knew this already, didn’t we?

Words: 2,789

Rating: M for language and sexual themes

The wait ended two days later in the same spot. Dabi was in the process of pouring himself his second drink of the night when a misty-edged hole opened in reality behind the bar. From it stepped the tall, elegant form of Kurogiri. Dabi had never really considered what a demon might look like, but the League’s second-in-command/butler/voice of reason provided plenty of inspiration. Impeccable suit. Ability to show up anywhere. Form too immaterial to hurt, but still capable of making someone pay for trying. As always, Dabi gave him a polite nod and fought back memories of how it had felt to unexpectedly be elbow-deep in that shifting darkness.

“Ah, Dabi. Just the person I was hoping to see.” Deep. Smooth as high-end nihonshu. The kind of voice that could talk somebody into trading away their firstborn. Or into joining a half-assed villain ensemble.

Dabi paused with his glass to his lips. He made a sound he hoped came across as Yes, I’m listening rather than Help, I’ve swallowed my own tongue in mortal terror.

“Shigaraki Tomura wishes to speak with you at your earliest convenience.”

This was it. This was not a drill. Dabi put down the glass without taking a sip. “Where?”

“He is in his room at the moment. I will open the way, if you wish to go now.”

He’d just slid off the stool when the words registered. The air behind him changed. It was like the faint static charge living things gave off and a feeling of being watched all at once. Except Dabi knew if he turned he’d see only a hazy oval of black floating there, the perfect width and length to swallow him completely.

He didn’t want to use the warp gate. No fucking way. Problem was he’d already gotten up—couldn’t sit back down without looking like a coward or a dumbass or both. And he sure as hell wasn’t about to admit he already knew where Shigaraki’s room was to the person who amounted to the closest thing the guy had to a father.

So, Dabi grabbed his glass again. Knocked back the contents. Pretended it was just like jumping into a cold pool on a summer day as he turned and plunged into the waiting darkness.

Nothing existed anymore. Not time. Not space. Not self. Then something—maybe Kurogiri’s will or just simple momentum—carried him back into being. He returned to reality with a gasp. Catching his balance, he blinked and took stock of his new surroundings.

Shigaraki sat on his heels not a meter away, staring up through the stiff fingers of his favorite fashion statement. Large sheets of paper littered the floorboards in front of him. Maps, Dabi realized, noting the grid lines and coordinate markings. Somewhere way out in the sticks, if all the green and brown were any clue. Turning his head, he saw shelves lining the walls. Books? No, too many the same size and too thin. Cases for games—hundreds of them. More than one person could finish without giving up on everything else in life. Then again, what did he know? He’d never been allowed to have any as a kid. Never been allowed to have anything that might distract him from the glorious future planned out for him since day one. And just look at how well that had gone.

At any rate, the room didn’t seem to have the right ambiance to banish or murder someone in. Dabi let his hopes peek out from the bunker of suspicion.

“What’s this stuff for?” he asked, nodding to the maps on the ground.

Nothing from Shigaraki for an adrenaline-spiking second. Then, he crooked the fingers of one hand. “Sit.”

Dabi obeyed, pacing himself. Step in closer. Let one leg fold under him. Just bend the other so the sole of his boot lay flat on the floor. Rest same side elbow on knee. Prop the whole casual façade up with the other hand behind him.

“You got something you wanna say?” Cool nonchalance despite all the spit having vanished from inside his mouth.

Closing those intense eyes, his boss-and-possibly-more drew a long inhale. Didn’t even gag on the musty museum specimen smell of the taxidermy clutching his face. Then it was Dabi’s turn to suck in a breath as Shigaraki pulled off the gray hand with fumbling fingers, setting it aside.

“I want you to lead the others on their first job,” he said, complete with direct eye contact.

Any pretense of self-assurance abandoned Dabi. His stomach clenched as if braced for a punch. He pumped his brain for something droll, snappy, cocky in response. The well had run dry. He settled for practical.

“What do you want us to do?”

Shigaraki’s shoulders relaxed a fraction, though his stoic expression never wavered. “I was given some interesting information about UA’s precious fledgling heroes. Seems they’re headed to a remote training camp in the mountains for the summer. No one will be looking after them except two of their teachers and four pros who specialize in wilderness rescue missions. I want you to ruin their little retreat.”

Dabi’s spine went stiff and straight as an exclamation point. “I didn’t sign up to kill kids—even baby heroes.”

But Shigaraki was already shaking his head halfway through. “Killing them isn’t the point. That would generate too much outrage, hypocritical or no. The police might actually pry their heads from their asses and make a united effort to hunt us down with that much public pressure on them. Not to mention every third-rate pro in the country would crawl out of the woodwork, looking to make headlines. We’d be finished before we ever got started.

“No, what I have in mind is some training of our own.”

Attention swapped places with apprehension. “Oh?”

“None of us have worked together. Most of us haven’t worked on a team at all. This is an opportunity to test how well your quirks and styles compliment or clash with one another.”

“So, what? We crash their field trip and start fucking shit up? Flee the scene when the fighting gets too heated?”

“I came up with a level objective for you to focus on.” From on top of the maps, Shigaraki scooped up a thick manila folder and handed it to him.

Taking it, Dabi flipped to the first set of pages inside. His expression stayed set in stone while his stomach took a cliff dive.

A pretty girl with skin the color of bubblegum and squiggly little horns peeking out of her cotton candy hair smiled out at him from the photo in the top corner.

Name: Ashido Mina

Age: 15

Quirk: Acid

“You got hold of the students’ profiles? Impressive.” And a potential fucking disaster waiting to happen.

Shigaraki shrugged modestly, lightly scratching a new crop of scabs that had popped up in jagged furrows on both sides of his neck. Scabs that hadn’t been there a few days ago. “It’s just their teachers’ assessments of their quirks and performance during class assignments. Personal information like relatives and home addresses were better protected.”

The vice slowly closing its jaws around Dabi’s thumping heart released. Regardless, he made sure not to linger on any one student as he leafed through several of the profiles. Just focused on breathing normally and pretending to read for what seemed like a reasonable amount of time before moving to the next. He’d wait until he didn’t have an audience to allow himself to register anything.

“What’s this objective supposed to be?” he inquired.

“Capture one of the stronger, more notable students and ask him to join us.”

A muscle in his cheek jumped when Shigaraki reached over and flipped to a report in the middle of the folder. Dabi forced himself not only to look but see.

The boy scowling out of the picture was blonde. Broad-shouldered. Red-eyed, though not as beautifully as the one sitting across the way. Dabi’s pulse evened out.

“Bakugou Katsuki,” he read. “Isn’t this the kid they had to bind and gag at UA’s Sports Festival—even though he won the damn thing?”

“The same.”

“The hell do we want him for? I thought we were full capacity on lunatics already.”

A sigh. “To spook the school’s supporters and society at large, for one. It’s not enough to kill heroes. More will just take their place. We have to convince people to withdraw their support of them. Turn against them, though that won’t come until later.”

Dabi snorted. “This little asshole will never agree to sign on with us. He’s obsessed with proving he’s above everyone else. I know the type.”

A twitch of interest crossed Shigaraki’s face. Instead of pressing, though, he filed the slip away in that mysterious brain of his. “I don’t give half a shit if he agrees. All that matters is he blabs to anyone who’ll listen that we targeted and tried to corrupt him once we let him ‘escape’.”

Tapping his fingers on the stack of papers, Dabi let the big picture come into focus. “Instead of outright attacking the school, we’re undermining their image. Making all the mommies and daddies wonder if a career as a pro is as great as they thought it would be for their precious snot-nosed bastards. Getting donors to think twice before reaching for those wallets. We’re playing the long game. Smart.” A thin smile tugged at one end of Dabi’s mouth. “Which leaves just one question. Why have me lead instead of yourself? People might accuse me of sleeping my way to the top.”

A lovely shade of pink, like the inner coating of a seashell, livened up Shigaraki’s cheeks. “We never—!” He huffed and turned away, pink deepening to rose and spreading to the tops of his ears when he noticed Dabi’s smile had widened to a grin. “You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?”

“Guilty. Well, on the last part anyway.”

Shigaraki continued to fume, hopes of an answer dwindling with each second of silence. Then, just when an apology was in the works, “Because I’m a shitty leader.”

Dabi exchanged his smile for arched eyebrows. “”And you think I’d make a better one?”

“You take initiative when you need to, and show restraint when you should. You’re able to read people without giving away much of anything about yourself. The others respect you. They like you. Anyway, from a purely tactical standpoint, since your quirk is long range you can attack and give orders without getting swept up in the melee. And…” Blood-soaked irises looked at him through a tangled curtain of white hair for a moment before flitting back to the safety of the maps. “I trust you.”

Every response Dabi had lined up crumbled. With them gone, he couldn’t pretend not to notice what they’d been hiding. Exposed to proper light and air, it bloomed, bright and bold despite the ruin it grew from.

“I won’t fail.” The words were hoarse, but came out easily enough for a promise he’d swore to make to no one except himself ever again.

“I know you won’t. Because this isn’t about winning or losing. I want you and the others to test yourselves as individuals and as a team. Do your best. Find what works. What doesn’t. We’ll figure out where to go from there. Together.”

He’d joined the League of Villains looking for a means to exact revenge. Being told what he’d always wanted to hear made for a hell of a bonus prize.

Dabi pounced. His mouth mashed into Shigaraki’s, muffling an astonished yelp. Cold hands latched onto the front of his shirt. Not Decaying. Not shoving. Clinging. Insisting. He obliged, wrapping his arms around the other man’s waist and shoulders, then letting his weight carry them both to the floor. They rolled across the maps, scattering stolen papers as they went. Lips and teeth and tongue combined in different ways between every panting break for air.

Winding up sprawled on top, Dabi relocated his kisses to Shigaraki’s neck. The whimper that came out of him when just a bit of suction was applied under the corner of his jaw went directly to Dabi’s dick. Shigaraki writhed, supple and strong, yet unsure and overwhelmed. His fingers—three on each hand—clutched hard enough to hurt through a carapace of scar tissue. The scabs crosshatching his neck scraped the tongue and tasted of rust.

He surpassed any fantasy conjured up in the past few weeks. Because he was real. Unpredictable. And, in that slice of time at least, he was Dabi’s.

Shigaraki gasped and arched at the feel of a hand slipping up under his shirt. Dabi became so absorbed in the smooth, cool texture of the skin beneath his fingertips he didn’t think anything of the arm that snaked around his own, or the heel hooked behind his knee until, with a sharp twist of hip, he was rolled. The air rushed out of him in a huff as he hit the floor. Shigaraki didn’t look it, but he was solid, planting himself on Dabi’s chest and pinning both his wrists above his head.

“No,” he said, decisive if out of breath. “We do this my way.”

Dabi kept perfectly still. One wriggle, one shift, and he would’ve cum in his pants right then and there. So, he relaxed one muscle group at a time. Controlled his breathing. Showed his boss what a good boy he could be.

“What did you have in mind?” he asked, already positive he’d like the answer.

Despite his command of the situation, Shigaraki’s gaze wandered off to the side. Unsure. Shy. God, it was going to be fun fucking both descriptions right out of him.

“I don’t have…experience…with this, ah, subject.”

Dabi had to keep his teeth clamped together to keep from laughing. Good. He had to be good or he wouldn’t get any treats.

“So, I thought…maybe we could each make a list. Of things we like—or might like. And of stuff we don’t, or aren’t interested in. Then…pick and agree on an option. Until…until someone gets bored or just doesn’t want to anymore or…whatever.”

The habit of exceeding expectations was quickly becoming one of Dabi’s favorite things about his new boss. “Is that what you’ve been up to these past three days? Thinking about what you want to do to me?”

Shigaraki shifted his weight forward a bit, breathing definitely speeding up a notch. “Not the entire three days,” he muttered.

Dabi rested his hands on slim hips, keeping them still before they sent him over the edge. “When did you want this list?”

He considered, worrying his already cracked bottom lip with his teeth and then catching the trickle of blood with the point of his tongue in a way that made Dabi’s toes curl in his boots. “We’ll need to start meeting regularly to work on the plan anyway, so…tomorrow, at this time.”

Meaning he had already made a list and wanted to see what Dabi came up with. “Done.”

“Well.” Shigaraki cleared his throat lightly. “It’s settled then.” Carefully, he started to slide his leg over. Froze when a soft hiss escaped Dabi. A finger stroked one of the staples in his cheek before pulling back, remembering permission to do so hadn’t been agreed on yet.

“Did I hurt you? When we rolled over?”

Absolutely precious. Dabi smiled. “Not as much as I want you to.”

Red eyes blinked rapidly, wide and startled. “I’m…sorry?”

“Don’t be. Now go on. Let me up.”

Still looking a bit lost, Shigaraki did, sitting with his arms wrapped around his legs. Dabi sat upright on a long exhale. Paused to collect himself. Got to his feet when he was reasonably sure he wouldn’t ruin his last clean pair of pants doing so.

“You’re leaving?”

The note of disappointment in Shigaraki’s tone almost toppled his resolve. He looked over through lowered lashes. “I have something pressing to take care of at the moment. Unless you don’t want to wait for a list to find out what it is.”

One glance below Dabi’s belt transformed confusion into open-mouthed understanding. “Oh.” Shigaraki buried his face in his knees. “Sorry?”

“I already told you. Don’t be.” And before his willpower evaporated completely, “See you tomorrow.”

He’d made it to the door when a final thought sprung on him. Pausing with his fingers on the handle, he peered back over his shoulder. “You didn’t come up with this whole training camp plan just to score some alone time with me, did you?”

The choked sound that came from Shigaraki was answer enough. Dabi finally allowed himself to laugh as he let himself out.

#shigadabi #shigadabi fanfic #dabi x shigaraki #shigaraki x dabi #dabi is touya #dabi pov

23 notes · View notes

anjellion-drawthings · 4 years

Text

About all my F-Zero FCs so far, and their lore

Normally I don’t usually have the time or energy to create several FC bios, but… I think this once, I’m going to reveal history about all of them?? (Except for Jill because @huskynator did a better job than I ever could! ;; )

Warning, very long bios and connections to canon characters!

Chief Ann

Because of her position at the Galactic Space Federation, she oversees everything that Jody, John Tanaka, ands Lily Flyer do. She frequently has to scold them also if they do something that could harm the Federation’s reputation.

As expected of an alien creature, she’s actually really old, her age is listed to be over 200 years! To that extent, it means that Ann has witnessed the horrible F-MAX accident, which put a start to her wanting to ban all Grand Prix races, as she deemed them too dangerous. It may also be connected to the destruction of her home planet; Dinea.

She did manage to successfully suspend the F-Zero Grand Prix following another terrible accident (which led to Captain Falcon being hospitalized and Pico taking the blame), but the Arrows managed to rectify it. Since then, Ann has had a grudge against them.

When Jody Summer’s father died, Ann pretty much took the pilot under her wing, so they are particularly close. Unlike John Tanaka though, Ann is overly protective to the point of annoyance. Doesn’t mean that Ann won’t take a bullet for her team, she’s willingly gotten herself harmed for innocents.

In spite of this, Ann’s reputation is very negative. Her and Pico have a natural spite for one another given their alien species (leeches vs. snapping turtles) and occupations. Samurai Goroh’s bandit group also has a strong distaste for her, as do residents of Takora due to an incident that occurred.

The Skull also doesn’t agree with her since he (un)lives for racing, Kate Alen, Princia, and Spade also find Ann to be a “killjoy”. Her and Captain Falcon though... they agree to disagree, so to speak. Ann recognizes Douglas as a former officer of the Internova Police Force and actually hopes he’ll return.

Although she comes off as harsh and cruel to criminals, Ann ultimately has some soft spots. Because she is the last of her known species and has a rather negative rep, Ann gets extremely flustered about… intimate matters. She’s used to being disliked.

Ann’s favorite drink is A+ blood and wine, while her favorite snacks are ice cream and jelly-filled donuts. Did we mention she’s extremely tall and can probably grow her body parts back?

Kevi

A knight from the planet Popopo, sometimes known as “the twinkling planet”. It’s notably very cold there, which is why he has such cozy-looking attire, gifted to him by the king of the land he originated from. Just about everyone there upbeat and friendly.

About less than a year ago, Kevi had triumphed in the war against a cult on his planet, so he decided to take up F-Zero racing until duty calls for him. Kevi had raced in the past, but it wasn’t on the scale of a Grand Prix, it often played out more like training for warfare.

Kevi is actually a transman, and plans to use the space credits in prize money to complete his “heroic appearance”. He had always wanted to be a knight and went through with changing everything about himself to achieve that dream.

He loves the idea of being a powerful, macho hero and often flexes this in front of other racers. Not in an attempt to seem cocky, but because he loves competing with his heroes! He’s a fan of just about all of the racers, and I do mean all of them! Because Kevi is so friendly and genuine, even the more cold characters find themselves opening up to him rather easily.

The normally cold and calculated Pico finds himself at ease around the knight, while even Black Shadow himself is humored by Kevi. The only one who detests Kevi and doesn’t hesitate to knock him down is Deathborn, of course. He hates Kevi even more for actively taking up Black Shadow’s time and hanging out with him, leading to the chance of Black Shadow’s fearsome reputation diminishing�� or even worse, a relationship.

Kevi doesn’t even care about the whole crime thing, because he views these as small potatoes compared to a cult that straight up wants to destroy everything. Captain Falcon was worried at first, until the knight said he’s dealt with things far worse than the criminals of F-Zero.

Now, if push comes to shove, Kevi will most definitely drop his friendly personality and show that he’s a strong warrior. Not too bad for an F-Zero fan-boy with pink hair. He’s probably capable of taking someone down in arm wrestling despite how petite he is.

Kevi loves energy drinks, and his favorite food is usually anything with tomatoes! He’s very fit and never takes a break from exercising his body to become stronger. However, under that visor, Kevi does have a particularly adorable gaze, it’s said his eyes are like looking at stars.

Lanos

A sarcastic destroyer of worlds, times, and universes. He’s a silver-tongued entity, able to manipulate others to act out their innermost desires. Lanos is ageless, his origins unknown, just traversing to wherever he pleases. Where exactly is he hiding? And in what time period?

Probably the distant future, which is why he’s considered Phoenix’s #1 enemy. The time traveling detective has gone after him nonstop, but is often unable to pinpoint Lanos’ exact position. In fact, more often than not, Lanos manages to get away from Phoenix, whether a horrible crisis is averted or not.

He definitely has some connections to Don Genie. In another part of the future, Lanos apparently runs a night club (he always running away yet manages to keep a club!?), so they probably had some sort of deal. After all, Lanos gives people whatever they want, usually without strings attached.

Why does Lanos go around causing problems? It just happens usually whenever he goes anywhere, doesn’t even raise his hand. He often just lands on any planet in the form of a green jewel. People who cave into lust, wrath, or greed will often actively seek Lanos. Any downfall of the worlds is their fault and not his, something he constantly points out to Phoenix. “Why should it be the bomb’s fault when someone pushed the button?”

In terms of documented incidents, Lanos participated in F-MAX accident that burned several racers alive (including the Skull), the F-Zero race that got Captain Falcon hospitalized (with the blame pinned on Pico), and the destruction of Ann’s home planet. The war on Zou is most likely also started by Lanos.

Lanos most definitely has his own personal enjoyments, usually in the form of racing or any thrill-seeking activity. No one can really stop it, because if Lanos feels threatened, anyone who gets close will pretty much get their skin melted off.

Because of his history, not only does Phoenix intend to destroy him-- but so does Captain Falcon, Pico, Ann, Jody Summer, even Leon. Should they have any particular desire though, you bet that Lanos will try to wring them out.

Lanos speaks with a stoic, deep tone. To someone like Mr. Zero (who has to unfortunately interview him at times), it’s frightening, but when Lanos sweetens his words, it turns charismatic.

Cierlok (Princia’s servant)

(Credit to Huskynator for the name, which I slightly altered it to sound more exotic ;;)

Princia Ramode’s servant hails from the desert kingdom on Planet Magica. He is extremely protective of the princess, having known her since she was just a toddler, and will fly into a fit of rage if anyone tries to lay a hand on her. Don’t expect mercy either, since he’s a user of magic.

Since it’s impossible to reason with Princia’s stubborn personality, Cierlok is responsible for having an F-Zero machine made for the princess, and it was him she snuck off with. Unlike her, however, Cierlok has a very low opinion of the other F-Zero racers, especially Samurai Goroh and anyone associated, viewing them as lowly bandits. His opinion of bounty hunters isn’t much better.

But whenever Cierlok is confronted by someone physically stronger than himself, he’ll quickly chicken out, usually by running away or stammering. This same personality is usually witnessed when Princia is dragging him into something dangerous or risky.

Cierlok was actually a fortune teller in the desert kingdom, once a mere peasant himself. This all changed when Princia’s father needed a court magician and a bodyguard for his daughter. Evidently, the position has gone to his head over the years. Cierlok still does tarot card readings and all that other stuff though. Lower class individuals in Magica do not have a last name, while royalty does.

He had absolutely no interest in joining the F-Zero races so long as Princia remained unharmed. This changed when another magician began participating, Cierlok wished to prove that planet Magica has the best sorcerers in the universe-- mainly himself.

Since entering, he’s formed quite the rivalry with Spade and the Skull. Black magic and circus performances? “No, the pure magic of my planet is the greatest to exist!” Cierlok truly believes that his sorcery and fortune telling is above all of those.

Before planet Popopo went to war, they allied themselves with Magica. During that time, before Kevi had transitioned, he had gotten into a relationship with Cierlok. It didn’t last though, mainly because Cierlok was too much of a coward and wasn’t exactly strong, not to mention his ego got too grating. (He hasn’t even taken the message that he’s been dumped)

Cierlok’s favorite drink is champagne, and he loves calamari. He’s considered trying takoyaki but didn’t want to incur the wrath of Octoman. Probably for the best that he doesn’t try to make anymore enemies.

#f-zero #f zero #f zero gx #my fcs

7 notes · View notes

welllpthisishappening · 5 years

Text

Once Again as in Olden Days

She’s absolutely freezing cold.

It’s a dumb metaphor, one that only serves to make Emma even more pissed off than she already is. Because two hours ago it was summer. But a few more hours before that, she was also locked in a tower guarded by a fire-breathing dragon. And now she’s outside. With her kid. And a pirate that isn’t hers, explicitly, but keeps staring at her like he wouldn’t mind if he was.

So maybe it’s not the worst. Maybe she’ll be able to get warm eventually.

-----

Rating: A whole bunch of teen-type canon divergence. Word Count: 6.4 K to fit in all the ridiculous Meet Me in St. Louis references AN: Back at it again with the Festive Fic Prompt A Thon and two anon prompts today: "you can put your cold feet on me." & "i don't wanna get up-- you're comfy." I started writing this as Lieutenant Duckling the other day, got a thousand words in, was like nah, then came back today and wrote nearly six and a half thousand words of 4x22 canon divergence with a frustrated Emma, enthusiastic Henry and deckhand!Hook who just wants to help. And listen to badly summarized movies. Anyway, they kiss.

|| Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll ||

-----

She can’t stop shivering.

Every inhale comes with an almost automatic exhale that seems to wobble its way out of Emma, uneven and shaky and neither of those are good adjectives, but none of this has been good and the storm had come out of nowhere.

She assumes it’s a last-ditch effort to steer them off course, and while he might not be exactly the same man, Killian Jones is still exceptionally good in a crisis. And on his ship.

She hasn’t told him that the Jolly is his ship yet.

So, really, she might be the world’s biggest coward.

Mostly Emma is pissed off.

Magic storms. In the middle of summer.

Of course.

Fuck this reality, honestly.

She lets out another burst of air, and it’s cold enough now that she can see it linger in the space in front of her. Every inch of Emma feels frozen—muscles tense and skin raw from the shackles she is positive she can still feel and she’s starting to think in metaphors now, anger curling at the base of her spine and threatening to burst out the tips of her fingers, but that may also just be her magic and—

“Mom?” Henry mutters, snow clinging to the edge of his hair. She jumps approximately forty-seven feet in the air.

It is admittedly a rough estimate.

Henry’s teeth find his lower lip, far too familiar to be anything except vaguely jarring. Emma huffs, and she’s not sure where her lungs continue to find enough oxygen to keep doing this, pressing the heel of her hand into her cheek, like that will help ground her and her vaguely vertical emotions.

“Yeah, kid?” He jerks his head behind him, lights Emma hadn’t noticed before glimmering in the not-so-far distance, and maybe this will be ok. At least passably acceptable. Possibly warm. God, she wants to get warm again.

That’s another metaphor.

Killian hasn’t said a single word since they anchored the Jolly. Emma hopes that isn’t because she’d teleported them off the Jolly. She was actually surprised she’d been able to do it, but Regina had always told her magic was about emotion and she’s been feeling nothing except emotion, every single thing she hasn’t said yet and wants to say and is hopeful she’ll eventually be courageous enough to actually say.

She’s started biting her lip at some point too.

“We could get inside,” Henry suggests, already backpedaling and Emma knows there’s not really another option. The ends of her gown are drenched. She doesn’t want Henry to be out in this snow much longer.

She’s going to strangle Issac as soon as she sees him.

And then Rumplestilskin.

And then Isaac again, for good measure.

“Maybe get some food,” Henry continues. “That’s how it always works in the stories, right? Roadside taverns and mead and—’ “—You are not getting mead,” Emma cuts in.

Henry makes a distinctly teenage noise in the back of his throat, a bit of normal that Emma is going to think about for at least the next forty-five minutes if only because she can practically hear the nervous energy rolling off Killian. She wishes he would talk. She’s not sure what she’ll do if he does talk.

“Alright,” Emma says, inhaling sharply. She’s desperately got to learn how to breathe. And control her magic.

Killian flinches slightly.

Henry widens his eyes. “Unless you guys want to break into some barn somewhere. Hay is warm and it’s not like we have any gold, do they use gold in the fake Enchanted Forest?” “No idea,” Emma shrugs. “I could probably just magic it, though. I think that’s possible and—” “—I have gold.”

She whips around so quickly she almost loses her balance, far more fabric around her ankles than she’s used to. Killian’s staring at his shoes by the time she straightens out her knees, lips tugged tightly behind his teeth and impossibly straight shoulders, more nerves and anxiety wafting off him.

Emma resists the urge to reach her hand forward.

They’ve got to get out of here.

She needs to magic herself some new clothes too.

“You don’t have to do that,” she whispers, but that only gets him to furrow his brows, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Her magic flares, racing up her spine and taking root in the back of her brain and the center of her soul, which also seems impossibly melodramatic. Killian lifts his head.

“What else am I going to use it on?” he reasons with a shrug, and Emma can’t help the sound that flies out of her.

It’s not a laugh — there is absolutely nothing funny about any of this — but it’s not quite the sigh she expects, something closer to a scoff and a hint of disbelief and her hand moves.

She absolutely cannot help it.

Her fingers brush over his, a quick hitch of his arm, like he’s not sure if he should pull back or push her away and Emma rocks closer, ducking her head into a gaze that can’t seem to hold hers for more than five seconds.

Those few strands of hair drifting over his forehead may be the death of her.

“It’s a fair question,” Henry mumbles. He’s smiling. She can tell, hear it in his voice and Emma’s cheeks object to her own lip-type movement, but it’s still snowing and freezing cold and—

Seriously those strands of hair.

“See,” Killian says, “the lad’s got some sense.” Emma lifts her eyebrows. “Seems to suggest that I don't.” He blushes. It’s absurd and wonderful and entirely awful. All at the same time. She has no idea how she’s going to sleep when her magic is roaring in her veins.

“No, no, no, that’s not—” Killian stammers, and Henry doesn’t even try to mask his laugh that time.

“No?” Emma prompts. Killian swallows. The muscles in his throat move, jaw clenching and it’s another rush of passably familiar that Emma wants to hold onto with both hands. “No,” he echoes. “I—we have to get out of this storm.” “This is what I’m saying,” Henry groans. “So we’ll use Killian’s money and we’ll get some food and maybe some mead and—” “—Seriously, how is no mead confusing?” Emma asks, glancing over her shoulder. Henry sneers. Killian is back to being frustratingly silent.

The color in his cheeks hasn’t disappeared.

It doesn’t have anything to do with the snow.

Seriously, the snow has to stop soon.

“Let’s go,” Emma says. She claps a hand on Henry’s shoulder, trusting that Killian will follow them when they start to move and that’s not quite a metaphor, but it might be the basis of everything else and—

She’s right.

She can hear the snow crunching under his boots behind her.

The air is musty and tinged with what smells like a mix of sweat and ale as soon as Emma pushes the door to the inn open, biting back a groan while her stomach does its best to rise up in the back of her throat.

There are people everywhere, crowded at clearly sticky tables and tucked into dark corners, a surplus of leather and more than a few flashes of steel, the telltale sound of dice rolling on a variety of wooden surfaces. Emma’s eyes scan the space, gaze falling on what looks like the world’s oldest bar and a bald man with a round face and a towel draped over his shoulder.

She snaps her fingers.

And the magic that twists across her own face isn’t entirely uncomfortable. It’s warm, but it also makes it feel as if her skin is melting—like candle wax, shifting and reforming until her nose isn’t quite where it’s supposed to be, her eyes deep set and her forehead a bit wider.

Her clothes have changed as well, gown replaced by breeches and boots that almost provide some warmth to her otherwise frozen toes, a vest and empty sword belt.

She’ll have to fix that last part eventually, she’s sure.

“Whoa,” Henry breathes. “Mom, that was so cool!” Emma can’t help the quick smile she gives him, a flash of pride that disappears almost as soon as her brand-new eyes land on Killian.

He looks stunned.

And maybe just a hint terrified.

Of her. And her magic.

The witch in the tower, indeed.

“I’ll, uh—” she starts, but the words scratch at the inside of her throat like they’re not all that interested in being spoken. “I just figured it’d be best if no one saw me. I mean—do people even know what I look like?” “Lily did.” “Yeah, but she was a dragon.” “That we knocked out of the sky,” Henry reasons. “She’s probably got people to report back to. That’s how it always works in the—” “—Stories,” Emma finishes. Her stomach twists again, fear mixing with dread and those are kind of the same words. “We get a room. We eat. We get a few hours of sleep and then we get out of here. Got it?”

Henry nods once, and Emma doesn't bother glancing back at Killian. That’s not great. She’s not—

It doesn’t matter.

This isn’t real.

They’re getting out of here. She’s going to save all of them.

And Killian isn’t freaked out by her magic at home.

So.

Emma stalks forward, twisting and turning between tables and half-drunk townsfolk, doing her best to breathe through her mouth while ignoring anyone’s curious gaze. It doesn’t matter. No one casts her a second glance, and it takes a few moments of pointed coughing to get the attention of the barkeep.

He brings up the crazy weather at least six times.

Emma keeps nodding. It leaves the muscles in her neck aching, fear tugging on the nerve-endings there because she’s not entirely convinced this is a good idea, but then it’s only a few more minutes for gold to exchange hands, Killian dropping a small pouch of clinking coins on the wood in front of them.

The key to the one room they have left in this entire godforsaken place is cold in Emma’s hand.

One room.

Naturally.

She might kick Isaac too. Several times.

“C’mon,” Emma says, nudging at Henry’s back when his eyes widen at the sight of several foaming mugs of...something. “Right, left, kid and up the stairs.” He grumbles as he moves, and part of her is loathe to to be responsible in a moment like this. Part of her wants to down several tankards of ale and a few more rounds of mead, but Emma also isn’t entirely confident in how to mix Enchanted Forest alcohol and—

There are two beds in their one room.

Naturally.

Version two point oh.

She sighs, running a suddenly exhausted hand over her face, which is only a little jarring because it’s not really her face. The string of curses that fall out of her is more than a little surprising, even to herself, but— “I forgot to get food,” Emma hisses, half to herself and half to this version of the world and Henry is already perched on the edge of one of the beds.

There are only two beds.

She’s going to scream. She’s trying very hard not to cry.

“I’ll take care of it,” Killian says, soft enough that Emma barely ears him. Her magic is doing that thing again.

So is his jaw.

She’s got to stop staring at his jaw. It’s far too close to his lips.

“You sure?” she asks. He lowers his eyebrows again, a quick jerk of his head that feels a little placating and a little hers, as if he’s amused every time she lets him do anything for her.

And Henry.

For them.

Collectively.

“Positive,” Killian promises. “I’m not sure it’ll be very good food, but—" “—We’ll live,” Emma interrupts.

“Aye, I’m sure we will.” It’s not another promise. She knows. He knows. Henry knows. The goddamn barkeep probably knows. And yet. The words slink under Emma’s skin and find a rhythm with her pulse, a guarantee for a future that she’s only just started allowing herself to dream about.

Idiot.

“If you’re not back in ten minutes, I’m going to come downstairs and do something vaguely threatening,” Emma says.

Killian’s lips twitch. “I’ve no doubt.” “And there aren’t clocks in this realm,” Henry adds. He’s definitely still smiling.

Killian nods again—although that one has a distinct air of confusion to it, which only serves to make Emma’s stomach do something else she doesn’t have time to think about and she’s honestly got to stop thinking such absurd things. Because then he’s sweeping back into the hall and his boots are heavy on the stairs and she doesn’t have to turn around to see the expectant look on her son’s face.

She can feel it. Behind her eyelids.

“So, uh—” Henry starts, but Emma waves both of her hands and she’s not all that surprised he ignored her. It’s a weird thing to be proud of. “He didn’t even argue, you know. When I found him.” Emma licks her lips. She shivers again.

And Henry isn’t done. “I got rid of Black Beard and then he just...I mean, it’s not right. Anything here, and especially Killian because he’s—” “—Yeah, I know,” Emma whispers.

“Still didn’t argue, though. He might not remember everything, Mom, but I know he’s—he still cares. About you. About us.” She hums, a noncommittal sound because her tongue appears to be taking up most of the real estate in her mouth and she’s still as much of a coward as advertised. Even more so than the man who’s not quite the man she—

Emma lets out a shuddering breath, stumbling back against the nearest wall. Her knees have started to wobble as well.

And Henry doesn’t say anything else.

She’ll thank him for that eventually. When they get home. Let him play video games for an extra hour or something.

Maybe go sailing.

She’d like to go sailing.

She’d like—

The door swings open again, a tray of food in Killian’s hand and a smile on his face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. As if he’s worried it’s wrong.

Until.

The warmth of something Emma resolutely refuses to name as soon as her gaze meets his is like falling back into blankets and some joke about the tides and a steady rhythm and his smile stretches, settling on his face like he’s just been waiting for her to make sure it lands there.

Henry snorts.

Whatever is in the bowls Killian is holding is steaming.

“Not exactly dinner at the palace,” he says, kicking the door closed behind him. Emma feels her eyes widen. “But it’ll at least keep the chill at bay and—”

He jerks his chin down, a small pile of fabric Emma hadn’t noticed before tucked under his left arm. Blankets.

Some of her muscles loosen.

In a nice way.

“Thank you,” she says, hoping she’s able to infuse as much emotion into two words as possible. Killian hums, another quick nod that isn’t quite as terrified or concerned and— “Can we eat?” Henry asks.

Emma laughs softly, reaching out to grab bowls and blankets and the food isn’t great, but she’s fairly certain none of them have been poisoned. So, she’ll take what she can get at this point.

And the whole thing is oddly comfortable—blankets strewn across the floor and Henry’s tugged his boots off at some point, recounting his defeat of Black Beard and Killian’s ability to sail through that storm, as if Emma weren’t there too, but she can’t bring herself to tell him to stop.

Not when his voice picks up that way, excitement and adventure and he’s so sure they’re going to fix this.

She’ll regret that later, she’s sure.

Letting that hope linger.

God, but she’s the most depressing person in any reality.

Henry’s eyes start to flutter shut eventually, head lolling towards his shoulder and chin bumping against this chest and Emma makes to move, but then Killian’s mumbling something under his breath that sounds a lot like I can do it and Emma’s far too busy making sure her heart doesn’t explode to object.

It might explode anyway.

She tugs her legs closer to her, resting her chin on her knees and eyes never leaving Killian as he hauls Henry up, moving him towards a bed with, she assumes, slightly scratchy sheets. Every shift of Killian’s arms is slow, almost calculated, like he’s holding something important and a word that’s bigger than that, but Emma’s having enough difficulty coming to terms with any of this that she can hardly be expected to care about syntax.

It’s still snowing out.

Henry doesn’t wake up when he rolls over, stuffing a hand under his pillow and twisting one leg across the mattress.

Exactly the same way Emma sleeps.

And exactly the way Killian has complained about Emma sleeping. Her mind jumps to memories — weeks of calm and seasonally-appropriate snow, tucked into a different bed with sheets that seemed to drape themselves over her skin and her soul and she’s clearly losing her grip on her sanity. It is, Killian frequently tells her, because Emma’s feet refuse to retain their natural heat.

It makes him jump every time, a soft gasp that leaves her laughing and giggling just a bit and she’ll never admit to that second one, but he always knows and he’s always known and the tenses don’t matter.

Emma shudders, standing up abruptly and all but sprinting towards the window.

The snow drifts look unnaturally large. If she didn’t know better, hadn’t spent the morning with sweat dripping down her back and hair plastered to her forehead, Emma would think it was Christmas. And if she didn’t know better, hadn’t watched a dragon try and burn her alive a few hours earlier, she would believe that she could be happy here.

An Enchanted Forest princess with a son and a man who would go to the ends of the world for her, no matter what he believed or who he remembered and she’s started rocking her weight between her feet. There’s a certain rhythm to it, matching up to a song no one else in this realm has probably heard of from a movie Emma only barely remembers the plot of.

Maybe she can do something about the snow in the morning as well, still emotional enough that her magic could probably move mountains and that may give up their position, but she’s not a battle strategist either or even a pirate and— “Are you alright ma’am?” It’s probably for the best that her heart has already exploded. Makes it less likely for it to shatter. Dramatically.

Emma doesn’t look behind her, can’t actually bring herself to move at the sound of Killian’s half-mumbled question and she can see his outline in the foggy glass anyway. He’s got his fingers in his hair.

“Fine,” she bites out, and the lie tastes bitter on her tongue, threatens to scorch away all those other words hanging there.

He hums, a step towards her. It’s not as cautious as it’s been in the few hours since he and Henry found her. She can’t believe it’s only been a few hours.

Emma’s perception of time is entirely skewed — and not just because of the goddamn snow, some twisted winter wonderland that leaves her thinking of more possibility and decidedly misplaced wants and there are no goddamn clocks in this realm. She can remember everything and nothing, her real life and her life here, but that’s a generous descriptor for what’s felt like decades chained in a tower.

She wonders how long it’s really been.

She wonders if this Killian Jones has ever wanted the same things she does.

“You may want to practice that a few more times,” he continues, and the floor creaks when he steps that time. “If you’d like me to believe it.”

Emma’s head nearly flies off its neck. “The cheek on you, Captain.” “I’m not a Captain.” “God, that’s so weird. It’s—do you have a sword?” “No.” “Shit. That’s—do you have enough gold for that? I mean...I don’t want to use your life savings or anything here.” The last thing she expects is him to laugh, so, naturally, that is exactly what happens. Killian throws his whole head back with the force of it, Henry mumbling at the noise, and Emma is not entirely prepared for that specific shade of blue. He’s smirking at her. The asshole.

“None of this is mine,” Killian says, laughter clinging to the words even as he keeps inching closer to Emma. “Black Beard didn’t leave much of his horde on the ship—wanted to spread things around, you see, make sure no one would be able to rob him, but—” “—You’re a pirate?” Emma suggest. “Something like that.” “You’re blushing, though.”

“Aye, that too.”

Emma twists a strand of hair around her fingers, desperate for something to do with all the excess energy she’s suddenly bursting with. And the air around them isn’t quite tension-filled, but there’s a certain charge to it, an electric current that’s always been there. More jokes about tenses.

“Were you singing just now?” Killian asks. The windows in that room have a distinct draft to them.

“No.” “No?” “We’re going in circles,” Emma grumbles, and his mouth doesn’t change. She’s got to stop staring at his mouth.

But it had taken everything in her not to throw her arms around him before, to push her own fingers into his hair and yank him forward, find some kind of steady something in the feel of his mouth against hers and the way he always seems to fall into her. Or the other way around.

Seriously, syntax is not important right now.

It’s probably best she didn’t.

Emma would not have been able to cope with it being different.

“What was the tune?” Killian asks, voice almost steady, and Emma is greedy enough to want the conversation. If only because of the color of his eyes when he looks at her.

“You wouldn’t know it.” “Try me.”

“No, honestly, it’s—” She has every intention of being stubborn. She does—walls that she can practically establishing themselves around her heart and her soul and it’s incredible that one person can be so consistently idiotic.

He still cares. About you. About us.

“When I was a kid,” Emma starts, sliding down the wall and pointing towards the space next to her. Killian sits. “I used to uh—well I never lived anywhere very long. And this time of year—” “Summer?” “Nah, winter. Well, this is fake, but—” “—The snow felt fairly real when it was falling on us. You were shivering quite a bit, ma’am.” “Noticed that, did you? And you’ve got to stop with this ma’am stuff.”

“Ma’am stuff,” he drawls. “God, of course you’d be able to tease me,” Emma grouses, but Killian’s staring at her expectantly. Almost as if he’s waiting for marching orders. That probably doesn’t happen on a boat. Ship. “I just—” “—The last thing I want to do is offend you.” The sincerity in the words rock through Emma, leaving her teeth digging into her lip again until she’s threatening to bite the stupid thing in half and Killian’s eyes flicker towards the movement, like he’s thinking about things too and— “I’m not exactly the most respectable person in the world,” Emma reasons. “A crazy witch with out of control magic.” “That’s not true.” “You didn’t know that until Henry found you.” “Aye,” he agrees. “But I—well, it was easy to believe him.” Her lungs have got to get a grip.

Or, whatever.

Work. She needs her lungs to work.

“Thank you,” Emma breathes. That’s not the working she was hoping for. “I—well, I…thank you. For all of it. Dashing rescues—” “—Did you say dashing?” “If you don’t stop calling me ma’am, I’ll punch you in the face.”

Killian barks out a laugh, the sound leaving him almost looking like him and feeling like him and Emma’s fingers flutter on instinct. With magic. He clenches his jaw. “And, uh—what am I supposed to be calling a magical princess, then?”

“You’re trying to flatter me.” “Is it working?” “Maybe,” Emma admits. “More cheek, though.” “Aye, that’s—unexpected, I suppose. But so are you, Swan, it’s—” Killian cuts himself off, eyes bugging and the veins in his throat are obvious when he jerks back, staring at Emma like she will actually punch him.

The magic in her vibrates. With want and desire and goddamn normal.

“That works,” she says.

He blushes again. He might not have ever stopped. “Has that happened before?” “Hmmm?” “The cold,” Killian says. His voice shifts again, sounding a bit farther away than it had, like he’s trying to place a memory or moment and Emma doesn’t want to hope again. It’s not the best thing to remember, anyway. “You were—we...I was…” “You were?” “Worried. Terrified, even. I can—there was ice or—” “—No, that’s right,” Emma interrupts. “It was a giant wall and it wasn’t really Elsa’s fault, but—” “—Should I know who Elsa is?” “Probably not.” He makes another noise, a slow nod that only serves to shift those pieces of hair clearly designed to ruin Emma’s whole life. “The song, then? It was inspired by the snow?” “No, I don’t—well, I don’t know, really, but the song is kind of depressing, honestly.” “Is it?” Emma nods, and her head is close enough to his that her chin nearly bumps his shoulder. She’d like to put her head on his shoulder. That may freak him out.

It’s kind of freaking her out, admittedly.

“I haven’t thought about that movie in forever,” Emma continues, “It was old when I used to watch it. A beat up VHS—” “—What is that?” She clicks her tongue, not sure how to explain now-redundant technology to a pirate who isn’t her pirate in a realm that does not have clocks. The whole thing makes her head hurt. And it’s just absurd enough to make her laugh a bit too.

Killian’s eyes flash.

“That’s not the important part,” Emma says. “And it’s not even really a Christmas movie. It’s, um—well, it’s about a family. In this place called St. Louis—” “—Is that in the Enchanted Forest?” “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a rather pitiful listener?” “You’re teasing.” Emma grins. “St. Louis is not in the Enchanted Forest. It’s a city. In the reality—shit that’s so weird to think about. You know what? That doesn’t matter either. The point is that there was a family and they lived there and then they were going to move. And Judy Garland was upset because the guy she loved—”

She doesn’t finish her sentence.

It feels like it’s weighing down on both of them anyway, more metaphors and passing similarities and she wants him to call her Swan at least forty-seven thousand times.

“She didn’t want to leave this man, then?” Killian asks. “Judy Garland? Was she a princess as well?” Emma shakes her head. “No, but she did get to go to a ball. At Christmas. With a very red gown.” “Red?” “Yuh huh.” Killian swipes his tongue across the front of his teeth, that same thoughtful look Emma’s grown to memorize and maybe covet just a bit. It’s because it always ends with that pinch between his eyebrows. “So, John,” Emma adds, “That’s the guy that she loves. HIs name is John and he...he couldn’t get to the ball at first because he didn’t pick up his tuxedo. He was playing basketball.” “What a strange word.” “It’s a really strange game if you actually think about it, honestly. Henry’s more into soccer, though, so—we’re drifting from the point.” “Are we just?” “You’ll make me think you’re not enjoying my garbage storytelling, Killian.” The pinch disappears.

At the same exact time his lips part.

Seriously, his lips.

“Does John eventually get to this ball?”

“Yeah,” Emma nods. “Romance conquers all. He gets the tuxedo and they dance and it’s—well, Judy Garland wasn’t shy about being in love with him. She sang about it at the start of the movie, but everything kind of comes to light there and, um...when I was a kid, I always thought it was very pretty.” “The dancing?” “The whole thing. Happily ever after.” She can still see the tip of his tongue pressing into the side of his mouth — another tell for her Killian and this is her Killian, just with altered memories and ridiculous allusions to 1940s musicals and—

“What happened after the ball?” “John asked Judy Garland to marry him,” Emma says. Her voice cracks. It’s ridiculous. “She says, yes, of course, but they’re still leaving St. Louis and her sister is there and she’s beats up the snowmen.” “What?” “They’ve got the most ridiculous snowmen in the backyard and Tootie—” “—This child’s name is Tootie?” “I didn’t write the movie.” He chuckles, slumping a bit against the wall. His hand is very close to Emma’s. “And where does your tune factor in?” “Uh—before the snowmen, I think. Freshly engaged Judy Garland sings this song called Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. It’s...like I said, it’s kind of depressing if you listen to the words and—” “—What are the words?”

Emma has to swallow as soon as her brain processes that particular tone of voice. Because it’s not nervous. Or anxious. It’s vaguely hopeful and a little greedy as well, an overstep for a cowardly deckhand, but exactly what Killian Jones would do and Killian Jones would come back.

With his tuxedo.

Or leather jacket.

As the case may be.

“I’m not really a singer,” Emma mutters, ignoring whatever is fluttering in her stomach. Magic, maybe. Emotion, definitely.

Killian nods, a quiet sound of agreement or acquiesce and that might be what changes everything. The easy way he’s looking at her, like explaining the plot of Meet Me In St. Louis is entirely normal and she can barely herself when she starts to sing under her breath.

It’s decidedly off-pitch, Emma desperate to keep her voice low and her nerves in the pit of her stomach, but Killian doesn’t blink and she shakes slightly when she reaches— “Until then we’ll just have to muddle through somehow.” She blinks, sudden tears on her cheeks that are a misplaced sense of warmth and she hates that she’s crying. She hates that she’s feeling, wisps of hope and shards of her own want and Emma can’t imagine there’s even something like Christmas in the Enchanted Forest.

And she’s just about to apologize for it—for being anything except the Savior everyone always expects her to be, but then there’s a crack and a shift and her magic practically rumbles out of her chest and— Killian’s thumb brushes across her cheek.

“Can you—” he stutters, color rising again and tinging the tips of his ears. “The mask. It’s—can you get rid of it?” She’s going to eventually run out of air to dramatically exhale, Emma is sure.

In the moment, though, she’s got just enough, body surging forward as soon as the thought clicks into place and he wasn’t scared of the magic.

He wasn’t scared of her.

“I’d like to see you,” Killian adds, “If that’s—” Emma blinks, nose barley settling back to its appropriate place before she’s leaning forward and that same nose is pressed against Killian’s cheek. He doesn’t kiss exactly the same.

It's not as horrible as she thought it would be.

It’s softer now—still a little cautious optimism that’s almost as weird as the rules of basketball, and it takes a moment for him to tilt his head, a quick flicker of his tongue that leaves Emma reeling just a bit. That’s all it really takes, then. She lets her fingers fly into his hair, barely any space between them when she clamors closer, knees bumping his side and his hook finding the small of her back.

Like always.

She twists and he tilts his head and it’s not quite hungry, but there’s something about it that’s almost like a low simmer, steady and even and normal. It’s absolutely, totally normal.

She’s not sure how long they stay there, making out like teenagers on the floor, but it doesn’t matter because Emma is at least ninety-six percent positive she’s just become Killian Jones’ first kiss and the thought leaves her a little dizzy and even more breathless than normal, goosebumps exploding on her skin that don’t have anything to do with the temperature.

“What happens to them?” Killian asks, pressing the question to the corner of Emma’s mouth. “John and Judy?” “Her name is Esther in the movie.” “Another strange moniker.” She laughs— giggles —and it’s easy to feel Killian’s answering smile against her jaw. “Well, they’re engaged when it ends, and it never really says they get married, but I’d imagine they do after the fair.” “The fair?” “That’s a whole other plot point we don’t have time to go into. It’s—c’mon, we should probably get some sleep.” The smile is gone. “You should sleep, Swan. I can take the watch.” “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” “Someone should be awake, this isn’t the safest place.” Emma waves her hand, lock clicking into place and it’s probably wrong to take some perverse pleasure in Killian’s stunned expression. Or the position of his tongue. “Impressive.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.” “You should at least take the bed, love.”

If he realizes he’s switched endearments, he doesn’t show it, but Emma does — and so does her magic. It roars and soars and some other word that is slightly less positive because the thought of not falling asleep next to him is suddenly the single worst thing she could come up with and—

“There’s enough space,” she reasons.

Killian wavers for a moment, more than a few quick breaths through gritted teeth. Emma takes her boots off.

And climbs into the bed. “The sheets suck though,” she says, and it gets the desired laugh out of him. He probably doesn’t understand the idiom.

It doesn’t matter.

He follows her anyway — and that’s a multi-fold thing and maybe they’ll be able to find a copy of Meet Me In St. Louis at home. Maybe she can get another red gown.

Maybe they can— “Bloody hell how are your feet so cold?” Emma buries her face in the pillow to mask her laugh, body shaking despite her best efforts. Killian looks scandalized.

“Bad circulation, I guess,” Emma reasons.

“You’ll get frostbite like that, love. That can’t be healthy, I—what?” “Nothing, nothing, just...I’m sorry about my cold feet.”

He narrows his eyes, looking for the double meaning to those words and he’s always been very perceptive. So. It doesn’t take long for him to understand. “It’s alright,” he says. “Here, c’mere. You can...I’m warm, at least.”

“Yeah, I know.”

It takes some twisting to get comfortable, but that’s really more the sheets than anything and Emma’s head manages to find its way to Killian’s chest, an arm around her middle and lips grazing her hair and— “Swan. Swan, c’mon—Emma, love, we’ve got to get up.”

She grumbles, pressing her face further into the fabric under her cheek, but that fabric is also moving and the man wearing it is breathing and laughing in her ear and it takes Emma a moment to get her bearings.

There’s light streaming in through gauzy curtains, a soft roar coming from behind the closed door of her bedroom. No, that’s not right.

Their bedroom.

In their house.

With their family.

It’s—

“Merry Christmas, love,” Killian says.

Emma jerks her head up, reality rushing back to her and she’d been dreaming. Of a different reality and a past that had been fixed years before. It’s been years.

What sounds like several different crashes sound from, what she can only imagine, is the general vicinity of the kitchen.

“Merry Christmas,” she mumbles. Killian ducks his head, catches her lips with hers and he laughs again when she objects to his movement. “No, no, you’re comfortable.”

“And warm, I know. But—” He winces at another crash. “I believe the little sea monster is awake and likely determined to open the the rather alarming large mountain of presents she’s been presented with. Also, your parents will be here soon.” Emma nods, a schedule flitting through her brain that includes breakfast and lunch and dinner that will end with—

“I expect your dance card to be filled tonight, your highness,” Killian adds. He nips at her nose when Emma doesn’t answer immediately, a knowing flash in his gaze and it had been her mother’s idea.

A ball.

At Christmas.

Emma is almost unreasonably excited. If only because those few strands of hair that still fall across Killian’s forehead have started to take on a distinct silver edge and she can’t really think when she notices it.

She’s anticipating a good deal of making out. In dark corners.

And dancing.

“Aye, Captain.”

The flash gets noticeably darker, another kiss they don’t have time for, but that’s also kind of their thing and—

Crash. Several. In quick succession.

“She might have knocked the tree over,” Emma mutters. “I’ll go and assess damage. Make sure you put socks on, love. It’s probably cold downstairs.” Emma salutes—in tandem with her flipping stomach.

And the kitchen isn’t nearly as bad as she thought it would be, a living room eventually covered in wrapping paper and laughter hanging in the air and Emma lets her mother pin her hair up later.

The gold matches the red in her gown.

And the red on Killian’s cheeks as soon as he sees her, one side of mouth tugging up and that same flash—disarmingly familiar and consistent, no matter the realm or the years or the curses they’ve lived through because—

He takes a step forward, a quick bend of his head and lips brushing her knuckles.

Emma’s magic flutters.

He lifts his eyebrows.

“Your highness, ma’am.” “Captain.” “It’s a very good color.” “No problems with the tuxedo?” Killian shakes his head “I don’t know how to play basketball.”

She can’t help the size of her smile or the force of her magic, memories he probably shouldn’t remember, but they’ve watched the movie enough that he could probably sing the songs by heart now. And he does, humming soft melodies in Emma’s ear all night until she’s dangerously close to swooning.

In a slightly darkened corner.

With her husband’s mouth on hers and his hook pressed to the small of her back and happily ever after playing out around them.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #captain swan fic #cs fic #festive prompt a thon #i'm thinking i'm going to be able to fill one more prompt before we go away #probably on wednesday #which is not the nice round ten i was hoping for #but--life #so if you sent a prompt #it will get filled #it just may not be....straight christmas #i got more prompts than i was expecting #which was very nice and very surprising

50 notes · View notes

fromthemouthofkings · 4 years

Text

10 Favorite Characters

Thank you @wisteria-lodge for tagging me!!

1. Grand Admiral Thrawn (the Thrawn trilogy by Timothy Zahn)

I stan 1 (one) blue alien Sherlock Holmes

[image description: the cover of The Last Command by Timothy Zahn, showing Thrawn as a blue-skinned humanoid with blue-black hair and glowing red eyes, wearing a white Imperial uniform. end id]

So I’m specifically talking about the book character here; I have no idea what’s going on in the Star Wars TV shows. But Thrawn of the Star Wars Legends universe (and the newer canon book, Thrawn) is hands-down one of the best and most interesting characters I’ve ever seen. He’s brilliant, creating battle strategies by studying his opponents’ cultural art to understand their cultural psychology and look for weaknesses in their thinking. And despite being a morally grey character, he’s not unduly arrogant and is actually extremely likeable--he has to work hard to get into the Imperial command structure that heavily discriminates against non-humans, his motivation is the best interest of his people, the Chiss, and he is always willing to explain his thinking to his close allies and friends. And who else would respond to being stabbed by smiling and saying, “But it was so artistically done?”

2. Beren (specifically, from Philosopher-At-Large’s script/screenplay adaptation of Tolkien’s story of Beren and Luthien, A Boy, A Girl, & A Dog: The Lay of Leithian Dramatic Script Project, which can be read in full here: https://rustbucket.net/leithian/index.html)

Do we not all want to yell at the gods about theodicy until they answer our questions to our satisfaction? I specifically pick Beren not from the original Silmarillion, as much as I love Tolkien’s work, but from Philosopher-At-Large’s script retelling, because A Boy, A Girl, & A Dog might just be my favorite work of literature of all time--fanwork, original fiction, or otherwise. I stumbled across it via a fanart of Beren on DeviantArt, like, six or seven years ago that referenced it, and my life has never been the same. It was hard to pick a favorite character, since literally all of the Script’s characters hold a special place in my heart, but I love Beren’s gentle, dry humor and his grim, determined, reckless stubbornness. His relationship with Luthien is of course the driving point of the story, but I thought that his relationships with Finrod and the other members of their company, and his backstory in Dorthonian and his interactions with the Valar were spectacularly done as well. This story is full of the grim determination to at least try and keep loving people, to keep throwing yourself at a problem and refuse to back down until you find a satisfactory solution, and Beren is right there at the heart of that, and I think that makes him pretty hopepunk.

3. Hamlet (Hamlet by William Shakespeare)

What is there to say about Hamlet that hasn’t already been said a thousand times by people significantly more learned and eloquent than me? I love him. He’s a genre-savvy protagonist trapped in a world where nothing! Fucking! Makes! Sense! My poor emo boy. I feel so much for him, being trapped in a situation where he needs to learn the truth in order to move forward and finally act, but there’s no way for him to get at the truth, so instead he just spirals further and further into fey, frustrated, erratic “madness.” Such a disaster bi. Definitely in love with his tired functional gay bf Horatio. Drama queen and Pretentious Asshole TM. In any decent modern au, he loves Hot Topic and gets all his clothes from there. I don’t even really do theater, but I’d love to have a chance to play him onstage.

4. James Dunworthy (the Oxford Time Travel series by Connie Willis)

The Oxford Time Travel series by Connie Willis ranges from hilarious (To Say Nothing of the Dog) to heartbreaking (Doomsday Book) and Mr. Dunworthy is right in the middle of all of it. For those who haven’t read it, the premise of the series is that time travel has been discovered, but we can’t use it to change the past, so instead it’s mainly just used by historians going back in time to study history, and Mr. Dunworthy is the head of the history department at Oxford University in the year 2060. He might be strict, but he has strong dad vibes, and, just, cares so much for all of his historians. He basically adopts Colin when Colin is stranded in Oxford over Christmas during an epidemic, he regularly puts himself in danger to look for lost historians, he helped invent time travel, and he knows that the point of studying the past is caring about the people who lived there. I want him to be my dad.

5. The 9th Doctor (Doctor Who)

Okay, I love 10 and 12 and 13 almost as much as I love 9, but 9 has to be my favorite Doctor. He was my first doctor, and what really got me hooked on the series was his kindness--hard-won and hard-clung to after the trauma of the time war. It isn’t always easy for him--the time war took everything away from him, and you can see how he’s tempted to be angry and bitter and harsh--but even so, he insists on helping people, on atoning for his mistakes, on nonviolence and using kindness and cleverness to fix things instead of violence and hate. He says, guns are bad and bananas are good, and every person is important, and when asked if he’s a coward or a killer, he says, “Coward. Any day.” And that philosophy, that choice, has left a deep impact on me.

[image description: gif of the 9th doctor saying “Who said you’re not important?” from New Who Season 1 episode 8, “Father’s Day.” end id]

6. Eliot Spencer (Leverage)

The whole premise of a group of thieves, criminals and con artists getting together to take down corrupt people in power is great, and Eliot is my favorite. He may have done some seriously bad shit in the past, but now he’s just devoted to taking care of the team, and particularly his hacker and his thief. I don’t know that he believes he’s worthy of their love, but he’s still somehow the most mature and emotionally stable member of the team; he knows how to control his anger and live alongside his regrets, and despite his grumbling, he dives headfirst into protecting the rest of the team and keeping them safe. Bonus points for being in an almost-canon ot3, and for the passion that he brings to his cooking. Also, I headcanon him as gray aro and transmasc, because I can.

[image description: gif of Eliot standing back-to-back with Parker and Hardison. end id]

7. Jon Sims (The Magnus Archives)

I’m only on season 3 of TMA so far, but I love Jon with all my heart. Working at a supernatural research institute, after having had a supernatural encounter of your own, and still choosing not to really believe in the supernatural until it knocks down the door to your office and riddles you with worms? Big mood. He’s a stubborn workaholic disaster ace, and I relate because I too struggle to interact with people and tend to get lost in obscure research projects for hours at a time. Somebody give this boy a hug and then a nap.

8. River Taam (Firefly)

Once again, there are a lot of good characters in Firefly, and I was hard-pressed to pick just one of them to put on this list. But River is a sweet summer child slowly overcoming trauma to find the joy and delight in the world around her that she had before the Academy, and I want all the best things for her. Bonus points go to Simon, who gave up everything he knew to save his sister, and Mal, who stubbornly sticks to his own code of honor even after loosing the war and much of his faith.

9. Lancelot (The Once and Future King by T. H. White)

A splendidly complex and morally grey take on our favorite legendary hero. T. H. White writes a Lancelot who struggles deeply with guilt and pride and imposter syndrome--who struggles desperately to do what is right and to channel the traits he finds in himself--both strengths and flaws--into doing the right thing. His scrupulosity is sadly relatable, and the lines “It is so fatally easy to make young children believe that they are horrible” and “ You could not give up a human heart as you could give up drinking. The drink was yours, and you could give it up: but your lover’s soul was not your own: it was not at your disposal; you had a duty towards it” are both absolutely haunting. It’s only implied in the book, but T. H. White admitted in letters that Lancelot enjoys pain, and is probably bi as well, and a bit in love with Arthur, and that he feels very guilty about it, and I just want a fluffy modern adaptation where Arthur and Guenevere and Lancelot can be in the kinky ployamarous triad that they deserve and just be happy together.

10. Luna Lovegood (Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling)

While I have some problems these days with the Harry Potter series and the transphobia of its author, it’s possible to like something without minimizing its flaws, and this list would not be complete without Luna Lovegood. I spent significant portions of middle school pretending to be her. She taught me how to embrace my own unabashed weirdness, and I wouldn't be the same without her.

@a-nerdy-shade-of-purple @conan-concocting-chaos @one-supportive-august @the-lyra-cal-trans @the-eleftheria @dumpstertrash

#quinn speaks #thank you so much for the tag! I had a lot of fun doing this #my taste in characters is apparently Ravenclaws and Huffledors haha #thrawn #beren #hamlet #dunworthy #9th doctor #eliot spencer #jon sims #river taam #lancelot #luna lovegood

11 notes · View notes

alternativewinxcontinuity · 4 years

Text

Bloom Peters in: The Haunted Mansion of Mirrors.

A test of courage goes wrong and Bloom finds herself in over her head when the house turns out to actually be haunted after all.

Genre: horror, mystery, AU (but in a canon divergence way) Characters: Bloom, Kiko, OC Witch, OC Wizard, Mitzi, Andy Warnings: mentions of blood, general horror elements, dangerous bike riding etiquette Word Count: 2,679

This story is in summary format.

Bloom Peters in: The Haunted Mansion of Mirrors.

In an Alternate Universe where the Trix didn't manage to waylay Stella on her way to Alfea, Bloom spends part of her summer miserable until she winds up running into her ex and his friends at a local juice bar at the same time as Mitzi.

Mizti is in the middle of telling her friends about a story she'd heard from someone who'd been working for her parents, who've decided to try their hand at house flipping. (Mitzi presents it as a 'hobby' like buying, renovating and selling houses is normal and just for funsies when you're 'as rich as her parents'.)

The story she relays is about an old manor on the edge of Gardenia which has been vacant for decades after the whole family was mysteriously murdered.

“Which is why the house is, like, super haunted.”

Bloom doesn't care for ghost stories and scoffs at the idea, but not quietly enough. Mitzi jumps at the chance to call Bloom a coward and say she wouldn't last a minute in the house before she'd run screaming for her parents.

Bloom denies the accusation and says if anyone were to run away scared, it would be Mitzi.

Before anyone else can think better of it, the group is caught up in the idea, and suddenly making plans to stay the night in the 'haunted' manor.

Bloom guiltily tells her parent she's going to a sleep over (with Selina, who's not actually back from her vacation yet, but her parents don't know that) and prepares supplies.

Not trusting Mitzi to not try something, Bloom prepares to stay awake all night long.

She packs her good flashlight, the heavy duty one she got for camping, some jerky type snacks and two bottles of water, a note book and pens for doodling (including several colours because boredom), and she makes sure her cell phone is fully charged.

Of course she takes a blanket and sleeping bag and pillow and sleep over snacks, because they're supposed to be staying all night, but she makes Kiko stay home, because taking him is sure to end badly.

(He stows away in her bag and doesn't reveal himself until she arrives at the house.)

Bloom rides her new bike, leaving super early to make it on time. Luckily she manages to cross paths with some of the other group members as they're leaving the city limits, and Bloom illegally and unsafely by hanging onto the care (with permission) and they drive the last stretch to the manor. Mitzi is already waiting for them at the gates with the rest of the group and lets Bloom and the others in.

Straight away Bloom gets some seriously bad vibes, the kind that make her skin prickle with icy needles and make her want to puke and run. When the pull up in front of the house in the spacious driveway area, Bloom almost refuses to get off her bike.

But Mitzi calls Bloom a coward who couldn't even make it into the house, and Bloom's pride gets the better of her. Andy tries to comfort Bloom, but she just can't shake the feeling of wrongness in the house.

As the group enters (Mitzi opening the house with a set of keys she didn't actually ask her parents permission to borrow,) Bloom notices some strange carvings in the wood of the houses porch, etchings that seem to buzz in Bloom's perception of the world, but Andy says he can't feel anything, so Bloom tells herself that she's just psyching herself out and tries to shrug it off, ignore the voice inside her screaming warning after warning as it waves red flags.

The group has enough time to set themselves up in the 'living room' of the manor's ground floor before the sun goes down. They're just about to start playing cards when Kiko reveals himself, in clear distress.

Bloom says she'll take Kiko outside to use the bathroom, angrily snapping at Mitzi when the later sneers that Bloom is “running away already,” since Bloom isn't running away, she's being a responsible pet owner.

Only the door at the front of the house won't open, even when Mitzi tries the keys.

Andy and friends offer to try and find an open window for Bloom to get out through so she can deal with Kiko's 'over excitement', but Bloom feels a sudden panic at the idea of splitting up.

She can't explain it, but she feels like the pressure inside the house is increasing even though no one else can sense anything, and Kiko keeps getting more stressed.

Right before the pressure peaks, Bloom sees a blood covered woman who isn't in the room in the mirror over the living room's fireplace mantle, she looks to be screaming “GET OUT” and Bloom spins to shield Kiko as the mirror explodes outwards. She ducks down to make herself as small a target as possible for the shards and tries not to hurl as the entire world feels like it's dividing itself apart.

Bloom hears the others scream, but then everything goes quiet as the pressure and dividing sensation stops.

Bloom looks up surprised, and sees a glowing sphere of energy dissipate around her, the rest of the room empty and the mirror intact.

The group's supplies are where they'd been seconds before, but there's no sign of the group itself.

In the mirror Bloom can see herself reflected, Kiko in her arms and the strange woman behind her.

Bloom freezes, scared, she realises the woman is saying something, but she can only make out two of the words:

“ ? ? Get ? Out”

Slowly Bloom turns, but the room behind her is empty, and when she turns back, so is the mirror. Scared and feeling so out of her depth Bloom gathers her things, and wishes she'd brought her baseball bat.

Kiko seems scared but far less distressed than before, so Bloom makes a choice: she needs to figure out what happened to her schoolmates (and ex boyfriend), and if some freaky blood covered lady in a mirror thinks Bloom is going to run away and leave them to whatever horrible fate she's got in store for them, then that lady is about to find out just how wrong she is!

Bloom and Kiko move further into the house, slowly going through the rooms looking for any kind of clue.

They don't find anything, except the former owners maybe had a mirror fetish, but Bloom manages to sketch out a rough map in her notebook and noticed some strange wall thicknesses.

Then through the house comes the sound of a mirror breaking, and Bloom and Kiko go to investigate.

A mirror in one of the old bedrooms had a crack that is slowly repairing itself, and on the floor, where there hadn't been earlier, lies a note.

The words are written in reverse but Bloom can figure them out easily:

In the white fire place, to the blue seashells

The house is large enough for three fireplaces, one made of white marble, one made of black, and one made of red brick, so figuring out which one the note is about is easy enough.

The duo go to investigate. It takes a little while, but Kiko hops into the fireplace itself and finds a loose plate of thick ceramic at the back, coloured to look like the marble around it.

The move the fake stone and reveal a small compartment with a little chest inside.

There's no key hole but it seems to be locked, until Bloom gets frustrated enough to say “open damn you” out loud to it, and the lid pops open.

Inside she finds a small compact mirror, an enamelled seashell, and a note written in a language she feels like she should be able to read.

Not sure what do with their discovery, the pair head upstairs to the room with the mirror that has a frame of blue seashells, certain that's what the note's second half was about. Once there Bloom quickly realises the enamelled seashell from the chest fits into an indent at the top of the mirror's frame.

Not sure how it will help, but out of ideas on how to find her friends, Bloom presses the enamelled shell into place, a spark of energy dances around her fingers and the compact mirror seems to hum. When she grabs the compact the sparkle of energy surged into it and a small blue shell appears on the compact's casing. As Bloom holds it close to the mirror, the surface distorts and Bloom realises there is now a room beyond the mirror.

Stealing themselves, Bloom and Kiko step through the mirror.

Across the next several hours, Bloom and Kiko traverse various warped versions of the manor (all accessed through different mirrors in the (different) house(s) like the blue seashell framed mirror) to find 'dolls' of Bloom's missing schoolmates. The house(s are)is riddled with various traps, almost like puzzles, but is leaving notes and clues and snippets of a story.

Bloom finds herself glad that Kiko stowed away as he's able to get into spaces she can't and retrieve objects she needs. She feels like she's in a puzzle based horror game, or a haunted escape room, but it feels almost as if there are two separate builders.

She finally gets the idea to try holding the note from the fireplace box up to a mirror, and even though the language isn't English, Bloom can read the note just fine.

And Bloom slowly begins to realise the blood covered woman isn't trying to stop Bloom, she's trying to help her. (she didn't say “get out!” she said “can you get them out?!”)

The note from the box tells her what she's walked into the middle of:

A witch with a strange power over mirrors, a wizard who found immortality and was corrupted by evil, a request by the legendary wizard Merlin to guard the corrupted wizard's prison until a way to kill him could be found.

The box note was a warning she didn't read until too late, warning against entering the mirror worlds, but it is centuries old, something has h since it was written.

Luckily, notes from the mirrors, from the witch, Bloom realises, fill in the rest:

A crack in the prison when an occult ritual decades prior had almost wrenched the witch out of the mirror, a crack that widened as she found herself bound to answer an inane summoning ritual, pulled to the mirrors of so many houses the prisoner was able to slip some of his power past the wards and infect the inhabitants of the house.

As Bloom gets closer to her goal, she is plagued by the ghostly and corrupted remnants of the wizard's previous victims, and realises the wizards influence is over taking the witch's, and it might be Bloom's fault. The wizard's puzzles and traps had been holding her friends hostage while the witch's blocked the way between the worlds within the mirror. In order to rescue her friends who'd been pulled into the mirror world prison, Bloom had slowly been undoing the outer layers of protection which kept the wizard trapped.

So Bloom sets out to make things right and finds herself deep inside the world of the mirrors where she come face to face with the witch at last.

The woman introduces herself as Mary, Witch of Mirrors and Liminal Spaces, the keeper of the mirror worlds.

Now that they can talk face to face, Mary is able to explain that Bloom protected herself against the wizard's powers with her own magic. (Which is why her friends had any hope of rescue, the compact mirror Bloom's been using to pass between worlds is the only way to unlock the door out of the mirror worlds.)

Over Bloom's protests, Mary tells Bloom that she holds an immense magic within herself that has lain dormant for most of her life, but it might be able to trap the wizard once more.

But they'll have to start from ground zero, all the way in.

As they travel, (bypassing traps designed to kill Mary and tear the prison apart without it's maker to repair it,) Mary explains the history of the wizard, Cocytus, one of a Circle of 5 incredibly powerful magical users who'd gained a form of immortality by perverting the power of the One Who Created the Universe, The Great Dragon.

Ironically, Phlegethon, the Fairy who'd been responsible for the perversion of power and the last member of the Circle left standing, had been the only member of the Circle that had been killed, somehow struck down by her own sister. The other four members had been sealed away before that, hidden in various Artefacts meant to trap them for eternity, but there was no perfect prison.

The small group of three manages to make it to the inner most part of the prison, and there they face off against Cocytus, who for a few moments inexplicably seems to think Bloom is the deceased Phlegethon who's tricked her way to the depths of the prison to free him.

Then he realises she's not when Bloom begins to help Mary layer in new prison wards, and in his rage (at being 'tricked', and since the prison is at its weakest) manages to break free for revenge.

Mary and Bloom do their best, even Kiko lending what aid he can in the form of ankle biting and splinter throwing, but they almost loose until Bloom experiences an almost out-of-body moment.

She hears an ancient and powerful roar, feels gentle arms around her even as an inferno of strength rages through her.

She finds herself transformed.

A presence at the back of her mind helps her, teaches her what to do and Bloom unleashes the Wrath of The Dragon upon Cocytus, stripping him of his unearned Spark of immortality and allowing Mary to finish him off once and for all.

In the aftermath, Bloom makes sure her missing schoolmates are unharmed, and Mary walks her out of the mirror world.

At the final doorway, Bloom realises Mary isn't coming with her, even though her task is over. Mary explains that she's covered in blood for a reason, she'd sustained mortal injuries in the normal world, and if she leaves the mirror she'll likely die without immediate magi-medical attention which Bloom doesn't have the knowledge or skills to provide.

But she tells Bloom to keep the compact, because Mary can go wherever it goes, since it's actually an ancient Artefact of her power.

Bloom hugs the woman goodbye, and she and Kiko leave the mirror world at last, heading downstairs to fix the formerly missing group before the sun rises.

The group wakes with the sense that something horrific had happened, but none of them remember what beyond vague nightmare like impressions, and they can't explain why Bloom looks so tired yet satisfied, but they all just want to get out of the house and are relieved to find the door is no longer (magically) locked.

Back at home Bloom comes clean to her parents about her adventure, and Mike and Vanessa come clean about the circumstances around Bloom's adoption.

Mary is able to fill in some gaps for them where the Magical Dimension is concerned, speaking through the compact mirror after being summoned by Bloom.

(Three calls of “Bloody Mary” and an aggravated witch appeared in the glass with a huff and a “really?”)

Bloom is grounded for a few weeks, but she takes that time to learn some things from Mary, though Mary is a witch, not a fairy and thus can't teach Bloom everything she needs to know about magic.

In the wake of her adventure, since she has no way to contact let alone explore the Magical Dimension, Bloom wonders about other haunted houses and 'cursed' places around the world, and once her grounding is up, she convinces her parents to let her go tour a few haunted places.

She runs into a few more cases of actual magic, but with Mary's help and her own growing skills, Bloom manages to become her generations top paranormal investigator and exorcist.

#winx #winx club #winx club bloom #bloom peters #horror game au? ish #I've been on another rpg horror maker let's play bender okay?#I'm sorry - I wrote this at like 1 am

5 notes · View notes

cosmicpeko · 5 years

Text

Tool ㅡ Chapter 3: Love

Word count: 1,437

OTP: Fuyuhiko Kuzuryuu x Peko Pekoyama | Danganronpa 2

Additional characters: Sato | Danganronpa 3

Story type: Fanfiction

Short summary: Peko Pekoyama dives into her most precious memories in an intimate journey to self-love, trying to live with emotions she can’t control and to discover what it’s like to be a real person. More notes at the end.

Read on AO3

ㅡ

Quick notes before you start: This is something that canonically happened in Danganronpa 2 and 3, so this might be a little spoiler for some of you (sorry! I needed to follow a real timeline). Other warnings: semi-graphic depiction of violence, slightly gore. Enjoy!

ㅡ

My thoughts reminisce: I am a tool. I was brought to this world to be by his side; I shall fulfill my purpose.

I see blood. All around. All on him. All on her. Who was her. What was her. The remains of a pathetic figure laying on the cold floor. Where she belongs. Where she will always belong. The glimpse of life slipping between her hands. Falling from her open skull. Dripping from her forever unblinking eyes.

Him. Young Master ㅡ he is standing tall, near the body. Wide eyes. Far from reality. Far from himself. He is searching for pride and honor to justify himself. Before her. Before God.

Floor as slime ㅡ I hear my own heartbeat. Eardrums shattered. My body and my heart are ready for action. Leaving nothing for thoughts. Readiness ㅡ is an unconscious mechanism. Fists closed.

« You had to call me for this, Young Master. You had to command me. This is what I should be here for. » Unhealthy explosion of emotionality that clouds my judgement ㅡ I've felt this before. I know this. I don't need this. I don't want this. I inhale. Then exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

« I killed the bitch. »

Exhale.

« I am the one who did this. » Green eyes reveal total emptiness. Freckles that tasted of summer on his skin now resemble black stains on a pale white board. Pools of blood are where his watch is headed to. He's not here. « Young Master, please refrain to look at the corpse. » I did not intend to be this morbid. « Listen to me. We're doing this togheter. Please... » Useless is every word I call aloud to divide him from the unsettling view. They echoe between the walls of an hollow corridor.

Inside the girl's own house.

She was alone. And she knew. She saw it coming, every day. Every minute. And I, myself, knew it too. I was preparing my sword, every day. Every minute. I knew my own fate. I knew my mission. I was ready to kill.

But I failed.

I let my Master take responsibility for something I had to do first. Killing people is not his job, and it didn't have to be. I am so afraid to lose him ㅡ I start to panic.

I would tear each and every limb of my skin just to fit all of his pain inside me. And free him from it.

Quick thinking. In a hurry, I enter her own room ㅡ not a moment to stop to look at her possessions. At her smiling pictures hung on the wall. Not for a moment I am moved by her scent, still lingering, present, between the sheets I am stripping the bed from.

She has no value to me.

The only priority is dividing the body from my Master's watch; preparing and delivering it to the Kuzuryuu family as prize for the vengeance, second. Offering some first-hand preparation to the pitiful corpse, her own sheets I tuck her lifeless self with. Laces ripped out of my shoes, tight around her.

It takes all my will to have respect for the dead.

Clothes drenched in blood, I approch my Master again. I dare to move before him. « Young Master, please look at me. Please. » I find myself quivering as I keep staring at his eyes ㅡ drained. Hands slowly reach for the bloody weapon, trying to take it from him. He's gripping it. Holding onto it for dear life. Breathless. I shake his shoulders, obtaining just some uncomprehensible muttering. His body tensing as if it's turning into stone.

I don't realize I've been biting my lips until I had my own blood resting on my tongue. Quickly suck it off. Swallow. He can't stand more blood than that. Thought I could block the view, but he's seeing through me.

Or he's not seeing at all.

« I did this for Natsumi. » His words snap me out of it not even a second before I totally went berserk. Stop the thinking. Focus. « I cracked the bitches fucking skull. With this baseball bat. » The muttering suddenly transforms into precise and lucid statements.

Inhale. Exhale.

« Fuyuhiko, » gripping his arms, « Say it. Many times. » The approach is stupidly risky. And my only chance. « As many as you need. Please. » The stake is high. I'm inducing the trauma, attempting to unlock his brain. For the first time, I am not sure of the outcome. I have to try. I have to save him. For I know, and remember, how it is not to be saved.

His lips start to tremble again. « I killed Sato. » His chest rising. « I killed her. I killed Sato. » « Yes, » warmth under his skin. « Yes, you murdered her, Fuyuhiko. You took her life with one single blow. » He is looking at me with wide eyes. Hollow. Struggling to reach out to me. Pure horror. « I killed her. » he repeats, « I killed her. » he quivers, « ...I killed her. » he takes more than a pause to breathe. Sour tears.

« ...I...I... »

He finally realizes.

« Oh my God...Peko... »

One instant.

I grab his entire body. Push it onto mine, embrace it. Tight. As I break any formality between us just by making him feel my body against his ㅡ his entire being crumbles. He cries so loud he shouts. He grips my clothes on my back. Loosing them. Marking my skin with his nails as he's trying to climb his way back to reality. Ribs shaking so much I am worried he could break them just like this.

I am witnessing my Master searching for my protection for the first time.

I do not know what is he trying to reach for until I feel it exploding inside me. Waterfalls ㅡ I cannot help but crying, as I realize too, holding my Master's body entirely, I want to be with him forever. How painful it is ㅡ to hear his sorrowful cries, to feel his bones cracking under my touch. How beautiful it is ㅡ to feel what they call love. I hide within the softness of his blonde hair. I inhale his perfume, feeling it overpower the smell of blood around us. I hear no sound, other than the pace of his breathing, slowing down.

The world is straying further from this moment.

« Look at me. » I whisper, aiming to better calm him down. Hands grab his face softly. Slowly rise his head little low to my own.

Fool me ㅡ I was not ready.

I'm choking on my own breath. Air blocks in my lungs, in my stomach. Then leaves me. Subtly. Eyebrows frown in a blink of time. My eyes, filled with a unique kind of light ㅡ the same which I witness, appearing in his. He's so close, I feel him stealing my soul. « I will protect you, Fuyuhiko. » A promise freed from any written fate ㅡ for a moment, I am human. I possess human will, human warmth. I am human just enough to be with him. Just to let him feel me. To be home for him.

« We ain't fit for this, Peko. This whole yakuza vengeance shit. » I swallow more breath as I hear him talking. His voice scratching his throat on the way to me. « We leave right now. We close accounts with my dad, then we fuckin disappear. I was never fit for this role anyway. I'm a coward, to the core. » He does not fully realize, cloudy mind ㅡ he is the only one left for his family. A duty is to be fulfilled, higher than mine, higher than anybody else's. I know better than my Master knows ㅡ you can not escape that bound. Some things are to be done, and we, what are we if not desolate pawns, my dear Fuyuhiko, what is our value in a greater scheme? What is the meaning of our life, if not to suffice the roles defined for us? Is it even possible to escape it ㅡ do we find salvation in what we feel?

« Let us dispose of the body first. » « Peko. Say you will run with me. Say it. » As I lose myself in sweet caressing his skin, My heart breaks in a million pieces. I would run with him forever. ...

« I will follow your orders, Young Master. »

ㅡ

Ahhh ~ our wonderful lady finally realizes she actually WANTS to be with Fuyuhiko... it’s not a duty anymore... ahhh my shipper feels ~

I seriously hope this chapter did not disappoint you. Disjointed narration is soooo difficult when you want to describe lots and lots of details in your heart, like, Sato’s home, the terrible smell of blood, or how Fuyuhiko’s embrace felt like... ╰(▔∀▔)╯

Please support the ff both here and on AO3! Only a few chapters left!

Next chapter hints: it’s going to be VERY complex, VERY abstract, VERY hard to read. Like a Picasso. It will leave a huuuuge space for opinions and interpretations. Two major characters will be starring the story as well. Someone you might love or hate... +__+

See you on chapter 4!!!

#toolFF #read it on ao3!#I guess it's better #danganronpa #danganronpa 2 #danganronpa 3 #kuzupeko #Fuyuhiko Kuzuryuu #Peko Pekoyama #romance #character development #otp #fanfiction #ao3 writer #author #writing #hope you'll like it

8 notes · View notes

stusbunker · 5 years

Text

Known: Bring Him Home

A DARK Supernatural Fan-fiction

Featuring: Demon!Dean, Demon!Reader, Female Vessel OC, Sam Winchester, Crowley, Castiel, Dean x Female Vessel OC

Summary: This is the first two and a half episodes of season 10. I didn’t rehash what the canon gave us, but let you in on where our reader moved through those events in order to be exactly where she is needed to be.

Warnings: Typical angst, show level violence, demonic phone calls aka blood, the ritual of purified blood aka needles, non-consensual touching, and the rest is too spoilery. Have fun kids! xoxo

Series Masterlist

*^*

September 22, 2014

Glendive, MT

The stolen SUV stilled with the crunching of gravel, a roadside bar had caught your eye and on the whim that you hadn’t been followed, you pulled over. It was dark and dingy, something you had become intimately used to. The stale beer soaked into the ragged carpeting, a smell you would always associate with that summer, with the countless nights and bar fights the demon that Dean had become had waved off or fucked away. There was a payphone in the hallway between the bathrooms and somehow you were silently hoping he had kept the same number. The coins clunked into place, long and lean in the polished slot. The ancient deep tone of the ring peeled across the ether and then an alias and a generic voicemail continued the one-sided conversation.

You inhaled and replied chunkily, “Sam, it’s me. Or us, well not Dean, but CC. CC and I, both fine, by the way. If you’re free…we should talk.”

*^*

CC watched her hang up the heavy black phone with a satisfying clink. Her warped image looking back at her through the matte reflection of the disused amenity. She had been hiding out, she knew it and the demon at the wheel had quietly left her to it. Well, she didn’t know what Chloe did, she couldn’t, but the months trying to break through to the real Dean or subdue the demon had been exhausting for them both. Sam’s voice had stirred CC from her subterranean, dulled complacency. This wasn’t just about saving her own skin; it never had been. It was about those boys, those pig-headed jackasses that deserved better than what they had been dealt. Or scammed into. And minimizing Dean’s threat was just a finger in the dam.

She shuffled through the demon’s recent memories, stretching against the mental atrophy. She felt her leaving Dean and Crowley with some strippers, glancing thrice over her shoulder before ditching through the employee exit and into a bouncer’s ride. She hadn’t driven far, but in an odd spiral, fanning out to shake anyone tailing her. She seemed to be in the clear, CC watched her buy one drink at a time watching the door to the side hallway like a dog waiting for her human to return from war. The phone never rang.

*^*

Sam couldn’t remember the last time he had gone over 100, especially in something other than the Impala. He bit his tongue as the rickety bumper brushed the pavement after a railroad crossing. Cursing, he thanked his paranoia and hadn’t risked the bullseye that any of the vintage cars from the Bunker would have been, for any demon in his path. All those sonsofbitches that had been laying low or living on radio silence since Crowley had taken his brother from his bed. Cowards, the whole damn species. He cased the parking lot before heading into the side entrance, the bar like any other, navigable and unimpressive. There was still a dusting of sulfur on the earpiece of the payphone and not another clue in sight.

He slammed the phone back into place, loud enough to get a begrudging ‘hey’ from the bartender. Who recoiled as Sam spun to glare at her, he gathered himself carefully before ordering food and prodding for the direction CC’s demon may have headed. A half hour later Sam stared past his second beer, unsure if he wanted to crash or get back to the Bunker when a drunk at the bar got his attention, whining about his cheating wife.

*^*

September 24, 2014

Another crappy motel

Crowley hadn’t missed how Dean intentionally never mentioned the dove’s sudden and unforeseen disappearance. Crowley was certain Dean hadn’t killed her himself, fairly certain as he didn’t seem to have lost any of the pent-up energy. Especially after the second mess in Wisconsin, when Crowley had been overly disclosing about the Abaddon supporters that Dean stopped listening. With his close watch, Dean couldn’t have done anything to her too terrible.

It still felt a bit, unceremonious, to be skipping town without her. He had grown accustomed to her banter and she had helped keep him infinitely more contained than the Mark could. Without her to help Dean take his edge off, in any number of ways, Crowley pondered what wouldn’t set him off. Ever the businessman, he secured his asset, sliding into the backseat of the car beside Dean as another minion drove them to the next neon plastered cesspool. A jolt of excitement struck a nerve within the King; now it was time for a real howl.

*^*

October 6, 2014

Colorado

You both surfaced in the days following the strip club and the subsequent unanswered phone call. You tried to ignore CC’s intrusiveness, as the memories of the summer months were sorted and filed under constant static in the back of your mind. She was still a hunter, and to her Dean was a target, despite his meatsuit and the taste of him coating every recollection. You left her to her schemes, while mindlessly driving through the mountains and enjoying the scenery you could only imagine in Hell. It was as close to therapeutic something like you could muster and it only made you frustrated with the path you had taken.

The distance did wonders for your ability to forget the severity of his actions. Your struggling masochistic side had taken you down a steep path that fell away into the oblivion of guilt. Was it all your fault? If you hadn’t taken over CC’s body could she have stopped Dean before he let Crowley swindle him into taking on the Mark convincing him to kill Abaddon for him? If you hadn’t distracted Dean from Sam and the Angel problems, would he have ended up on the wrong end of Metatron’s blade? If you hadn’t needed him would he be better off? Had your selfish, imbalanced, twisted nature damned him? You reasoned against yourself on and off as the scenery flitted past, the lush greens soaking in their final triumphs before the autumnal cascade of color. Everything felt impossibly perfect and you worked your jaw against the need for destruction, because at least you could do that properly. You took the winding roads at whatever pace your foot found, letting the pine and the thin air fill your lungs as CC chanted at you to turn around. To go back. To demon up and bring him to justice or the end of an exorcism.

“Fuck off.”

You felt her roll her eyes at you and you stared into the rearview mirror, challenging while unimpressed. You headed back north, slowly trudging out of the pity party. You slipped around an Oldsmobile going ten under, clipping their sideview mirror off with a semi-pleasing thunk. This is what you did now: wallow in self-doubt and cost geezers their pension checks in repair bills. You slammed the gas and drove toward the only thing that made your heart race like it would stop at any moment. Back to the only being that made you feel death had been worth it.

They were gone. Not a lackey or a forwarding address in sight. You knew what to do, but it made CC nauseous as the intent sparked. It was your turn to roll your eyes. Carefully you moved to the back office and found a particularly sweaty thick necked manager to toss into a bathroom. His beady eyes bulged as best they could against his caterpillar inspired brows once you drew the knife. The generic brown towels quickly plugged the sink to allow his blood to fill the basin. Once you felt enough of the ruby liquid had pooled below, you spoke into the depths.

“Crowley, you sonofabitch, where did you go?”

*^*

The blonde left the hotel with tears welling in her eyes, she didn’t even look at you as you blatantly watched from the fender of the latest car you had lifted. You swung your arms widely and entered without warning. He smelled of an ocean of booze, musty sheets and sulfur-tinged sweat. Once he could focus on your face an overplayed laugh erupted shallowly from his chest.

“Well shit, Crowley had that revolving door installed after all. Welcome back, uh, whoever you are. Perfect timing, cuz that one just got all sentimental and I had to let her down easy.”

“Except you didn’t.”

“Of course not, what do I look like?”

“Three sheets to the wind and still wearing your boots, must have been some night.”

Dean cocked his head, kicking his legs over the side of the bed. He tried to stand but thought better of it. You paced, picking up some of his clothes that had been left to clutter the floor. He sipped some water from the nightstand. You couldn’t remember a time he had ever drank water in his life, apparently CC could, but that had been because he had been refused a beer from his dad. Good, little shit deserves some purifying forces in his system.

Your hand brushed over the bag beside his new duffel, which had quietly been awaiting your return. You glanced over your shoulder at Dean who just waved off your touched expression. He didn’t ask where you’d been, and you didn’t offer. Slowly you helped him get naked and into the shower. He was too drunk to even try and put on the charms, but he shoved you a bit to make himself feel better about it. It was all too much: walking into the tangle of his exposed nerves, the thoughtfulness and the swift return to degradation. You needed some air, so you walked back into the night to allow him to sober up, however briefly. When you returned, he was gone, but the bags stayed behind.

*^*

October 14, 2014

The bar with the tiniest umbrellas

The kiss-asses in suits loomed like Agent Smith wannabes, one was barely free from the Axe-body spray of his vessel’s frat boy days. You didn’t care for business and you certainly didn’t want them looking down their noses at you and how your presence was wasting “valuable” time. Instead of engaging them in soul conversion percentages, you ordered another drink and one for Crowley, for whenever he decided to show. Mending bridges was unbearably necessary now that Sam was back in the picture. You felt the mortal coil tightening around your insides, be it from CC’s impatience or the inevitability of being what you were: a demon in love with a hunter. Self-preservation was making you even more cagey than before you had ditched the dynamic duo.

Crowley strolled in with the sound of welcome bells, a far off look in his eyes, the First Blade tight in his grasp. Heckle and Jeckle started off right away, but he ignored their pleas and took the seat next to you. “Somebody came crawling back with her tail between her legs.”

“Where is he?”

“With his brother, no thanks to you.”

“Is he--? Is everyone alright?”

Crowley raised his eyebrows and clenched his jaw, turning to play with the many pokey things in his ornate beverage. “I thought we had ironed out the kinks, once you left it was just the King and his trusty Knight. But he is no longer the brave little soldier daddy shaped him into, now he is a loose canon and, God willing, Sam is the only one who can sort that clusterfuck.”

“If he doesn’t kill him first,” you hissed into your shot glass.

“If you’re so worried about Moose, why don’t you scurry along. They’ll be home before you can find another payphone.”

You side-eyed the pair trying to interject, they each took a step back as you pushed out the stool and stood up. There was a lot you could have said in that moment, but none of it could fix what Dean had broken, especially not what was left of Crowley’s heart. Yours was all you could divine and that only left you chasing your tail. Crowley needed to move on, and Hell needed to be run, whether it by force or commerce. When the unique tingling started in your gut you smiled in gentle gratitude, his hand came up and you were gone before you even heard the snap.

*^*

‘Soul Survivor’

The Bunker’s dungeon

“Well, aint that the whore calling the kettle black,” Dean raised his eyebrows, accenting his demon pitch eyes.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sam huffed.

“You gonna tell him, or show him,” Dean stared you down until a goosebump-inducing sneer spread across his features. “Miss Collins is not home right now, can rando demon bitch take a message?”

You tried not to flinch, but the insult stacked on top of the unceremonious reveal left you feeling exposed, dirty even. “Yeah, yeah, big deal, jackass,” you snipped, jutting your chin at Dean’s restrained form. “I’d worry about my own self if I was you.”

“No, CC wouldn’t let that happen, not after all those months,” Sam gaped, he was a better liar than you thought. “She wouldn’t let something like you back in unless you forced her.” Maybe he wasn’t completely acting.

Dean started laughing. “You guys wanna take a minute? I mean it’s always a treat watching the grown ups fight, but—”

“You, shut up,” Sam growled at Dean. “And you,” he hissed over his shoulder, “stop talking, you make me sick.”

“Don’t get all self-righteous on me Sam, I mean, all of us here have fucked a demon. Or two,” you left off on a sigh. The younger Winchester recoiled; mouth pinched as if you had slapped him across the face.

“She’s got you there, don’t she?” Dean smirked now. You had grown to hate what he had become, even if he was backing you up.

“Are you working for Crowley?! Have you been--” Sam grabbed the bottle of Holy Water in his good hand, pointing the opening at you while he focused his tunnel vision.

“Not a Crowley stooge,” you held up your hands in surrender, trying not to roll your eyes as Sam’s authoritative side took over. “I don’t have any ulterior motives, I’m not Ruby. I didn’t have an endgame.”

“Just stop bringing her up! This isn’t about who fucked whom, this is about getting my brother back. Is Chloe even alive in there?” Sam’s voice leveled, how he remained focused at all, stumped you.

You nodded. “She’s fine and she is very proud of you right now, if you must know,” you lied to continue the dramatics, ensuring Dean’s over confidence before the plan could continue.

“Awww, wittle Sammy has a cheerleader,” Dean sing-songed.

“Shut up.” Sam snapped. He started sorting through the bags of blood, grabbing a syringe before turning to you. “Are you going to help? Or do I have to exorcise you for good this time?” He spun towards Dean and squared his shoulders. “Buckle up.”

“Sammy, you know I hate shots.”

“I hate demons,” Sam said sadly before tossing holy water in Dean’s face, the demonic grunt escaping his lips as Sam sunk the needle in his brother’s arm. Dose one had been administered. “Look, we got a whole bunch more of these to go. You could make it a lot easier on yourself.”

Sam paused, the olive branch dangling between them. Then Dean shifted, the evil within him fighting the purified blood, impossible bestial cries rang from his body. You swallowed, dumbfounded and truly terrified of him for the first time since the farmhouse. Thankfully, he was restrained. You watched Sam take in Dean’s torment while you waited for the next move.

*^*

It had been hours, Sam sometimes insisting on going in alone, sometimes not bothering to even acknowledge you were tagging along. You couldn’t remember the last time you were this tired: thoughts muted, eyes floating in their sockets, fuzzy limbs kind of tired. But you didn’t dare risk sleep to leave Dean truly alone with Sam, especially an injured Sam. It was during a solo dosage when you started another pot of coffee and turned to head back toward the library when a massive hand clamped down over your mouth. Instinct kicked in and you pushed back with every physical or psychic force you could muster.

Instantly you were free, a large crash and strangled moan cut off behind you. Sam dragged himself off the floor with fire in his eyes.

“He’s out,” he whispered, pulling himself to his feet. You took him in, pale and gawky, CC’s alarm threading through your veins with every heartbeat.

“Do you have your knife?”

Sam sniffed and nodded, chewing on the thought of stabbing his brother. You silently worked out the flanking of searching the Bunker, letting Sam take the lead. CC started to buckle in, her thoughts louder than they had been in months. You reached out with your senses, trying to feel him, but what warding there was against you was enough to dull his resonance. You unsheathed CC’s knife and started moving five paces behind Sam. He grabbed the spare keys from a drawer when an unmistakable voice rattled through the halls.

“Come on, Sammy! Don’t you want to hang out with your big brother? Bring the bitch along, hell we can share her.”

Your insides froze with the menace in his voice. Then you were kicked out of the driver’s seat with a speed and finality you couldn’t comprehend.

*^*

CC had let this go on long enough; she shook out her hands and settled back into control over her body like an alumni walking the well-worn halls of their education, both foreign and familiar with an undercurrent buzzing beneath the surface. She spun her blade and tossed it to the opposite hand, a once flawless motion was now almost too easy. She snorted back a giggle at the feeling of being real and present once more, like a chest full of fresh air and warm laundry all in one go. Then reality pressed in and she leaped into action.

The instant the emergency lights flared overhead; CC bolted back the way you came knowing that Dean knew where the breakers were. Sam followed none the wiser as Dean continued to mock praise him. One second, he was an arm’s length behind her and the next he was gone. Quietly, she back tracked as Sam slammed the door to the Electrical room and locked it.

“Are you serious?!” CC gaped at Sam as he stood listening through the door, knife at the ready but still so optimistic.

“… I know you’re still in there somewhere. Just let me finish the treatments. Dean?”

The first chunk of the door flew at Sam’s face, sending him on his heels and into CC’s bubble.

“You act like I want to be cured! Personally, I like the disease.” Dean’s eyes glinted through the holes he had pounded through the door. Gaps between the boards like a toothpick prison crumbling with each swing.

“I don’t want to have to use this blade on you!” Sam was desperate, begging and it hurt CC to witness it. He was the little brother again and though she hadn’t known him as a child, she knew the real Dean would never be able to dismiss his brother’s pleas. She pulled Sam away from the line of fire, readying her own knife and bracing herself for his inevitable escape. “No, what are you doing?! You can’t use that on him!”

“Shut up, Tweedle Dumb, just let a girl work.”

“Chloe?”

She cocked her head and locked eyes on the thing bursting from the door: show time.

“Well, well, well, look who wants to play hero.” Dean swung again, punctuating his taunts with his hammer. “It’s my lucky day. I’ve been blessed, because there is just enough demon in me to kill your meatsuit, finally free you up to be all you. Can. Be. Then, I’m gonna kill my brother and you’re gonna watch.”

CC felt Sam dive behind her as Dean stepped through the remnants of the door. He glanced impatiently as she mirrored his movements, shielding Sam without giving Dean a path. “You know what, asshole? You can take your threats and shove ‘em. You wanna dance? Let’s dance, just me and whatever you are anymore.”

Sam raced back to the dungeon, searching for anything that could give them the upper hand. Sam didn’t want to risk them killing each other in his absence, but he hoped their slightly even footing would buy him the time he needed.

“Hiya, Chloe, nice to see you again. She smoke out? Couldn’t handle Sam’s bitch face?”

“Nope, got her packed away for safe keepin’, too bad you can’t say the same.” CC shifted her weight, swiping widely and slicing the edge of his shirt. Dean caught her by the wrist, twisting her knife hand above their heads.

“You’re missing my point. This? Lean, mean Dean? Here to stay, Sweetheart.” She glanced up at his grip on her and her weapon and without flinching she kicked out his knee, throwing them both against the wall she broke out of his grasp, the hammer thudded to the floor. He grasped her hair in one deft fist fall, before kneeing her in the kidney. She buckled, falling against him. Dean stepped back and kicked her once in the side until she fell, curling in on herself. Carefully he kneeled at her side, with the hand still in her hair he lifted her ear to his lips and whispered, “stay down or I’ll put you down.”

CC thrashed against him, hurling herself against him as hard as she could. She managed to rock him onto his ass, but he took her roots with him, pulling with all of his might. She screamed as he groaned in satisfaction. She jabbed him in the ribs with the handle of her blade, when he spun them both. His thick thighs pinned her beneath him, as she tried to flip him off of her chest. Dean rolled his hips, his cock rutting against her tits as he held her wrists, twisting them down. She caved on the edge of a fracture, moving the joints with his control, unwilling to risk that sort of handicap. With her knife lost in the tussle, Dean inhaled deeply and grinned down at CC in sickening triumph.

CC swallowed as she felt the rigidness in his jeans, he leaned in, crushing her with his weight, her breath pushed from her lungs like the final tuft of bubble wrap. He watched her struggle; her eyes bulged, and color left her face. Dean rocked into her soft breasts, relishing in the lethargic shift of her weight beneath him. Finally, the creak and crunch of her bones rippled from the force of his increased strength. As the light faded from her eyes an acidic cascade fell over his head and back. He howled, digging his heels into her ribcage, which granted reprieve from the pressure on her chest.

“Let her go!”

Another barrage of holy water hit Dean and he fell to the side of CC’s body, boots kicking wildly as he tried to stand. He screamed and lunged for the hammer. Sam held his knife up, terrified at what he had to do.

“Well look who decided to join us. Ready to play, Sammy?”

Sam stepped forward, trying not to be distracted with the way Chloe’s body remained unnaturally still. Dean looked him dead in the eyes and jumped forward, psyching Sam a little and then swung, landing the hammer in the plaster just behind where Sam’s face had been. The Kurdish blade kissed Dean’s throat, but he knew he hadn’t lost.

“Well, look at you. Do it,” Dean taunted. He watched Sam’s surprise melt into submission. As Sam dropped the blade and Dean let his eyes flood black, three things happened: Dean stepped toward Sam in certain victory, Chloe gasped to life in their periphery, a startling golden glow radiating over her chest and neck and Castiel’s arms caged Dean in place, the power of his stolen grace containing the demon.

“It’s over. Dean, it’s over.”

Next Chapter: The Ending You Expected

#known series #demon!dean #dean winchester #dean fic #dark fic #dean x reader #dean x demon!reader #dean x female vessel #dean x OC #possession #blood #violence #soul survivor #demon!dean x demon!reader #dean x female oc #dean x you #to cure a demon

36 notes · View notes

amandaoftherosemire · 6 years

Text

Sing For Me -- Chapter Thirty-six

Fandom: Marvel Avengers AU

Pairing: Bucky Barnes X OFC (Sasha)

Characters: Bucky Barnes, OFC Sasha, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton, Wanda Maximoff, OFC Zoe, OFC Kat, OFC Maddie, Princess Shuri

Author: @amandaoftherosemire

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 3,473

Format: Series (Complete)

Warning: Language, angst.

Summary: Sasha has a dream. Kat does what she has to.

A/N: Not consistent with Marvel canon. I was commanded, in no uncertain terms, to fix what I did in the last chapter. I don’t know if this is exactly what you meant, @suz-123, but I’m working on it! Sometimes I think I do these things just to get you guys to yell at me. 🤷

Banner by: @hellzzzbelle

Sing For Me Masterlist

Chapter Thirty-five here

Chapter Thirty-six

Sasha opened her eyes to find herself sitting on the front porch of her childhood home. She breathed deep, and the familiar scent of warm hay and cool pine whispered summer. Summer nights at home, at least. It didn’t matter how far she roamed, what other places she called home, this was first and best for her. To her amused chagrin, she had a low-grade urge for a cigarette.

Apparently, it also didn’t seem to matter how long ago she’d given up nicotine, her brain was still throwing temper tantrums over it. When a cigarette appeared between her fore and middle fingers, already smoldering, she shrugged and brought the filter to her lips. She imagined she looked a sight, a grown woman for some reason decked out in a replica Princess Aurora dress, down to the random changing from blue to pink and back again.

The brick and cedar house at her back was typical for its neighborhood, large but not massive, dignified rather than ostentatious. Sasha’s fathers had preferred the elegant and understated. Perhaps that was how she’d ended up so loud and vibrant, her own minor rebellion.

She sat on the railing that bordered the wrap-around porch and looked out across the painfully familiar stretch of green lawn and cheerful flower gardens. Her papa had loved his flowers, the wilder the better, though he had had a soft spot for peonies that he’d recklessly indulged.

Sasha lifted the cigarette between her fingers to chapped lips that ached as she smiled at the image and the memory. How or why her lips were chapped in what amounted to a dream state, or so she hoped, she didn’t know, but she appreciated being able to smoke. She’d broken the habit years ago after a long and brutal battle with herself, but she sometimes still craved it like air.

Her chapped lips were the only evidence of the brutal war she’d been fighting ever since her shield fell, followed by the eternal plummet through nothingness. Her golden skin was perfectly smooth and shone with an almost unreal luster, not a blemish nor a scar to be found. Her hair fell in flawless barrel curls, as though she’d spent hours under the curling iron of the most meticulous of stylists.

Sasha mulled it over as she dragged on the cigarette in her hand, her face pensive, even as she noted in her peripheral vision the presence of the handsome blond giant leaning on the railing next to where she sat.

Magnus Fredriksen raised one thick, blond imperious eyebrow. “That’s a filthy habit.” His voice was a low rumble, his habit of speaking softly yet to the point adding to the overall impression of the kind of strength you could build a foundation upon. That had been an entirely accurate impression.

Sasha took a long pull off the cigarette and hummed happily. “I know, right?” She smiled cheekily at the man next to her. The carved in granite quality of his face had always inspired a little healthy fear; her Dad had been slow to anger but once his temper was provoked it had been a powerful thing. However, she had long ago learned to push through it to tease. Magnus may have been a sternly intense Scandinavian giant, but she’d always known how to make him laugh. “How bad do you want one?” she asked slyly.

His eyes narrowed dangerously, and she had to hold back the snort of wicked amusement. “Don’t be a bitch,” he groused as he reached out, and as he had done countless times before, grabbed a hank of her hair to tug exactly twice, a gesture of genuine affection mixed with a benign exasperation. With a bittersweet ache in her throat, she thought of her own hand reaching to tug on Zoe's ponytail. She wouldn't be surprised if the look she gave him was the same as the expression of mischievous unrepentance that crossed Zoe's face at such times.

Magnus rolled his eyes and leaned in, hiding his face from the window on the other side of her shoulder. His voice low, he looked around furtively as he muttered, "Give us a drag, then, dammit."

Sasha threw her head back and laughed out loud. She had no idea what was going on and was finding it impossible to care when she was laughing and joking with her dad again. She lifted her hand to her shoulder in a practiced motion, twisting her wrist to put the filter next to her dad's lips. He took a drag and waited for her to do the same so that he could exhale when she did to camouflage the smoke coming out of his mouth. The man had been fearless, except when it came to the disapproval of the love of his life.

"You have never once fooled me with that, you know." Charles O’Dowd had had the driest of voices; everything out of his mouth sounded vaguely sarcastic. When he had wanted to, he could infuse a statement with enough contempt to peel the bark from a redwood. When Sasha had wanted a tone for the word Barnes that would say everything in the shittiest and most insulting way possible, she'd emulated her Papa. She grinned like an idiot at the sly-eyed redhead when he continued, "Sasha, love, what the hell are you wearing?"

As he’d always believed that a good defense is a good offense, Magnus tried to deflect in an attempt to escape the evil eye under which he shrank. "It’s the dress from Sleeping Beauty. Do you have eyes?" Charles merely lifted a skeptical eyebrow over sharp hazel eyes.

Magnus had also believed that discretion was the better part of valor and had steadfastly ignored any reminder that such wisdom came from Shakespeare's famous coward. Without a qualm, and hardly for the first time, he threw his only child under the bus to save his own skin. "Apparently our little girl is playing the damsel in distress."

Though Sasha and Charles shared not one drop of blood, the expression they fixed on Magnus was identical, a testament to the power of nurture over nature as he became the target of amused disdain in stereo.

Sasha's face changed first as the sudden feel of a weight in her palm made her look down. "Huh.” She looked at the object in her hand with both resignation and dismay. "I seem to have acquired a sword.” She looked up, across the lawn to where the quiet street that curved past the house had become a wall of briars steadily climbing upward. She sighed a little, regretful that her rest was at an end. “I'm betting it's for all that."

"There's a storm rolling in, too." Her Papa spoke softly, the dry edge of his voice blunted by the compassion rich in his tone.

Sasha smiled sunnily despite the knowledge that the pain would soon return, but only if she was lucky. "Yeah, but that's my storm. I better go grab it." She hopped down off the rail and stood in the flower bed, a tall and well-built woman in a dress flattering in neither cut nor color(s), a stupidly shiny short sword in her hand. Out over the top of the wall of thorns, she could see a bank of blue-silver clouds rolling speedily in her direction.

Her Dad came around and down the steps to slide his arm around her shoulders. He squeezed gently. "If you're going to make it, you'd better go before those get any thicker. Or sharper." Sasha turned to him with tears in her eyes and smiled.

Her heart breaking all over again, she wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged tight, burying her face in his chest. She felt her Papa wrap his arms around them both and tried to re-memorize the feeling of being held once more by the first two sets of arms to never let her down.

"I miss you both so much." Sasha's voice was a raspy whisper, her throat thick with the tears that fell unchecked.

Magnus pulled back to look into Sasha's face, Charles releasing them both to move to his husband's side. Her Dad had a lean and ascetic face that prevented his expression from softening much, but his voice was infinitely tender as he answered. "Death is only painful for the living." He smiled sadly, but with a wry quirk to his lips. "But it's brutal."

Sasha hiccupped a laugh and smiled up at him through the tears, her heart breaking all over again. "I'm all about no more pain, but it seems to be the price of admission." She kissed his cheek before pulling out of his arms. "I love you, Dad." She turned to slip her arms around her Papa's waist and hug him tight, kissing his cheek also as she pulled away. "I love you, Papa." When she stepped back, Charles reached out and took Magnus' hand.

Sasha continued to slowly back away, a smile sparkling with both love and tears spreading over her face. For years she had carried with her a final memory of her fathers, one spattered with blood and grief. She soaked in this new image of them to take with her, whole and happy and handfast, the house at their backs, the flowers at their feet.

Before the picture could blur with the tears she struggled to hold back, she blew a kiss, picked up her skirt and turned, sword in hand, to run for the wall of briars. As she ran, tears streaming down her cheeks, she heard her Papa as though he spoke softly in her ear. "You were already Sasha the first time I looked into your eyes. You know it. All you have to do is remember it."

When she reached the briars, she couldn’t help but turn back for one final glimpse. She looked around, astonished to find the house and the men gone. All that remained was an unfamiliar meadow sprinkled with wildflowers and peonies and the whisper on the wind. Do svidanya, Sasha. Ya tyebya lyublyu.

And for the first time since her captivity, the sound of Russian didn't send a chill down her spine. "Ya tozhe tyebya lyublyu, Papa." As she spoke, she turned back to the wall of thorns that separated her from the tempest.

The vines continued to grow unchecked toward the sky. They seemed to have a life of their own as they coiled together, leaving little room to wind through. Determined, she swung the sword back, and on the word Papa, brought it down as hard as she could on the thick branch in front of her, cleaving through it like butter. With a savage grin, she swung the sword back again. She had to get through. Bucky was waiting on the other side.

To her astonishment, Kat felt tears pricking at her eyes as she watched her little sister sob inconsolably. Zoe had her arms wrapped tightly around Bucky's waist as she cried into his sternum. Her voice was muffled, but Kat could hear her crying the words "my fault" over and over again. For his part, Bucky was watching Sasha with devastated eyes, but he was rubbing Zoe's back with his flesh hand and quietly murmuring vague reassurances.

Vague was all he was capable of, his mind blank and reeling as he tried to comfort the sobbing child against the horror in front of him. He wanted to tell her that it wasn't her fault, but he couldn't think beyond this timeless eternity between hope and heartbreak. Shuri flitted back and forth, her motions nearly a blur as she worked tirelessly to start Sasha's heart. Bucky's heart seemed to flit with her, trembling as it followed her every motion. Only her continued determination to keep moving, keep trying held him together.

Kat's eyes were burning with unshed tears as she watched desolation settle onto Bucky's face, as she saw the fear begin to fade into grief. Guilt was crawling up her neck as she stalled, still afraid to trust and hoping Shuri would make the guilt unnecessary.

Her stomach knotting, she noticed Shuri's movements become more frantic, but with no indication of greater success. As she worked ever more feverishly over the still form on the bed, Zoe’s little body shook ever more violently with the force of her sobs. Kat was terrified she knew what Zoe read in Shuri’s mind to make her cry so viciously and the guilt pierced her ever more deeply.

Next to Bucky stood Steve, his ridiculously handsome face crestfallen as the seconds turned to minutes and Sasha still hadn't responded. Natasha was by his side, her hand holding tightly to his as she muttered under her breath, her eyes never leaving Sasha's face. Clint had his arm around Wanda, who seemed to be losing hope as her face was wet with tears.

Those tears broke through Kat's determination to keep her secrets. She had been holding on, desperately hoping Shuri would bring Sasha back without her. If she showed them what she knew, Shuri would be able to deduce the rest and she could not risk that knowledge falling into the hands of those who would exploit it. She didn’t know these people and thus couldn’t trust them.

But she could not let Sasha die, not for any reason. Every morning she'd woken up next to the woman who even now held her hand, she owed to Sasha. If she could claim even a shred of decency, if not courage, she had to try to save her. She looked down at Maddie's face and reminded herself she was trying to deserve this woman. She squeezed Maddie's hand once before letting go to step forward.

The room was silent but for the soft croon of Zoe weeping and the gentle whisper of Bucky's attempts to soothe. When Kat spoke, it cut through the silence like a cleaver and had every eye whipping her way.

"Give me your arm," she said to Bucky as she stepped to his and Zoe's side. He looked at her like she was crazy, his face a study in incredulity. With a roll of her eyes, she snagged his metal bicep in a firm grip and began pulling him forward.

"The hell?" Bucky didn't resist, that tiny flame of hope that still burned inside him glowing a little brighter, but that didn't mean he didn't want an explanation for Kat's sudden spring into action.

Kat didn't answer, having no interest in wasting time on unnecessary information. She had already dithered for far too long. Instead, she spoke only when they were next to Sasha, as she placed Bucky's hand on Sasha's bare shoulder. "Put your metal hand against the nape of her neck."

Zoe, who'd followed in Bucky's wake, gasped a little and Kat wondered what she might see in her mind. When she'd read that particular piece of information in the file, she'd had to laugh despite the chill that had run down her spine. Her blood ran cold at the thought of what Valentin could have done, would have done, had he known he had a mind reader at his mercy.

Bucky didn't hesitate, slipping his hand beneath Sasha's hair to press his palm firmly against her skin. To his astonishment, he could feel three pinpricks of heat against his palm and forefinger and breath caught at what it might mean. When his hand was in place, Kat nodded to Shuri and the kimoyo beads in her hand.

The room itself seemed to hold its breath as Shuri tried to start Sasha's heart one more time.

This time, Bucky felt a song, beautiful and somehow familiar, flow into him just as the monitor registered the beat.

His heart, which seemed to stop when he heard Zoe scream, finally began to beat again, too.

When he looked up from Sasha's face to grin at Shuri, he found the princess had fixed Kat with a serious and implacable look. Kat sighed a little as she replied, though her answer made no sense to Bucky at first.

"Tuned vibranium," she murmured, her voice remorseful if not penitent. "And yes, if you'll allow it, I can probably wake Sasha. But I'll need Zoe's help."

Chapter Thirty-seven here

Taglist:

@marvel-lucy @cheekygeek05 @lbouvet @lovely-geek @wantingtobekorra @diinofayce @ashesandfire @suz-123 @theresaskankinmyboot @ddysis @caplansteverogers @getbuckylucky @california-grown @rnr1274 @capandbuck @buckybarnesappreciationsociety @magellan-88 @mizzzpink @curiositywillbethedeathofmee @colie87 @bibliophile1773 @henrietteoaks @hellzzzbelle @same--old-shit @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @rishlo

#bucky barnes x ofc #bucky x ofc #bucky barnes fanfiction #mcu fanfiction #sing for me #pantswrites #series wip #angst

37 notes · View notes

decadentrpg-blog · 6 years

Photo

WELCOME EMILY, YOU’VE BEEN ACCEPTED FOR THE ROLE OF HELOISE DELACOUR

Admins Note: Heloise was certainly a difficult choice to make but after much assessment, I want to say that I absolutely adore what you’ve brought to the table! From build up of her background to every little historical reference that was placed within your application, it cohesively created this duality that Heloise has! I’ve enjoyed every interaction she has as well as the clarity and rationale behind her thinking! Your faceclaim request for Virginia Gardner has been approved. Congratulations on your acceptance again, please make sure to head your way to the checklist and submit your account within the next 24 hours!

Out of Character

Name / Alias: Emily

Pronouns: She/Her

Age: Twenty-two

Timezone: GMT.

In Character Application

Full Name: Heloise Delacour

Sexuality: Lesbian.

You like girls. No, that’s wrong. You love girls. You love the smoothness of their skin. You love their gentle curves, their bodies like oceans, refreshing and divine. You love stroking their hair as you lie between sweat-soaked sheets, curling it around your fingertips. You love sharing lipstick shades so it won’t get too messy when you kiss and the sound beaded dresses make when they hit the ground. Most of all, you love who you become around them. Bursting at the seams with euphoria, without a trace of shakiness in your footsteps, you unveil the creature you fought so hard to become - self-assured and valiant. You always slipped into her without thinking about it, knowing instinctively, that this was right. This was who you were supposed to be.

Gender/Pronouns: Cis-female, she/her

Hogwarts House: Gryffindor.

The hat was adamant. They wanted you in Gryffindor. They wanted you to learn to harness your own roar, the find power in your sort of bravery - perhaps even to tame the brasher instincts of your peers, to calm the storm inside of them. Not every kind of bravery favours the bold, the defiant, the loud. There are different kinds of bravery. The courage to carry on when the chains around your neck drag you to the ground. The strength to try and try and try. The valour in turning yourself into an anchor, a steady weight for the rest of the world to ground themselves on. There are all sorts of bravery in this world, each as useful, each as needed, as the last. Children, yourself included, see so much, but so little at the same time.

You didn’t glimpse the potential in yourself. You wouldn’t for many years yet.

But the hat knew.

You pleaded for Hufflepuff, knowing you’d be able to carve a home out of the house. The world underestimated badgers, sneering at their perceived lack of intelligence, wit or ambition. You didn’t see that at all. You saw steadiness, a bedrock to build a person upon. It wasn’t a leap of faith. But society couldn’t be built around those who flew. Someone had to be waiting, down below, rooted to the earth, ready to catch falling angels.

The hat laughed.

“Better be…” Panic rose in your chest, a knot tightening inside of you. “GRYFFINDOR.”

They weren’t unkind to you. But you were the fawn in the pride of lions, the hovering figure in the background, the mute who never could make herself heard. Years later, with your personhood more fully attached, half of you wistfully wishes you could go back and do it better. Do it again. And yet, in your heart, you know there’s no value in looking backwards. You must journey on.

Head canons:

Trigger warnings for violence, war, alcoholism and mentions of abuse.

I. la petite fille

Your father - and you only have the confidence to say this now you’re a fledgling, grown to use her own voice - always cared far too much about what people thought. Cream of French society, darling of the elite, a career-hungry politician intent on climbing the ladder. Ironically, the sunshine in your soul can be traced directly back to him. And yet, where yours is woven into the very essence of your being, a warm touch to steady a storm, an easiness to still a monster, a brightness to diminish the darkness, his is a mask, a choking falseness. It was that, more than anything else, that scared you. He changed before your very eyes - shaking hands and kissing cheeks one second - to plotting behind their back the next. Nothing about him was real. He slipped between your fingers, never a solid thing to hang onto.

(The feeling, you know, is mutual. You were a grand disappointment. Too timid to follow in his footsteps and too honest to lie. You’re mostly strangers now, each unable to understand the other).

Your mother you know a little better. An English rose, she fell for your father’s charms one summer, a fling that never was supposed to turn into a marriage. You were the bump that interrupted those plans, the shame that would have befallen her good name. Both parties were hastily married and that was that. You’ve always wondered if she blamed you for it. Always been too afraid to ask. Your mother, you know, was miserable, far far away from home, shackled to a man she barely liked, forced to play the part of politicians wife. When she played it well, there was harmony in the household. But if she slipped up…all hell broke loose. And her, with her love of expensive wine and flirting with other people’s husbands, did mess up. You never witnessed the war inside of your father unfold, merely lived its after effects. Silently, you’d pull a blanket over your mother’s quivering frame and give your father his favourite cigar.

(As you grew, you became rather good at predicting the ticking time bombs. So before the storm ravaged, you nearly always scrambled to safety, grabbing your teddy bear and retreating to the back of the wardrobe. You never found a secret world in the back of there, but you did find safety - and that was a comfort in and of itself).

Peacemaker, your father would sometimes say with affection, your mother with scorn. You’d gulp and nod silently, opinions kept to yourself. Over time, a survival instinct became a pattern and from a pattern into a habit. Such things are hard to shake.

Ii. maison choisie

Your mother hailed from London’s big smoke and your father made Paris his home, so you’ve always been accustomed to cities - you could even say it’s in your blood. But nowhere ever felt like home more than your Grand-Mere’s home a stone’s throw from Amiens. Reluctantly, with great effort, your father would make the bi-annual privilege there, dragging your mother in tow. You never had to be forced, you galloped ahead, a country girl at heart. There was something so liberating about Amiens, especially in the summer, where the line between the fields and sky was impossible trace and wildflowers bloomed. Your grandmother was kinder than your parents, the only one who could pull you out of your shell - but even then, only when you were alone. More a hedgewitch than practiced individual, she used to set you upon a stool as she practiced her potions, entrusting you with the responsibility of stirring from time to time. She was the one who taught you that magic had more than rigid purpose, that it would be as beautiful as life itself.

She also taught you a second, valuable lesson.

You remember the very first muggle you met. You remember them because they waved joyfully as you stepped into the town square - and knew your father by reputation, your Grand-Mere by face. Your father, ever the diplomat, turned his face away, pretending not to have heard. You, bashfully, didn’t meet their eyes either. It was only later, when your parents had been placated by a bottle of wine or two, that your Grand-mere took you aside.

“Why didn’t you wave back?” Dumbstruck, you look for somewhere to scurry away and hide. Gently, she took your hand into her own. “I won’t hurt you chérie.”

“Maman et Papa didn’t.” And you never were awfully comfortable around strangers, bashfulness seizing control of you.

“They were wrong to.” Bopping your nose, your grand-mere drew giggles from you. “They didn’t wave because he was…” her voice strained over the English word. “A muggle. Have they told you not to talk to muggles?”

You shook your head.

“Don’t let them. There will be some, especially when you go to school, who tell you not to talk to witches who have muggle parents. You musn’t let them order you around. No one is any better or lesser because of the blood in our veins. Even muggles…they’re not witches. But they’re not the enemy. After all, if I never spoke to a muggle, I’d never speak to anyone! Never forget that.”

You promised you wouldn’t. You haven’t since.

Iii. armes de guerre Ultimately, it was war that drove you away from your beloved France and your cherished Grand-mere, who refused to stand down and flee when the German troops overran Amiens. You like to imagine she would not take a cowards way out, apparating whilst the others were rats in a barrel, trapped by the advance. You like to imagine she fought to defend her farm with every trick up her sleeve. You like to imagine she remained strong and valiant until the very end. But you’ll never know. The war snatched her from you, her story lost to the wind. All you had left was an owl from the French ministry and the personal condolences of the French Minister La Magie.

It took you a very long time to summon the courage to return. And even then, you couldn’t do it alone. Kenshin stepped in without being asked, the year after you left Hogwarts, stability at your side as you confronted the ruins of the happiest parts of your childhood. Violence had ravaged the landscape, scarring those who survived. Left with nothing, you saw the hallows of hunger in their sunken cheeks and poverty wrecked on their bones. Beauty had perished and been left to die. But in the ruins of her farm, you saw all was not lost. The Peach trees were still rooted, their bounty just as sweet. The goats, against the odds, made it out of the shelling alive. The old stool you had once assisted your grandmother had merely cracked, not splintered. Life went on - and through the cracks of darkness, light emerged.

You saw something of yourself in that light.

A hopeful creature, timidly taking her first steps into the world. A passionate believer in the strength of goodness, in victory and vanquish over evil. That progress, ultimately, would triumph. That even in the face of blasphemy, there is room for beauty, for brightness. The trick is in finding it and nourishing it, so that it may grow.

From seed to sapling to great oak.

The spark within yourself ignited that day. You felt your grandmother’s presence and smiled. You mourned, not in sadness, but in joy - for all the happiness that had been, for all that would yet come.

The world treads down on optimists, mocking their faith. But you’ve learnt there’s courage in that kind of relentless determination. That day, you felt its whispers in your soul. That day, you swore to let it go free.

Iv. soldat improbable The time that followed ‘The Great War’ was supposed to be the long peace. If you look with hooded eyes, you’d find that in the cityscape of New York. Illicit drinking. Parties that last until dawn. Jazz bands. Woman’s emancipation. There is so much beauty, so much progress. But squint harder - and you’d find an underground war, a cold one, lurking just below the surface. It’s cause is more just than any muggle one ever fought. It isn’t a battle between great powers, princes and their cousins. It’s between right and wrong, progress and past, egalitarianism and inequality.

You know you’re not a likely candidate to fight in it. Most overlook you, sneering at your daintiness, soft smiles and open heart. They should understand that it’s what makes you strong, too. All you want is some small part in this larger battle, to be a part of the greater good. More than anything else, you’re a visionary, able to picture a world beyond this hatred. If you can see the brightness, you can be the brightness, a bedrock for those wearier than you, a guide for those who might come in your direction. You’re no warrior, not in the conventional sense, but not every battle should be fought with a weapon. Some need softer tools. You could be that person.

It is the sum of your duties with Dahlia. You see yourself in her, the girl you were but a few years ago, timid and unsure of the power in her own voice, but possessing a rosy heart. She deserves better. You long to show her that, to share your brightness and certainty in betterness, to pull her from the den of snakes and away from the Pride Society. You’re not asking her to fight, for the Coalition, for you…never. You simply want to help her. You would do anything - give her the means to runaway, a safe roof to shelter under, because you long to see her flourish. You’re just so afraid of failure…of failing her, your duty and yourself. The powers against you are overwhelming, those who wield the weapons lethal. The horrors she confesses terrify you. Light, as bright as it is, can be snuffed out. That is your greatest fear where Dahlia is concerned.

V. Coup de main As fun you’ll admit the parties Wren and Kenshin drag you out to are, you couldn’t carve a life out of them. Pleasure is for hedonists - and you do not count yourself among their ranks. When you found your own voice, the grit beneath porcelain skin, you were determined that it should count. You sought purpose in yourself, a way to matter. Almost as if you were trying to prove yourself…to yourself.

You found clarity in the most unlikely of places. A non-descriptive building in Queens - that would appear empty to an unsuspecting muggle. It’s purpose only became clear when you stepped inside, finding an overworked and overwhelmed refugee agency. In the aftermath of the great war, the creation of a dozen new states in Europe, thousands of wizards chose to emigrate instead, heading to the United States in search of a better life.

It’ll be tough work, the supervisor warned, staring you up and down, disdainfully. You bit your lip. Old habits die hard.

I’m tougher than I look. Promise. Your voice rang with clarity, in how true that statement had become.

You began volunteering on a trial basis. You distributed donations and held shaky people in your arms. You played with children and made puppets dance. After a fortnight, you began to offer your services as a translator, hoping to connect people into the interior of the US. A little while after that, you suggested you could be used by the organisation at large, rather than ad-hoc.

You felt a rush in your chest, advocating for yourself. You felt strong and brave and…right.

VI. bizarreries personnelles

Here are the little things that make you, you.

You never broke the habit of walking on your tiptoes, a legacy left from a childhood full of ballet dancing. Slender limbs, porcelain skin, your teacher used to sigh and wish you centre stage. Bashfully, you refused, your cheeks darkening. The spotlight was never yours to claim.

You cannot cook without making a mess. In your presence, the kitchen comes a bomb sight, ravaged by war. Nose flour-stained, fingers sticky, you chase Kenshin around the kitchen. You always catch him. He always allows himself to get caught.

Your pastries are infamous, light and puffy, the sort only the french know how to make. You refine your recipes with magic and tap your nose whenever anyone asks for their secrets. (Later, in fine ink, you pen them a letter, containing the details).

You despise British food. You ate dutifully at Hogwarts, too shy to even dream of asking for an alternative. Toad in the hole. Pies. Casseroles. Blegh.

You bit your fingernails until you were fifteen years old. Your mother enchanted them after that, exasperated at your lack of self-control. The spell has long worn off, but the manicure never lasts long. It’s a nervous tick.

You used to chew your hair. You threw off that habit by twelve.

Birthdays are your favourite times of the year. You take great pride in the gifts you give friends, a thoughtful gesture behind each one. You do, however, despise your own birthday. Being at the centre of attention makes you uncomfortable, you’d much rather spread and share the joy. Luckily, everyone’s learnt not to throw you surprise birthday parties. Instead, you have small, intimate gatherings.

(You and Kenshin have a ritual. A cupcake at midnight as eve becomes day.)

You’re hopeless at keeping plants alive. There isn’t a green bone - or thumb - in your body. You failed herbology miserably.

But you’re incredibly attentive when it comes to writing in your diary, daily and in french, to prevent eavesdropping eyes. A habit you haven’t shaken since your days in Gryffindor.

Your patronus is a lamb. An individual with a lamb patronus has a sort of natural innocence about them, and have a very serene disposition. They are kind to most, though they tend to have a difficult time reaching out and expressing themselves. They have a shy aspect of them that is not only social, but inner, which makes them hesitant to do many things. That said, they are very patient and calm creatures, which allow them to be workable with this nature.

You talk too much when you’re nervous. Far too much. About things that have nothing to do with anything. The weather. The latest show that opened on Broadway. The dance craze everyone’s talking about. Whether you should get a bob. You blabber, filling the space with…words. It’s endearing to most, but you despise it in yourself.

Your wand is 9 ½”, french-made and slim. Beech and Unicorn Hair. “The true match for a beech wand will be, if young, wise beyond his or her years, and if full-grown, rich in understanding and experience. Beech wands perform very weakly for the narrow-minded and intolerant. When properly matched, the beech wand is capable of a subtlety and artistry not seen in any other wood, hence its lustrous reputation.”

Languages are your forte. You have a knack for wrapping your tongue around them, inheriting a little of your father’s silver-tongued mantle. French is your mother tongue, but you’ve added English, Spanish, Italian and a pinch of Latin to the mix.

When you’re making a bold declaration or gesture, you rehearse the words in your mind the night before, like a politician preparing for a speech. You muse over the most effective way to get your point across, the comfort a person will be most receptive to, or whether it’s better just to hold someone and let them cry.

Connection expansion:

I. meilleur ami (Note: I’m happy to change all of this if the Kenshin player disagrees, this is merely my interpretation).

“Mon Frere…” Kenshin catches your grin. Deliberately, his mouth forms an ‘o’. “Ma sœur” You wince at the deliberately butchered pronunciation, but smile nonetheless. He’s always had a particular knack for that, drawing the happiness out of you. And you for him. The only label that fits your description is that of platonic soulmate. Or big brother. For truly, the lines between friendship and family have blurred, that you can’t tell them apart. Certainly, he feels more like family than your own blood ever did.

You met on your tenth day at Hogwarts, in the middle of Herbology class. Devil’s snare wrapped around your hand, you panicked, but were too shy to raise you concerns, suffering in silence. Where few did, Kenshin noticed you - and calmed you down with that bluntness of his. Before you knew it, you were smiling, then laughing and then free. You’ve been attached at the hip since - and shall be, until death do you part. The years did little to change the pair of you. Where some friends grow apart, you grew together, slotting like two jigsaw puzzle pieces. By third year, you were spending Christmas together, Kenshin sensing your unspoken reluctance to go back to France and face the holidays with your parents. After your first one together, you confessed the truth, honesty no one had even known. But most of all, he brought light into his life - different to yours, more brazen and bold. Like two twinned suns, strung across the sky. He is your confidante, secret keeper, joker, dance partner and now, roommate.

The latter made sense. When the two of you ended up in New York at the same time (it’s impossible to imagine the two of you oceans apart, impossible and terrible and dreadful), it made sense for the pair of you to find a two-bed apartment in Manhattan and make it your home. You are as compatible roommates as you are friends.

And, for the first time, he made a house a home.

II. le fruit interdit (Again, I’m happy to alter things dependent on plotting w/ Prosperina’s player) You shouldn’t want to kiss her. If you are the doe, she is the wolf - a huntress determined to strike clean. In your heart, you know you should hate that dynamic, as you know you should despise her - resent the intimidation that rises through your bones, abhore the uncertainty she makes you feel.. You should be afraid. Very afraid.

And in so many ways, you are. You’re scared of what your attraction to her says about you, now that you are both girls grown, living with the choices you make as adults. You aren’t school children anymore, you aren’t praying to be noticed, doodling hearts with your names encased in it. You’re fearful of what might happen if you find yourselves alone, in a dark - or a light - room. But you’re more frightened, in a strange way, of nothing happening at all.

With Prosperina, there are so many unspoken anxieties, so many things you can’t possibly wrap your head around, that you can’t possibly know. Why she notices you now. When you began to crave the burn. If the risk is worth a moments ecstasy. How beauty could wear such thorns.

You know, now, how Eve felt, in the Garden of Eden. Just one bite, the snake hissed. Just one kiss, Prosperina whispers. You have no wish to shed your wings and toss yourself from Paradise’s gate. But she’s just as beautiful as any angel you’ve ever gazed upon.

In Character Paragraph:

Thursday night, 9pm sharp, the Yale Club. Dress elegantly. Heloise didn’t need to glance down at the invitation to know its contents, her heart having memorised them ten times over, skipping a beat each time it paused at a cursive. Even Prosperina’s writing was beautiful. She would have liked to say that the invitation was unexpected, out of the blue and had been firmly rejected. Yet, since she distastes lies, she could not.

Heloise had, however, made an attempt or two to excuse herself. Sending an owl in return, she had outlined her disapproval of the Pride Society and its galas in no uncertain terms. Prosperina had take an age to respond - deliberately, Heloise supposed, to make her nerves hop and jump. When she had, Heloise could almost taste her tone. It’s not one of those. It’s for charity. Don’t you support charity? She had caved. Heloise couldn’t be sure if that was strength or weakness, good or bad.

Three days later, another letter had arrived. Wear pink. It matches the blush on your face.

Stepping into the room, Heloise steeled herself, a picture of defiance in angel-white, beads reflecting the light back.

Not so long ago, she would have cowered, a ghostly slip of a thing, trembling in the corner. Glass of champagne stitched to her hand, she would have sipped until someone had taken pity on her - and even then, she might have fled. That worked under the assumption she plucked the courage to attend at all. Time sandpapered everyone, some for the better, others for the worse. Heloise liked to think she took after the former.

The first eye she caught was from across the room, her gaze instantly drawn to the slip of a girl shrouded by demons, unable to do anything but stare from her cage. Dahlia. It hurt to see her here, to see the shackles bound and to know she was powerless to help. To approach her, to take her hands into her own and wrap her arms around her shoulders was to betray her newfound friend, to expose her doubts to the world. There was cruelty in watching her suffer - but there was greater cruelty in taking a hammer to the foundations below her feet. That wasn’t Heloise’s job. Hers was to encourage Dahlia to flutter her own wings, to learn how to fly. All in good time. Smiling softly across the room, she let her face say what her tongue couldn’t. Stay strong, keep the faith.

The second pair were Prosperina’s - appearing from nowhere, sneaking up behind. Departing from conventions and norms, she didn’t bother with small-talk. “You look ravishing. But not as pretty as you would have had in pink.”

Tongue-tied, Heloise searched for a response. No one had the power to shrink her anymore, now that she had freed her voice from its restraints. And yet, that didn’t mean anymore wit had returned to it. In times like these, she prayed for Kenshin’s presence at her side, always ready with a sharp retort, the sort that drew him closer to someone. Or even Wren, brazen and bold, who spoke without thought. You don’t want to impress her! One voice screamed.Not like you imagined you might, a lifetime ago.

And yet, a little bit of her did.

Heloise spurned her interest. But a little bit of her didn’t want to do without it either.

“I - Thank you. You look…” Staring at Prosperina for the first time, Heloise felt the breath be stolen from her lungs. Divine. Enchanting. “Like a million bucks.” Slanting her voice into an American accent for comedic effect, she immediately regretted her choice no sooner had it been said. “And this…it’s certainly big. Very big. I suppose that’s good. The more people you can fit in, the more donations you can collect for charity.”

Prosperina laughed. Heloise was never sure if she was being laughed at or with. She preferred to think it was the latter.

“The committee had a few reservations. Something about…vermin control. The guest list is rather exclusive, you see.”

Confusion flashed across her face. It wasn’t as if New York was a stranger to rodents…but something about her tone, about the look on her face…made it clear that it wasn’t animals she was referring to. Without noticing, Heloise had become a player in the game. The smile froze on her face. “I sure hope that isn’t a reference to the architects who built the place. Or the perfectly nice people going about their business on the floor below. They’re not doing any harm.”

“Ah yes, the No-Maj’s, as our Yank friends love to say.”

Heloise tensed on the mention of that word. She despised it. No-Maj. So…derogatory. And rather rude. As if they didn’t count as people, or deserve respect, on the merit of something they didn’t have - and had no choice in having. “I hate that term. I hate - you shouldn’t talk about them like that. Nobody should. They’re hardly hurting anyone. And technically, this is their territory so really we should - be respectful.” Exhaling heavily, she steadied herself.

“Oh,” Prosperina leaned in, all smiles now, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear. “You’re such a doll. I was only playing. But I can be nice, if you ask nicely.” Her touch felt like electricity, the sort of chemistry that couldn’t be duplicated or faked. When it was real, it was real. “I’ll go fetch us expensive champagne to make amends.” Half-purr, she broke off and Heloise dropped her gaze. “Pink Champagne, I think.”

Cheeks deepening into rosy-red, Heloise watched her depart, wishing she could look away.

Extras:

Pinterest Board: X

#lsrpg #lsrp #hprp #hprpg #harry potter rp #accepted

2 notes · View notes

saltineofswing · 6 years

Note

Ozzy or Drell?

Obvs I got one for Drell SO:

Full Name: Osmanthus Quince, Sword of Storms

Gender andSexuality: Male;probably bisexual

Pronouns: He/him

Ethnicity/Species: Homo Anubii (Shortened to‘Anubii’ in 99% of situations), a race of technically-undead beings whosegenesis is attributed to Worldmarrow, pure unfiltered magic in liquid form.Worldmarrow makes up the core of the planet and frequently wells up in largeamounts to the crust, magically altering things at random. One of the productsof this phenomenon are the Anubii, who owe their existence to the abandonedorganic material of the sapient races of The Road. There are two varieties:Whole and Imperfect. Imperfect Anubii are covered in Sal’s post here, inregards to Domino the Dominator, but Whole Anubii are, ehhh, a little harder toexplain. They don’t quite resemble any of the races that currently inhabit TheRoad… but the various skin colors they appear in are vaguely reminiscent ofthe mysterious Liches that inhabit the massive millennia-old necropolisesbeneath the surface of the continent. This is a painfully obvious connectionbut nobody has actually officially put it together for a variety of reasons, somost people consider it to be one of the grand mysteries of the Road’s society.

Specifically,although nobody now alive has the words for it, Ozzy would be half-Gariagaxianand half-Bogribolan, as evidenced by his pale hair and sort of indistinctlygrayish skin that you could construe as faintly yellow-tinted or faintlyblue-tinted; in addition, Ozzy was born a little extra special – he is what’sknown as a ‘Lesser Lich’, a type of Anubii identifiable by their incrediblemagical potential… and the subsequent mental instability that accompaniessuch power. If a Lesser Lich is put under too much stress, they have a chanceto breach a power threshold and ‘emerge’ into a Greater Lich; Ozzy,specifically, is a Supremator, a subtype of Lich with an extraordinary controlover an elemental force (in Ozzy’s rather exceptional case four of them –Lightning, Water, Wind, and Ice, giving him the title of ‘Storm Supremator’).

Birthplaceand Birthdate:Actually, Ozzy doesn’t come from the Road’s prime timeline, or ‘Primeline’. Theversion of The Road that he hails from is one we affectionately refer to as the‘Mindrunner’ timeline, where the powerfully Psionic hivemind species known asthe Uluth were able to survive their… rocky exodus through the Unknown, fromtheir dying homeworld to the Road. As a result, the trajectory of thedevelopment of both the continent and the society was drastically altered.Notably, the Psionic energy that saturates the atmosphere due to the abundanceof Uluth Overminds across the continent places an inordinate pressure on theminds of Anubii, resulting in an incredibly high incidence rate of Anubiiexplosively developing into Liches. Because nobody really knew what to do withthem, and the understanding of mental health in this world remains somewhatabysmal, facilities were created where Liches could be sent to keep them calmand/or sedated, and in a lot of cases kept in stasis until a long-term solutioncould be divined.

This meansthat the culture into which Ozzy was born views and treats him as a second orsometimes even third-class citizen, where Anubii that are too powerful or areat risk of turning into Liches are taken away to any of several installationsof ‘The Facility’ and the governing bodies use the populace’s fear and lack ofunderstanding to pass laws that blatantly infringe on Anubii’s civil rights.Ozzy was born in 2002 (Mindrunner is set in 2025), in the ever-cloudy southerncoast of the Tidelands. He was born in the suburbs of The Well, MetropolitanZone Prill-003, named for the local Uluth Overmind. Ozzy is a second-generationWhole Anubii and is an orphan, adopted by two human parents, so his exactbirthday is sort of nebulous. Best guess, he was born during the hot rains ofSummer.

GuiltyPleasures: Ozzyis a really shy guy with very little self esteem and a lot of internalizedissues, so he feels guilty about enjoying himself doing just about everything.He’s grown out of most of it, but highlights include: long showers or baths,colorful clothing, expensive tools, taking apart expensive or sophisticatedmachinery (especially if it doesn’t belong to him), and other stuff that hefeels like makes him ‘impose’ on the world around him too much. A big one,though: using his powers just for his own enjoyment.

Phobias: Not only is Ozzy very shy, he is also a peerlesslyanxious guy. He’s got a LOT of phobias. It would be faster to name the stuffhe’s not afraid of – he’s kind of a coward – but there are a couple ReallyReally Big Ones: he is easily triggered by needles, medical equipment(especially especially ESPECIALLY anything that goes on his head), and mentalinstitutions. He is terrified by the prospect of losing control, hates to beseen/looked at/placed in a position of authority, and is horribly averse to thespotlight. After all, he spent most of his life trying to hide his true natureto avoid getting crammed in a stasis pod for the rest of his natural-bornexistence. He also doesn’t really like to be touched, especially by people hedoesn’t know, and is also rather averse to enclosed spaces and restraints.

What TheyWould Be Famous For:If it weren’t for the whole mess Ozzy has become embroiled in, he wouldprobably be famous for his engineering prowess. Ozzy is a genius-levelintellect, and is a talented machinist in his own right – he was able to get ascholarship to work a janitorial job at a college where he was working towardsseveral different tech-based degrees. He created a technology for prosthesisthat utilizes the Uluth’s Psionic-sensitive material known as ‘Mindstone’ as acore and a tough but lightweight and magically reactive plasteel compound,allowing the prosthetic to be linked directly to the user’s mind and react notonly to their mental commands but also to their expectations; if the userexpects to feel touch sensation, they will. If the user expects the plasteel tofeel and behave like flesh, it will (to an extent). It’s really a miracle ofmodern engineering. If his life had panned out differently, he would’veprobably been taught about in medical textbooks for decades on decades.

Also in a wayOzzy is famous, both in the primeline by way of the Wild Hunt and in theMindrunner timeline due to his… legal status. As an inescapable part of hisfights being televised to the Threnghelleon viewing public, Ozzy has been puton blast in a way; he seemed like a huge wimp to everyone (including members ofthe ‘home team’, so to speak) until he literally could not hold back his powerany longer and kicked the ever-living shit out of notorious Wild Hunt bruiserEthem-Cailo in his very first fight. That very first victory was seen as a HUGEupset, and it’s gotten him a ‘following’ amongst the Threnghel populace. Thisis not necessarily a good thing.

What TheyWould Get Arrested For: Existing, actually. When faced with the choice of submitting to a newordinance requiring all Anubii with ‘At Risk’ or higher status (denoting therisk factor for an individual to become a Lich) to be ‘chipped’ with atransmitter and status indicator, or probably just being straight-up taken awayto The Facility, he had a mental breakdown and revealed that he was a Lich (afact he’d been hiding for years). So he went on the run! Canonically, Osmanthuswould probably be arrested for defying Overmind ordinances, failing to reporthimself as a Lich, resisting arrest, defying basically all Emergence protocols,resisting and evading Pure Fold detainment squads, assaulting a police officer,assaulting a Pure Fold agent, associating with known governmental dissidents,conspiracy to commit a felony, conspiracy to incite a riot… uh, et cetera.

OC You ShipThem With: He hasa girlfriend! Her name is Rosemary, they’ve been best friends since highschool, and she is definitely the one who has the spine in their relationship.When Ozzy went on the run, Rosie basically dropped everything and went on therun with him. Otherwise, when it comes to idle speculation, I think Ozzy hasgood chemistry with Fee; he literally took a plasma bolt to the gummy-works forher before he even knew her, which has endeared him to her somewhat.

OC MostLikely To Murder Them: Ethem-Cailo, now Jovix-Cailo, has faced not one but two ‘humiliating’defeats at Ozzy’s hand now. After the first, Ozzy stole the legendary hammerMjolnir (not the version everybody is familiar with, but with a similarWorthiness parameter), which Ethem-Cailo himself had won by beating the hellout of the Aesir. He wants his hammer back, and is filled with hatred for the‘lowly’ mortal that stole it from him. In fact, Jovix-Cailo is going to havehis shot – the two of them are due for a reckoning, and there’s a significantchance that Ozzy might wind up dying in their final conflict. One of them isgonna have to.

FavoriteMovie/Book Genre:Sci-Fi, no question. Since he comes from a near-future and slightly dystopiantimeline, you’d think it holds no mystery for him. But it’s even more wild,speculative, and diluted there, so it’s still pretty nuts. This goeshand-in-hand with horror stuff, too (the more sci-fi, fantasy, or high-conceptthe better). He also enjoys fantasy to a lesser extent, and is a big fan ofsuperhero comics. He’s a fairly typically nerdy guy in his tastes in media.

Least Favorite Movie/Book Cliche: Ozzy has a certain appreciationfor most cliches and tropes, because he’s pretty good at analyzing media. Evenif he doesn’t necessarily enjoy a cliche, he’s able to appreciate the way itslots into a narrative. However, he is easily annoyed by Idiot Plots andanything that arises from people behaving ‘out of character’, which he feels isa sign that they had to force something to fit where it didn’t. He hates the‘We’re five feet from the exit but OH NO I TRIPPED!’ Trope, and glaring gaps inthe logic of the media in general – stuff that isn’t consistent with the rulespresented by the media in question.

Talentsand/or Powers: Asmentioned above, Ozzy is a genius-level intellect and is fond of tinkering;he’s dexterous and knowledgeable in the art of crafting machinery. He’stalented enough in the art of engineering to innovate functional prosthetics,and has a broad umbrella of technical know-how. He’s clever, quick on his feet,and isn’t a terrible tactician when he’s given a comfortable breadth to plan.He’s also crazy good at fighting games. Don’t challenge him to Street Fighterunless you want to know what it’s like to feel hatred for pixelated green menbecause you KNOW he mains Blanka.

What? You’resaying I’m forgetting something? I dunno. Oh, the lightning thing? Haha yeah,right, right.

Ozzy is aBLISTERINGLY powerful magus with an affinity for elemental magic –specifically, elements associated with the storm: Lightning, Wind, Water, andIce. He is so latently powerful that his mere presence can influence theoverhead weather if he’s not keeping a tight grip on his own magical aura.Once, Ozzy channeled enough lightning to power an entire town for about an hour(he did the math in-universe). Since then he’s actually gotten more powerful,to the point that the upper limit of the amount of electricity he can generateis unknown. The cost of all that power is that his body literally cannot handleit, hence why he has prosthetic arms now. In terms of gameplay mechanics, Ozzycan theoretically deal about 600 damage in a single turn with the proper confluenceof events. It costs him a significant amount of HP and CON, so it’s notsomething that can be used flippantly, but it’s a considerable boss-burner ifthe situation calls for it.

Recently, Ozzywas blinded in his one remaining fully-functional eye by a bad turn in a gameof divine chance by Al Fortuna, August En-Zaiid’s patron deity. However, notlong afterwards, Ozzy’s senses of Touch and Hearing were elevated to superhumanlevels by the whims of the very same game; currently he hasn’t had the opportunityto replace his eye with a prosthetic but he does have the ability to mapobjects around him in space based on electromagnetic fields and bioelectricity,and that with his super-hearing gives him a fairly precise image of the world.He just can’t read or watch TV or do anything too precise.

Why SomeoneMight Love Them:Osmanthus is a sweet guy with a big heart and a lot of empathy. He’s a verygood listener and has a very clever sense of humor. He’s smart and is willingto share his knowledge very liberally, but he shares inclusively and doesn’texplain so much as inform (narrow though the distinction may be). When he’scalm, he’s very methodical and cunning, and he gives pretty decent advice. Hehas no problem sharing the spotlight (prefers to stay out of it, in fact) andis very good about giving credit where credit is due – doesn’t hold grudges,nonexistent temper, doesn’t take stuff personally, and is quick with acorrection or a fact-check when needed. Some people enjoy a partner they canhelp or ‘fix’, so to speak, and Ozzy does have a lot of issues.

Why SomeoneMight Hate Them:As I’ve mentioned, Ozzy is a bit of a coward. His self-esteem is absolutelyabysmal and he is devastatingly non-confrontational to the point that he won’tstand up for himself at all unless absolutely forced to. He can seem a littlesniveling, especially since he has a pretty bad stutter that gets worse whenhe’s stressed. On top of that he is kind of hard to deal with at times; it’snot always easy for people to handle their own issues, let alone somebodyelse’s – and Ozzy has a lot of issues. When it’s at its worst, he’s incoherentand completely non-functional for the whole day; at it’s best, though, he stillhas trouble speaking coherently, has problems with dissociating and sometimeshearing things, and stuff like that. When he’s feeling talkative it’s hard toredirect his focus when he’s on a roll, which can interfere with his ability tolisten to other people and participate in group conversations, and if someone snapsat him too sharply he’ll just clam up and stop talking altogether. So,sometimes interacting with him can be tiresome.

How TheyChange: Ozzy haschanged A Lot since I first introduced him to the game in Mindrunner;originally he was a very lonely and honestly quite pathetic guy, with a lot ofproblems he’d completely given up on trying to solve, slogging through day today life and hiding his ‘At-Risk’ status. When Mindrunner started he wasactually suicidal, and had already failed two attempts due to his Lichabilities; although it was partially against his will, being swept up in theevents of that story gave him a will to live and the discipline to actually dosomething about his mental health and the state of the world at large. He hasdeveloped an incredibly fine control over his powers (which continue to grow astime goes on), met a bunch of new people, and has gotten in REALLY good shape,all in the span of half a year after spending most of his time as a skinny-fatjanitor at a second-choice college. Ozzy is working on his self-esteem, whichis coming along slowly but surely; after taking Mjolnir from Ethem-Cailo he hasdeveloped a reliance on the hammer as a sort of crutch for his self-esteem – ifthe fabled mythological hammer of the Aesir deems him ‘worthy’, he probably is,right? It’s a good first step, but the events of his next campaign willprobably involve confronting that crutch. He’s not a hero yet, per se, but he’sgetting there.

It’s not allpositive, unfortunately; since Ozzy started to grow exponentially more powerfulafter his ‘emergence’ into a full Lich Supremator, Ozzy has also begun tosuffer from adrenaline-influenced mood swings and the occasional bout of mania.As is the case with many Liches throughout the history of both Mindrunner andthe Prime Timeline, Ozzy has developed a trigger-response to life-or-deathstressors in which he undergoes a mental status shift and gets much moresevere, violent, and manic that he refers to as The Lich Shift. An unstable butmostly manageable issue that only really rears its ugly head when Ozzy isconfronted with significant danger. The problem is, Ozzy is currently under theweight of several long-term mental stressors: Everybody keeps telling him thathe’s going to have to kill Jovix-Cailo, and although he knows that’s the rightthing to do, he’s never killed anyone before – and he’s going to have to killagain, in the civil war that is all but waiting for him back on his home plane.The burden of responsibility in these situations has begun to warp the ‘LichShift’ defense mechanism into something more distinct and disparate.

Why YouLove Them: Ozzywas originally made because I wanted to turn my Destiny OC Euclid into atabletop character, but he almost instantly became a unique character that wasthe star of a surprisingly in-depth and exciting one-off game. Both Sal (TheDM) and I decided pretty instantly that we wanted to do more with him. I thinkhe’s a fairly nuanced, complicated character for what he is; I feel likecharacters with his type and severity of problems don’t often get to strugglefor their own benefit (as opposed to the audience’s schadenfreude), and despiteevery setback he’s still kicking and still making progress, which I think isvery relatable and very important. He’s got a lot of handicaps and regrets andphobias but he fights anyway. He’s the underdog, he’s grown up taking shit forbeing born, his own powers threaten to kill him, but he fights anyway. Peoplehave unrealistic expectations for him. His life has been completely ruined andflipped upside-down by the choices he’s been forced to make. His reward is along, uphill slog with few immediate gratifications. He Fights Anyway.Characters in his position I feel like get shoehorned to side-character, orkilled off, or turn into the bad guy, or all of the above, but Ozzy is theprotagonist and that gives him a really interesting breadth of emotion andchange. And also, he’s cute.

#Osmanthus Quince

5 notes · View notes