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feralphoenix · 4 years

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SONGS OF RESISTANCE: The View Myla Grants Us Of Hallownest’s Moths

hello again hollow knight fandom, i am back with my picante takes and ready to discuss two things i love: myla hollowknight and the moth tribe! Let Us Be Sad About Them Together.

as with my previous essay i’m going to be putting this fellow up on dreamwidth later for accessibility purposes since my layout text may be too small for high-res pc users. this time i’ll be attaching that in a reblog to avoid this post getting eaten by the dread tungle algorithms.

CONTENT WARNINGS FOR TONIGHT’S PROGRAM: This essay discusses colonialism and genocide both in real life and the fictional depictions in Hollow Knight, as well as racism in the zombie horror genre and in fandom.

ALSO: if youre from a christian cultural upbringing (whether currently practicing, agnostic/secular, or atheist now), understand that some of what i’m discussing here may challenge you. if thinking thru the implications of this particular part of hollow knight worldbuilding/lore is distressing for you, PLEASE only approach this essay when youre in a safe mindset & open to listening, and ask the help of a therapist or anti-racism teacher/mentor to help you process your thoughts & feelings. just like keep in mind that youre listening to an ethnoreligiously marginalized person and please be respectful here or wherever else youre discussing this dang essay

SONGS OF RESISTANCE: THE VIEW MYLA GRANTS US OF HALLOWNEST’S MOTHS

In this house we are all love Myla.

Well, in all fairness, there are probably plenty of Hollow Knight fans who aren’t interested in her character, since which fictional characters one attaches to is always a matter of personal preference. But she’s still well-loved for a minor NPC and inspires a high level of devotion in her fans. There’s nothing that whips folks into a frenzy like a cute character you can’t do anything to help, and unlike some other characters in Hollow Knight Myla’s fate leaves no room for ambiguity. Once you pick up the Crystal Heart you’re left with only two choices: Avoid her, or kill her.

A lot of Hollow Knight’s world is designed to make you care about it so that it will hurt more when Ghost’s violent skillset proves too limited to save something or someone. The consequences of Hallownest’s founding and policies have directly or indirectly caused a great deal of damage to everything, and chief among those consequences with massive damage and a wide splash range is the Infection. Much has been said elsewhere by other people about Hollow Knight’s predominating mood being a struggle against futility, with Ghost arriving at the eleventh hour and every new tragedy designed to make the player more desperate to find something actionable, only finding out by trial and error what’s beyond your personal ability to save.

Myla, in that sense, is a typical example of that worldbuilding. She’s a particular kind of stock character in the zombie horror genre, the innocent who falls victim to the plague and cannot be saved, wrenching audience hearts and demonstrating the stakes.

But Hollow Knight plays with the trappings of zombie horror in a very unusual way, one I find thematically fascinating.

For a quick overview, the “zombie” as we know it in popular culture is an appropriation of a voudou (the Black American spiritual practice) concept that deals with the fear of slavery killing one’s spirit. (People more versed in/with roots in voudou culture can give a much more comprehensive overview than this simplistic one.)

The zombie horror genre, especially in Western media, is part of the great white fragility stock plot trifecta (the other two being alien invasions and robot uprisings). Zombie horror in particular expresses white fears that marginalized ethnic groups will rise up violently in revenge for their mistreatment and destroy white society. The fear of “that which is human, which ‘humanity’ is not” (to borrow mecha visual novel Heaven Will Be Mine’s pithy term) and the extreme levels of violence towards human-but-not bodies typical of zombie horror are often an expression of such bigotries. This is, again, a subject that’s been discussed in greater depth and with more nuance elsewhere.

But what Hollow Knight does is take the ugly metaphors and it makes them literal, makes it harder to ignore the toxic subtext of the genre. The Infection is literally a native god’s revenge on the settlers who committed genocide* against her people. How the Pale King’s colonization of the crater negatively affected the preexisting groups of bugs underpins every level of the worldbuilding, as does Hallownest’s cruelty towards its neighbors.

Hollow Knight is a game that is about the tragedy of Western imperialism. It is one of the work’s central themes. There are a lot of conversations that need to be had about the ways these themes manifest and, on a real-world level, about fandom’s predisposition to avoid the subject.

But, for now, let’s get back to Myla. If she fits such a stock zombie horror archetype, and Hollow Knight uses zombie horror tropes to underline the conversation it attempts to have about colonialism, then what has Myla got to teach us about the overall worldbuilding?

There's two topics I’d like to broach here: First we’ll get into how the circumstances of Myla’s infection fit in to the implied role of Crystal Peak in pre-Hallownest society. Then let’s take a long look at the lyrics of Myla’s song and what it implies.

MYLA, THE CRYSTALS, AND THE HOLY MOUNTAIN

If you think about it, Myla is an interesting outlier compared to the other NPCs we encounter on the verge of succumbing to the Infection. Both Bretta and Sly are unhappy: Bretta is a lonely, anxious bundle of abandonment issues yearning for someone to sweep her off her feet; Sly misses his pupils and loved ones who’ve left him in death (we never learn who Esmy is or what they were to Sly, but we sure can tell they’re not around anymore). The temptation to dream away those sadnesses seems to play a part in their vulnerability to the Infection, and also why Ghost’s interruption brings them back to reality.

Not so Myla. She appears to be blissfully unaware of her fellow miners’ fate, and most of her dialogue prior to her infection (besides the song - we’ll get to that later) is about how much fun she’s having at her job and how much she enjoys Ghost’s occasional company.

Yet she still winds up infected when Ghost’s back is turned. Why?

Not to discard the possibility that Myla’s got her own issues too, but in her case there seems to be another likely cause at hand: The crystals. If hit with the Dream Nail before infected, she mentions that she can hear them “singing” and “whispering”.

Under the The Hunter’s Hot Takes section of the Hunter’s Journal entries on various Crystal Peak enemies, we can learn more about the crystals - particularly in the entries for the Husk Miner and Crystallized Husk.

Crystal Peak’s crystals were thought of as particularly precious in Hallownest and harvested en masse for use in luxury items and the like. To do so, the mining operation was set up throughout most of the mountain, though the area around its peak still remains largely untouched. However, there’s more to the crystals than just that. Like Myla, the Hunter notes that the crystals can be heard to sing very very softly if one listens closely enough.

Perhaps of even more interest than that is this particular comment he gives us, from the Crystallized Husk journal entry: “There is some strange power hidden in the crystals that grow up there in the peaks. They gleam and glow in the darkness, a bright point of searing heat in each one.”

I don’t think it’s a particularly revolutionary idea to point out that there’s some connection between the crystals and Radiance’s power; this is something many players have intuited just based on Myla’s dialogue. But, in order to understand what Myla is demonstrating about the game’s world I think it’s important to think about what that connection is.

Speaking of which, the local Whispering Root has two important clues for us: The phrases “light refracted” and “energy contained”.

The very top of Crystal Peak is one of the only places in the crater where the moths’ architecture has escaped Hallownest destroying it, and is the only place in the entire game setting where their religious iconography remains fully intact. There are stone monuments covered in their language (which has been destroyed with the rest of their culture) and the statue of the Radiance - this is easier to see in the Wanderer’s Journal tie-in book, but the huge stone arches upon the Crown represent Radi’s halo and its rays and encircle her when viewed head-on or from a distance instead of the side view we get in the game.

The crystals grown here were used by the moths to store and cultivate Radiance’s light. It’s impossible to know what sort of architecture/infrastructure existed inside the mountain before Hallownest stole it from the moths. But between the massive scope of her statue and all the texts at the Crown, and the fact that the moths were working with their literal actual god’s freely given power here, it can be safely asserted that Crystal Peak was a holy ground to them.

Hallownest didn’t care about the mind-boggling level of spiritual significance Crystal Peak must have had to the natives, though. To the Pale King and his people, the crystals are just a natural resource to be harvested for personal profit.

This is unfortunately a conflict that still plays out in colonized countries today. If you’re American, #NoDAPL probably comes to mind; Canada, Australia, and New Zealand are filled with these sorts of horror stories too. Settler disrespect for indigenous sacred grounds is a huge problem that needs addressing. If you’re looking at the story of Crystal Peak and thinking it’s very on-the-nose... maybe it needs to be.

Anyway, Myla is nowhere near as miserable as Bretta or Sly, but she still notices that something’s up with these crystals. She hears the voice coming from inside, and she’s curious, and she tries very very hard to listen to it... so she DOES end up hearing Radiance’s voice. Radiance’s real voice, not the songs and whispers inside the crystals: The voice of a frightened, angry, grieving god who knows there’s a new vessel running around in Hallownest, and doesn’t want any part of that. A voice that’s pleading for someone, anyone to kill this dangerous creature, and save her from the threat Ghost poses.

Between how freaked out Radi is to know Ghost is poking around, the tendency we see in her boss battles for her to panic and kneejerk blast things at full volume/vibrance when she’s panicking, and the way her dream broadcast seems to be only a one-way communication line while she’s in the Black Egg... naturally this spells disaster for poor Myla.

Similar to the Moss Prophet, this small tragedy is a demonstration of the eleventh-hour state the conflict is in: The Pale King has escalated this situation so far, and Radiance is so traumatized and isolated, that bystanders who might in a kinder timeline have become Radi’s allies instead get caught up in her AOE. Myla’s definitely not as aware of the overall situation as the Moss Prophet, since she’s a Hallownest bug and not an indigenous one the way they are. But she noticed things were not as they seemed, and she was curious. Who knows what new possibilities could have opened up, if Radiance was able to truly communicate with bugs in the outside world?

Small side note before we move on, but I’ve noticed a tendency among some folks who notice the missed connections to come down extra hard on Radiance and chalk Myla’s infection/Moss Prophet’s death down to deliberate cruelty on her part. I’d like to gently push back against this.

Living in a post-colonial world we all absorb some level of prejudice from our surroundings, and it’s important to take a look at our first assumptions about people (or, in this case, fictional characters lol) to examine whether these prejudices we’ve inherited have influenced those assumptions.

So, if your first instinct is to look at this situation and say the problem is that Radiance is being too harsh and too angry where she should have stepped back and softened her emotions for others’ benefit to gently persuade them to her side... Please think about how when people of color and non-Christians express anger or hurt at our treatment, or even so much as calmly assert our boundaries, white/Christian viewers often view us as much more aggressive and threatening than we actually are. The “angry black woman” trope is a good example of this stereotype. You may want to look up the HuffPost article “Why It’s So Hard to Talk to White People About Racism” and its discussion of white fragility to further understand this phenomenon.

It is absolutely essential to remember the complex power dynamics in play in Hollow Knight and that the Pale King deliberately imprisoned Radiance (who had at this point already gone through an extreme amount of trauma) in a way that would compromise her ability to communicate with others. If you can extend compassion to characters like Ghost or the Pale King and empathize with their motives/feelings when their actions cause harm, but you are not willing to do the same with Radiance... it’s important to sit down with yourself and examine why that is.

THE MEANING BEHIND MYLA’S SONG

Okay, let’s switch gears and take a look at the lyrics to the song Myla sings, since it’s got some interesting things to tell us too.

The first verse, which you can hear from Myla the first time you meet her/before you acquire Vengeful Spirit, goes:

Bury my mother, pale and slight Bury my father with his eyes shut tight Bury my sisters, two by two, And then when you’re done, let's bury me too

There’s not much particularly story-related going on here except foreshadowing that Myla may in fact wind up dying. Most of what we get here is that a) this is a song about burying the dead and b) it’s morbid as fuck.

Curious, a new player might think of the mention of burying the dead; there are a lot of corpses just lyin’ around all over the ground - something that might lead one to believe Hallownest didn’t have such a custom. Later players will discover the Resting Grounds, confirming Hallownest did bury its dead... and that the gravekeepers are all dead too.

Let’s look at the second verse, which Myla remembers and will sing after you pick up Vengeful Spirit:

Bury the knight with her broken nail, Bury the lady, lovely and pale Bury the priest in his tattered gown, Then bury the beggar with his shining crown

This right here is where it gets interesting. The first verse describes the singer’s family as dead or dying, but the people we’re burying now sure do have some parallels to Hallownest's ruling body, don’t they?

Among Hallownest’s Great Knights, three of them - Dryya, Isma, and Ze’mer - were women. They are also very dead or might as well be: Dryya was killed by Traitor Lord’s resistance, Isma is a tree spreading acid through the kingdom’s waters to cut off access to the City of Tears, and Ze’mer hung up her nail after her mantis girlfriend’s death and only lingers on as a revenant.

While there aren’t any characters who are described in-text as “priests” in Hallownest, the idea of a tattered gown might bring Lurien the Watcher to mind, or perhaps the Soul Sanctum’s magicians before they went rogue.

The lovely, pale lady in the song can only refer to the White Lady, Hallownest’s queen. And there’s only one man in the game who has a shining crown: The Pale King. The lyrics are particularly derisive towards him in a way they aren’t to any of the other figures listed, too.

So, it seems like whoever came up with this song didn’t think much of Hallownest. With that in mind it’s hard to think that it originated from any sort of faction loyal to the king.

We’re missing a line from the third verse, which Myla sings after you’ve beaten Soul Master and she’s beginning to become infected. But what we do see of it is Huge in terms of lore:

Bury my body and cover my shell, [...] What meaning in darkness? Yet here I remain I’ll wait here forever ‘til light blooms again

So. The “protagonist” of this song’s family has died, and they expect to die as well, but even unto death they're waiting for Hallownest to fall and the light to return.

The moths became Hallownest’s gravekeepers after the Pale King forcibly assimilated them. Under the Pale King’s light, the moths forgot Radiance and most of their original culture, but Seer tells us in her final monologue that a few individuals remembered just enough to pass bits and pieces down through the generations. This secret resistance among the moths was what kept Radiance alive and prevented her from being sealed away entirely.

This song Myla sings comes from that moth resistance.

Code songs amongst oppressed ethnic groups are very much a real thing, especially when groups have to communicate or signal each other within hostile parties’ hearing. Since I’m American (and had a big ol crush on Harriet Tubman as a little kid lmao!) the first thing that came to mind for me when I made this connection was the working songs escaped Black slaves used in the Underground Railroad.

These have another point in common with the moth gravedigger song Myla sings, in that they enter the general cultural consciousness through out-group people who don’t know the true context. If you ever pick up a book of American baby songs, you’ll probably find some Underground Railroad code songs in there - often because generations ago white kids heard these songs from Black slaves or servants, and went on to sing the same songs to their children with zero awareness of what the songs were really for.

So some Hallownest bug somewhere probably heard the moths’ song and liked it and sang it in a context totally divorced from its original one, and it got spread around and passed down to become one of Myla’s old favorites, with her seemingly not realizing the meaning behind the lyrics. The moths’ song of devotion to their lost god survived them as a people.

This is some VERY realistic and layered worldbuilding. There is so much to glean from just one NPC’s dialogue when put together with other clues. Of course all of it is SAD and DEPRESSING, but Hollow Knight is a tragedy with a super unsubtle point to make about the unsustainability of Western imperialism.

What happens to Myla is awful, and upsetting, and unfair. So was what happened to the moths and their sacred ground, and to Radiance too. It’s important to understand the scope of the conflict that led to all this happening, trace it to its roots, and lay it at the feet of the ones responsible for engendering all this tragedy in the first place: Hallownest and the Pale King.

*A NOTE ABOUT MY USE OF THE TERM “GENOCIDE”

This is a tangent, but since there’s some debate about whether it’s appropriate to define the Pale King’s actions towards indigenous bug nations as genocide, allow me to cite the official definition of genocide here.

The Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide (the Genocide Convention for short) defines genocide like this:

Genocide is any of the following acts committed with intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, religious, or racial group, as such:

A) Killing members of the group

B) Causing serious bodily or mental harm to members of the group

C) Deliberately inflicting on the group conditions of life calculated to bring about its physical destruction in whole or in part

D) Imposing measures intended to prevent births within the group

E) Forcibly transferring children of the group to another group

Among the abovelisted, Hallownest is guilty of A (Deepnest and the moths), B (Deepnest physically/the moths vis a vis brainwashing), C (the mantis tribe and the hive), and E (the moths, which we know from Marmu, and possibly the mosskin also - Isma is mosskin).

Then there is cultural genocide, i.e. acts committed with intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, religious, or racial group's way of life. Let’s look at the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (DRIP) and how it defines cultural genocide:

A) Any action which has the aim or effect of depriving them of their integrity as distinct peoples, or of their cultural values or ethnic identities

B) Any action which has the aim or effect of dispossessing them of their lands, territories or resources

C) Any form of population transfer which has the aim or effect of violating or undermining any of their rights

D) Any form of assimilation or integration by other cultures or ways of life imposed on them by legislative, administrative or other measures

E) Any form of propaganda directed against them

Hallownest is guilty of every item on this list. A: The moths, attempted with Deepnest. B: The moths, the mantises, the flukes, the mosskin; also attempted with Deepnest. C: The moths, the mantises, the flukes. D: The moths; attempted with the mantises and Deepnest. E: The mantises and Deepnest.

Any sort of discussion of the wide-reaching harm Radiance caused MUST include the context that the Infection is her response to multiple levels of genocide. Discussion that does not include this context loses nuance and simplifies the conflict and power dynamics portrayed in the game in ways that reflect real-life racism and Christian supersessionism.

Now, this is NOT some sort of holier than thou Fandom Purity dunk to say that it’s Bad or Wrong to care about Hallownest’s nobility. Like, one of my favorite characters in this dang game is the White Lady, who spent a long ass time enabling her husband’s actions before she finally walked out on him over the mass infanticide thing. You can, and it is okay to, love TPK and want rehabilitation for him while acknowledging that the dude has done objectively bad things.

I just feel that it’s important to keep things in perspective so that we don’t wind up stirring a bunch of real-world bigotry into our fandom funtimes. A lot of us don’t have the luxury of turning our brains off and simply Not Seeing It, because these same sorts of dynamics are behind a lot of the hardships that threaten our everyday stability.

It’s pretty hard to have conversations about those things in real life if one can’t even recognize them in fiction. So, this might be a good opportunity to start practicing anti-racism so we can better utilize that ideology in real life, where the stakes are much higher.

#hollow knight #hollow knight spoilers #hollow knight meta #myla hollow knight #the radiance #hk myla #hk radiance #essay #long post under cut -

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caffeinated-cryptid · 4 years

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bishop to castle; check.

3.8k words | AO3 link | tags/warnings: suicidal behaviour, risk of falling from a height, talking someone down from a ledge, hurt/comfort, platonic roceit, positive ending.

“After weeks of moping post-POF, Janus goes into the imagination to find Roman. They end up having a much more intense conversation than he could have ever planned for.”

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

Janus hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Roman since their last argument. It was fine, probably, he justified to himself, despite how Patton had returned from their talk with pursed lips and worriedly furrowed eyebrows. He likely just needed time to process everything that had happened, and Janus wasn’t going to push that.

(His reluctance to address the issue had nothing to do with the fact that he dreaded another confrontation. Totally not.)

After all, forcing his presence on Roman now could potentially only make things worse. So instead he would just have to wait for him to come around first-- to calm down enough to be willing to hear him out without resorting to name-calling.

Janus was plenty busy anyway, what with his new position in Thomas’ life. More than smoothing over one less-than-steller relationship with a side (which Janus was collecting like pokemon cards recently, it seemed), he elected to focus on ensuring Thomas held true to his promises of self-care, which meant working with Patton more often.

That wasn’t so terrible, at least it wasn’t as bad as the him from a year ago would have expected; the side was trying harder to welcome his contributions which he appreciated. Though inadvertantly through this new partnership, he found himself being dragged into more casual hang-outs, where they would do nothing but...chat. Sharing daily anecdotes and worries and secrets about themselves. It was strangely open and the sort of thing Janus had to adjust to, but with this new friendship he had found himself in, he did his best not to ruin it.

“I’m getting worried.” Patton admitted one day, setting down the tv remote after a finished screening of some Air Bud spinoff. How Janus had been wrangled into watching that ceaseless dog series was beyond him. “I think the others might be starting to come around to you, but Roman...”

Patton didn’t need to finish his sentence, because Janus already knew what he meant. With Virgil and Logan, he’d been making an effort to try to prove his worth as a member of the team (whether or not that was working was yet to be seen, despite Patton's generous assertions that it would all work out eventually), but he hadn’t even gotten the chance do to that with the creative side. As much as he had first assumed that time and space would do the trick, it seemed like that wasn’t the case after all.

“I suppose a confrontation is inevitable.” He grimaced, knowing that this had been put off for long enough.

“Would you do that?” Patton asked suddenly, looking to him with relief. It made Janus realize that it sounded like he had signed up to go talk to Roman himself.

“Uh...” Janus tensed, his previous concerns surfacing again. “I don’t think I would be the best suited to have this conversation-”

“Oh- Pleeease? You two need to talk most of all! Besides, when I went, he wouldn’t even...” Patton trailed off, biting his lip with a pout. “...Could you try, at least? Maybe you could get through to him.”

“...Alright. I’ll go before lunch.” Janus agreed begrudgingly, rewarded by Patton’s grateful smile. Stupid puppy face. That would have to stop working eventually.

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

That was how Janus found himself in the lawless lands of The Imagination.

It had filled him with dread, knocking on the red and gold door and recieving no response. Even more so when he risked intruding anyway and seeing the wrecked state of the room, and then noticing the entrance to The Imagination wide open.

Unsurprisingly, that was where he found the side in question. More surprising was when he did, finding him sitting on the edge of the tallest turret of his castle, like he had decided to overlook his kingdom in the most dangerous way possible. Janus wasn’t so naive to assume that was all it was though.

Roman probably saw him approach as he ran the rest of the way to the castle, and that pushed him to go faster, dashing through the lonely walls of the old building until he was climbing up those spiralling stairs all the way to the top. When he finally made it, he stood there doubled over and completely out of breath as he adjusted to the high altitude winds that bit at his cheeks. He used the seconds he took to catch his bearings to figure out what to do-- his eyes never once leaving Roman’s back, who luckily hadn’t moved at all during his frantic dash. Perhaps his insticts had been wrong and there was nothing dangerous going on here. Every part of him screamed to stay and stop whatever this was though-- so he did.

“Roman.” He ended up saying once his breath had evened out, and nothing more. There was too much going on in his head to break whatever balance they currently had; too much to ask, too much to say, to explain, to defend, to try to understand.

Said side turned his head slightly to make eye-contact; not facing him, yet it was acknowledgement at least. “Deceit.” He said after a beat. His voice was cold, but not angry, and for some reason Janus would have prefered it if Roman were upset with him. Anything but this odd indifference that made him feel guilty for not summoning up the courage to check in sooner.

“Janus.” Janus corrected in an invitation to use his name. He intended it as a sign of goodwill, but Roman’s face twitched and he looked away again, this time his focus on the ground directly below.

“I came to talk.” Janus said in an attempt at a distraction. He was disheartened when Roman made no move to acknowledge him again, so he continued despite his uneasiness. "Would you please come down?”

“What? Scared, Deceit? I'm not doing anything. I'm not going to either, so you can go back to whoever sent you and tell them I’m fine.” Roman scoffed and the string of lies felt bitter in the fridgid air, enveloping him like an unwanted hug. If possible, Janus’ heart begun racing even quicker.

He wanted to protest and say that he had come of his own volition, but Janus knew that lying right now wouldn’t do either of them any good. “In that case, would you do it for my peace of mind?” He tried instead, and it earned him a wry smile, sent from over Roman’s shoulder.

“What ever gave you the impression I care about that?” Roman shot back, standing up only to turn on his heel to step down into the crenel next to him, then back up onto the the next merlon. He continued, going up and down and slowly circling around Janus like a predator would it's prey, but somehow he didn't feel like the one being hunted here. Actually, it was more like he was trying to convince a mouse that the cheese on a trap wasn't worth it. And being a snake himself, that simile was especially ironic.

“...That’s fair. We can talk like this, then. I wanted to apologize and hopefully make amends.”

Roman’s footing twisted haphazardly and Janus all but shot forward to steady him until he was given a deadly glare that froze him in his tracks.

“Stay back! You're not fooling me again. As far as I know, you'll just try to convince me to take a swan dive right of the side of this tower. No greater depth to plummet to than that, huh?"

“I- that's the complete opposite of what I want.” Janus stressfully replied, fighting against the urge to pull Roman off of the edge and end this whole thing himself, instead holding up his hands as a sign that he wouldn’t come closer. God, where had he gone so wrong go end up in this situation? He should have convinced Patton to come with him when he had the chance-- at least he probably would have had a better idea on how to get through to Roman when he was like this. Comparitively, Janus had no clue. He didn’t have the trustworthiness or the years of friendship.

“I believe you. You've already made it so clear just how much you care.” Roman replied sarcastically. Janus felt his hackles rising.

“I’m not lying! I didn't want any of this.” Janus gestured around. “There's so much I wish I could take back, but especially whatever I did to cause this.”

“Oh, Janus.” He felt a small dose of hope when Roman finally used his name, which was quickly dashed as he huffed out a laugh. “Always thinking you have a finger in every pie. Isn't it enough for me to come to this conclusion by myself?”

He continued bitterly, practically stomping his way around the edge of the tower now. “It's not like it was hard. Even an idiotic egomaniac prince like myself can tell when he's not wanted anymore. When the dream has died.”

Janus, despite the silver tongue he may possess, struggled for words in the face of Roman’s insecurity. He had wanted the anger because he had assumed it would be easier to prove that he wasn’t as evil as Roman was so keen to accuse him of being. He just hadn’t expected this issue to be so deeply sensitive. (Though perhaps he should have picked up on that hint when he saw the other side looking ready to jump to a temporary death). “Thats not true at all, you’re incredibly important and all of us need you. Perhaps we’re operating under new rules now, but that doesn’t mean you’re not wanted.”

But it seemed that wasn’t the best thing to say. Roman stopped in his tracks, his expression unreadable as he began shaking with fury or perhaps something else. “...If I’m ‘so important’, why does it never feel that way? Why am I the only one who has to change constantly for rules that can never stay the same? Why do I have to make sacrifices and tone down my voice?”

His controlled tone got louder and more stressed. “Why are my best efforts never good enough? Why are my doubts ignored? Why is it considered fair to disparage my work? To ignore the blood, sweat, and tears I put into everything?”

Janus stared in horror as Roman kept going, yelling over anything he could have possibly wanted to say.

“Why does it take this to be be fucking noticed?!”

Both of them paused when his rant reached a screaming crescendo and fat angry tears rolled down Roman's cheeks.

"...Forgive me if I'm having a little difficulty trusting what you say right now.” He sniffed, ducking his head away to wipe his eyes. The words were distant despite the soft way they were uttered.

Once again Janus was lost for what to say as he watched Roman compose himself. There was simply too much there to unpack, too many years of built-up stress and resentment. What in the absolute hell had these sides been doing all this time? “...I do wish to take some responsibility for that, though. Your hesitancy to trust again.” That seemed like a good place to start, if any.

Roman only snorted humourlessly at his efforts though, voice tired and unenthused. “I'm sure you would. It's a lot easier to sweep aside a broken vase rather than acknowledge its cracks when they’re forming, after all. That was the lesson you taught us, right?”

Janus winced at the callback to his first appearence to Thomas. He didn’t necessarily regret that day, but having it thrown back now made it feel like something to be ashamed of; seeing his lessons interpreted in such a way. “...Is that how you see yourself? Broken?” He asked instead, squashing down his indignation.

He only got silence in return. Janus swallowed, definitely regretting his hesitance to resolve this issue now.

“Roman, even though I doubt you’d trust my words, I promise that we're not trying to simply ‘sweep this aside’. If we're going with the vase metaphor, all of us want a chance to try to glue the pieces back together. Make right on all of the ways you’ve been wronged.” When that got no response, he tentatively asked, “Have you ever heard of Kintsugi?"

“...Broken pottery fixed with gold, I'm aware. But trying to apply that right now is sloppy, even for you. People are never so beautiful after being so thoroughly broken, nor is it that easy." Slowly, Roman sat down on the edge, and even though his legs were dangling over the wrong side, Janus' heart finally felt some semblance of rest. He took a step forward.

"I disagree. Kinstugi is rarely an straight-forward process either, and yet it achieves such splendid results with just a little patience and care. Which is to say... while it may not be the easiest thing to do, there’s undeniably beauty and strenght in survival. Trying again even when it feels impossible.”

“Of course you'd think that, Mr. Kill or be killed. You have no choice in whether you get to continue forward. But I do.”

Janus paused at that, only four paces away from Roman now. The creative side startled when he peered backwards and saw him so close, and then he glared at Janus as he stood up again, this time facing him fully. His foot slid backwards until the worn-down structure crumbled under his heel, sending rocks tumbling down below. It was a warning, Janus realized as his blood frooze in his veins.

“Don’t look so shocked. I control everything here, or did you forget?” Roman smiled. It wasn’t a happy smile or even a smug one; it only looked like he was stretching his mouth unnaturally, all pretenses of putting on a convincing performance stripped away. “If I want, I could have a Pegasus fly by and save me at the right moment. Or I could expand the moat to catch me. Or..."

Roman looked frustrated for a second when he couldn't think of anything else, even more so when Janus patiently waited for him to think of another example. In the end, he gave up.

"The point is, I call the shots about what happens to me."

"But would you? Save yourself?" Janus questioned hesitantly. He knew he was treading on thin ice, so he left it there. Roman raised an eyebrow at him and he returned it, making it clear that he wanted an answer. He recieved it with a scoff.

“Of course I would. What kind of question is that?”

Lie.

Janus winced. “Roman... You are aware of my ability to detect lies, yes?”

The creative side blinked in surprise and then looked at him with wide eyes, as if he hadn’t expected to be called out. Like it had been so natural to brush aside the question that he didn’t even realize his own feelings. Fortunately, Janus’ ability was too keen to be fooled by one’s own self-deception. He could see below the surface like that; pull people’s hidden truths from them and keep them for himself, like a keeper of forbidden knowledge (Though in moments like these, sometimes he wished he couldn’t. Ignorance truly is bliss).

“Should I ask again?” He pressed. “Are you really planning on saving yourself?”

This time Roman’s face screwed up in confliction and he directed his gaze to the floor of the tower. It was an awfully clinical way to ask, but it felt necessary to stop dancing around what was important-- this casual show of self-destruction.

Eventually, the other cracked with a tired huff of laughter. Sadly genuine this time.

“...It's certainly nice to think that I could.” Roman admitted as he rubbed his face, apparently not mad at being called out this time. “Finally being a hero again, even if it's only to myself.”

Janus paused in shock. Was he still misinterpreting that moment?

“That wasn't a lie.” Janus blurted out, taking even himself by surprise by the thoughtless exclamation. “Thomas still thinks of you as his hero. There’s no need to do things like this to prove it.”

Romans eyes went watery and he avoided his gaze.

“At this point I don't think it matters, when I haven’t been acting like it at all lately.” He whispered coarsely, uncharacteristically quiet compared to the wind. “Frankly, I'm surprised you're even trying to stop me."

Janus eyes softened and he took another tentative step forward, then another when Roman didn't react badly. “Why wouldn’t I? I’m not just Deceit, you know. Part of my job is to help you.”

“...Because you hate me? At this point you have more reasons to than not.” Roman explained warily, looking at him like Janus were seconds away from snapping and shoving him over the edge. It hurt to have that sort of mistrust placed on him, but at the same time Janus understood it. He had often been in that sort of situation before; doubting the safety of opening up to other people. That was just part of his job, to be doubtful and wary in order to protect the self. Yet to see it so openly on somebody else felt like a punch to the gut, even though he should have been used to that feeling of being distrusted by now.

“Do you think me so sensitive that a schoolyard insult would make you my archenemy? Or being called evil? That is...sort of what I’ve been going for.” He cracked a joke, gesturing to his outfit. When Roman kept staring at him he sighed. “Of course I don’t hate you, Roman.”

Roman shifted doubtfully. “That doesn’t mean you like me, either. Maybe it doesn’t mean much to you, but you should know how- how being called that hurt me.”

"...Yes.” It was Janus’ turn to be uncomfortable. “Perhaps at first I felt attacked and wanted to make you feel the same hurt, but I would never have said that had I known just how deeply it would have impacted you. I’m sorry for that.”

Roman’s expression turned incredulous, like he couldn’t believe Janus had apologized. “...You know, I wanted to make you upset. I wanted you gone.”

“I figured.” Janus nodded.

“And that doesn’t change anything? Even though I acted so...” Roman bit his lip. “So unheroic?”

Janus stifled a sigh. By now, he really hated that word with a passion. It had caused so many high standards, so many instances of self-sacrifice, so many misguided attempts at selflessness and perfection. Perhaps later they could talk about it all and lay out why it had done so much harm, but for now he decided not to push it, not when he felt so close to getting a breakthrough.

“Believe it or not, but I think that you've been plenty heroic already. This whole time you've been fighting for something you thought was valient and noble, and that means something, even if it was for a misguided cause.”

That took Roman off-guard. He moved his foot away from the edge subtley, and had Janus not been focused on his face, he would have considered it a small victory.

“...What’s the point of all of this, really? Is this some... some dastardly plot?” Roman questioned skeptically. He was looking even more cornered now that he was letting Janus’ words sink in.

“All I'm here for is to offer the helping hand you need, if you’ll accept it.” Janus said softly as he extended his hand up to him. “Really, my only plot right now is to get you off that ledge before you give me a heart attack. Please?”

Roman stared at him, desperately trying to find some sort of mistruth in his eyes before his gaze lowered to the outsretched hand. It felt like time slowed in the seconds he was making his decision and Janus held his breath, waiting...wating... until finally the other side nodded and took his hand.

With Janus’ help, Roman stepped down, looking confused and lost now that he was away from the edge. The expression pained Janus’ heart, so he opened his arms half expecting rejection, only to be taken back by how quickly Roman latched onto him. Janus wasted no time clinging back, so relieved that he actually suceeded that he didn't want to risk ever letting go, like this moment could be torn away at any second. It was no surprise when he felt the other’s chest jerk with held-back sobs until there was a wetness on his shoulder, and he didn't say anything about it. He didn't need to either, because Roman spoke up first.

“It didn’t mean anything. Really!” He exclaimed through messy tears. “I was only thinking about it!”

Lie.

“...It's okay if it was more than that.” Janus soothed, patting his back. “It's okay to feel low and in need of help.”

That made him cry harder and Janus was relieved to see the excess of emotions finally pour out. While waiting for Roman to calm down, he had to fight for his own tears to not spill over. Inevitably, the stress of the situation finally caught up when the adrenaline wore off, and he sagged into the hug, sniffling quietly and trying not to fall over on his aching legs. He really just sprinted up multiple flights of stairs, didn’t he? Belatedly, he realized that he must have lost his hat at some point during the journey because he could feel the wind tousle his hair.

It would have been funny if it weren’t for the absolute rush of emotions he had just gone through.

The two of them stood there for what would normally be considered an awkward amount of time, except the act of simply hugging on solid ground was the biggest comfort in the world, too much to ruin the moment. They waited until they got through the worst of their tears before they dared speak again. Once again, Roman went first.

“Sorry for laughing at you back then.” He said, voice reflecting the yelling and crying he'd been doing. It felt genuine. “I actually really like your name...the mythology suits you. Very dramatic.”

Janus laughed wetly, finally a true statement. “Why, thank you. And I apologize for where I’ve wronged you.”

Finally, they straightened up. Roman took one look at him and summoned hankerchiefs for them both. Janus accepted it and wiped away his tears as gracefully as he could.

“Hopefully we can have a more in-depth discussion on this later, but for now Patton and I prepared lunch, if you’d be willing to have us.” Janus asked, hopes raised.

“...That sounds good.” Roman smiled.

Janus smiled back.

Together, the two of them descended down the steps of the tower, and the imagination was the slightest bit sunnier when they reached the outside.

#my writing #sanders sides #platonic roceit #janus sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #roman angst #roman stans come get y'alls juice #(i wrote this in a Mood so if this is janky i'm sorry)

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shootybangbang · 3 years

Text

[Talking Bird] 17: In which beans are ruined

[Ao3 Link]

At the mention of Trelawney, Arthur dimly recalls a scrap of half-remembered conversation from last year, when he’d idled with the man in a Lemoyne saloon while waiting for a mark to arrive. The first flicker of your existence, passing him by unknown. Like the brief touch of a licked finger through candle flame: deceptively benign, with just a whisper of the burn to follow.

Somewhere between his first and second glass of whiskey sours, Trelawney had mentioned the burgeoning demand for opium in Chinatown. A former contact of his had recently left the high stakes poker circuit to get in on the profit, and he’d lamented the loss.

“It’s a shame,” he’d said, absently swirling the ice cubes in his emptied glass and regarding the swirling wood grain of the countertop with a pensive, faraway look. And for once, the sentiment had sounded genuine. Knowing him, the man was grieving a lost business opportunity more than anything else, but it’d been a long time since Arthur had heard him even bother to feign emotion for a stranger. “She’s not suited for smuggling in the least. Can’t say I can see this ending well.”

Less Trelawney’s gift for prophecy and more stating the obvious, now that he knows exactly who he’d been talking about. Prickly disposition, clueless when it comes to violence, and far too trusting of strangers. The cavalier attitude of someone who’d never been exposed to serious conflict and who, having since been exposed, lacks even the conviction necessary to put a bullet in the man holding her hostage.

And far too delicate besides.

When you’d pulled the blanket down your shoulders to untie your braid, Arthur had tilted his head back just enough to catch an eyeful of your backside. A pretty thing to put to paper: the wet swathe of hair draped over your shoulder, the faint shadow of your spine a dark curve flickering with the shifting of firelight. Soft, dappled lines wrapped in the body of someone who’s caused him nothing but grief in the past weeks.

The view had confirmed something he’d already been suspecting: your lack of threat to anything larger than a rat terrier.

Judging by your physique, you’d probably struggle to lift anything more than fifteen pounds. Maybe twenty, on a good day. A veritably pathetic amount of muscle tone with none of the etchings that rough living leaves behind.

Some foreign high society girl fallen on hard times, he guessed. But oddly, none of the clumsy caution people of that strata have when confronted with any sort of real work. You’d fallen into the rhythm of whittling bark off the cottonwood branches too comfortably for someone unacquainted with physical labor, handled the knife with a deftness that comes only from rote repetition.

“I knew Trelawney had connections to some gang out west, but I never thought…” You shake your head slowly, dazed by the absurdity of this new development. “Did he know? When I sold them those bonds, did he realize they were yours? And why—”

“Nah, he wouldn’t have known. I, uh… wasn’t too keen on tellin’ folk I got robbed by a woman.” He rubs the back of his neck and lets out an embarrassed huff. “Told ‘em the whole thing was a bust.”

Looking back, he may as well have told them the truth. The lie hadn’t done much to salvage his pride, and had prompted weeks of jibes at his own expense. Snide little asides from Micah, overt ridicule from Bill, and the painful ordeal of Sean.

“Gettin’ sloppy in your old age,” he’d quipped. “I’ll tell you what you need, Morgan. You need to let someone else hold the reins for a change. Someone quick on the uptake, someone young and hot-blooded and—”

“Get back to me when you’re done complimentin’ yourself,” Arthur had replied, already walking away.

“Wait, Morgan — take me with you next time you ride out! I’ll scout somethin’ out, and we can…”

Sean had been insistent as a mosquito and twice as annoying, but ultimately bearable so long as he had a beer in his hand or a pillow over his head. His own head, though he’d been sorely tempted otherwise.

No, what had really driven him to leave camp had been Dutch.

Dutch and his put-upon fatherly air, all stern mouthed disapproval and downward sloping shoulders. His pointed observations of Jack’s tattered jacket, well on its way to becoming a patchwork Ship of Theseus. Pearson’s dwindling supply of seasonings, so scarce that the stews have become bland to the point of near inedibility. The stocks of medicine running low, bandages boiled so many times that their fibers have since frayed to a cobwebbed consistency.

“I know you’re doing your best, son,” Dutch had sighed, casting a weary eye over his threadbare kingdom. “God knows you’re the only man I can depend on to get anything done around here. But folks are… well. Folks are struggling.”

Arthur’s eyes had slid momentarily towards Dutch’s tent, resting on the golden gleam of the gramophone and the crisp cotton sheets laid across the bed. An unbroken sea of white, with not a stitch out of place. And not twenty feet away, Hosea’s shabby lean-to, the older man’s bedroll bearing the same disjointed array of colors as the rest of the camp’s accoutrements.

Dutch always did have a taste for the finer things in life. A level of refinement proportionate to the depth of his ambition, which in earlier days had been tempered by kinder, simpler ideals. Feed those that need feeding. Shoot those that need shooting. Robin Hood-esque, with a western (and occasionally lethal) twist. Evelyn Miller had been a fixture even then, but in those halcyon years Dutch had not yet twisted the author’s words to the tottering worldview that he’s since constructed.

The gang’s nascent success had bred standards and attracted new followers. A ragtag flock all too eager to nourish their leader’s growing, malignant appetite for grandeur.

“Just one last score, and we’ll be clear of all this… this manmade rot.” Dutch said, gesturing in the direction of Blackwater. “But for now, we’ve got to play their game. Get our hands dirty for the time being so we can wash ourselves clean of all this when we’ve finally got the means.”

Arthur had departed under the pretense of retrieving the missing bonds (impossible) or locating some cache of similar value (near impossible), but in truth he’d done so primarily for the preservation of his own sanity. More and more these days, he’s been seeing cracks in the foundation of the man who’d given him this life, dragged him out of the gutter and set him with a previously unwavering sense of purpose. And it feels treacherous — traitorous, even — to take any of it into question.

But as always, the open road and the unabiding sky of the prairie settled him into a different mindset altogether. The cycles of flora and fauna in untouched wilderness exist completely separate from the artifices of men, with the legacies of countless tiny lives encapsulated in the fine grit of the dust to which all things return. And in that certainty comes an overwhelming comfort. Everything else seems trifling in the wake of the vast perpetuity of nature.

A few days spent wandering would do him good, he’d decided. Spend some time away from all the trappings of civilization, then rob some poor sap on the side of the road so as not to return empty-handed.

And then you’d ruined his plans entirely by literally walking into him as he’d been passing through Strawberry.

“Well,” you say, offering up a small, nervous smile. “What now?”

What now, indeed. Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. “Guess we take a visit to Trelawney’s,” he replies, already dreading the inevitable embarrassment of explaining the whole sorry situation to the man. “And if it turns out you’re tellin’ the truth, I’ll give you a ride from Rhodes to St Denis.”

You frown and furrow your brow. “Rhodes?”

“Yeah, Rhodes. Trelawney’s got a caravan there on the outskirts of town. You didn’t know?”

“You can’t take me to Rhodes,” you say automatically, as if stating the obvious. “I mean… look at me.”

“You’re a woman?” he asks stupidly.

“I’m an Oriental, you moron. And Rhodes is a fucking… it’s a fucking Raider town.”

“You’d be with me. I’ll keep you safe.”

You shake your head and set your mouth into a grim, flat line. “That’s worse. They might think we’re together. And they don’t take kindly to miscegenation.”

Your words have to them the quality of a veil being drawn back, exposing a corner of this country’s ugliness he’s not often been privy to. A familiar knot of guilt tugs at his innards, accompanied by the unpleasant, impotent sensation that surfaces each time he catches the ungracious stares of the crowd when walking into town with Tilly by his side. Each time he hears the practiced courtesy in a shopkeep’s voice drop away when the man turns away from him to address Charles. Each time he watches Lenny reread for the thousandth time the letter from his dead father, the creases in its paper worn so deep that it would have long since fallen apart were it not for the boy’s careful, reverent handling.

“You know those big plantation houses just south of Rhodes? They hire Chinese sometimes to work the fields. Cheaper than sharecropping, apparently.” The look on your face is drawn and bitter. The bite in your voice suggests something personal, the sting of an injury not yet healed. “One of the boys got involved with a white housemaid. He’d saved up for train tickets to Philadelphia, and they were… he was going to marry her there. Wanted an August wedding. The number eight’s lucky for us, you see. So August 8th, 1898… he thought it was all very romantic. Used to make this stupid joke that he wished he’d met her ten years earlier. Raiders strung him up in an oak tree a couple weeks before they were set to leave.”

Arthur’s tongue lies silent and heavy in his mouth.

You take in a deep breath that rattles with the failing determination of someone struggling not to break their composure, then look to him with a desperation so absolute that it seems almost indecent to witness. “Why don’t you just leave me here? Keep me tied up if you have to. Come back for me when you’re done with Trelawney.”

In the short span of time that he’s known you, you’ve made enough of an impression to warrant several conclusive classifications. A haughty, pampered little thing. An ineffective liar. A self-destructive fool — but not stupid. Definitely not stupid.

The sheer idiocy of your suggestion indicates a fear so deep that it’s completely severed you from your senses. Just a frightened little bird caught in a trap, scratching and clawing for the narrowest possible opening for escape.

“You’re tellin’ me to tie up a woman and leave her in the middle of nowhere? May as well just hand-deliver you to the wolves. No,” he says firmly, trying to shake off the unwanted pang of sympathy. Dutch had been right about one thing — the gang did need money, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let this opportunity for it slip away out of misguided compassion for a woman who’d literally robbed him as he’d bled out. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Soon as we near Rhodes, I’ll tie you to Boadicea the same way I did when we left Strawberry.”

You blink and utter a disbelieving, “Excuse me, what?”

“Reckon they’ll treat us both a hell of a lot nicer if they think you’re a bounty. Gives me plenty excuse for keepin’ you in one piece, too.”

Your face ventures on a quick journey through the five stages of grief. The grief in question being for the loss of your dignity. The blank look shifts to a glare. You open your mouth to spit out something no doubt acerbic and very rude, but a flash of uncertainty crosses your face and you quickly bite your tongue. Then you lower your head and squeeze your eyes shut. When you finally open them again, there is a defeated resignation in them that attests to a lost mental argument.

“You better ride slow if you don’t want a repeat of this morning,” you say wearily.

Arthur shrugs. “Can’t throw up if you got nothin’ in your stomach. We’ll just skip feeding you breakfast tomorrow.”

To his relief, the atmosphere lightens to blessed, familiar hostility. You tell him to go fuck himself. That you’ll literally fight him for the apples you know he has tucked away in his saddlebags. That maybe you’ll throw up anyway purely out of spite. That he’s a miserable piece of shit who you wish—

A sudden flash of lightning illuminates the outcrop for a fraction of a second, painting everything beneath it into harsh shades of white and black. It strikes as sudden and violent as a fiery whip crack, leaving behind it the bittersweet scent of burnt grass and a curl of grey smoke like a departing ghost. Its near-simultaneous clap of thunder drowns out your last sentence with an ear splitting boom so encompassing that the vibration of it seems to rattle down to the bone. The silence that follows has in it the anticipatory hush of the void prior to Genesis. You shatter it with a quiet but appropriately placed, “Jesus Christ.”

The land outside is hedged low in the horizon, and the vastness of its sky swallows all else. It crowns as its dominating feature the movement of its anvil-shaped clouds. They shift leaden and portentous, translucent bellied and lit up by the jagged tongues of lightning darting throughout quick and sporadic as pale dragonflies. Roiling violet like the murky blood of some vast organism, pulsing membranous over the prairie with a fury of near biblical proportions. And below, the buttes with their strange eroded shapes like scattered islands in a black sea of grass. In the torrential dark, their silhouettes flash ivory with every strike of lightning only to sink back into the hushed umbra of night.

There is a muted look of awe on your face, as if witnessing for the first time the true scale of a storm. Something that before now had been glimpsed only through the gaps between high-shuttered buildings. Tempests caught in concrete snares and, not unlike the men that build them, diminished until they are but a feeble whisper of their former selves.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur. “I never knew rain could be like this.”

With a jolt of displeasure, he finds that the soft expression on your face renders you unexpectedly pretty in the fire’s flickering light, the amber reflection of it bright as copper in your eyes. A gentle chiaroscuro, the smooth line of your cheek and shadowed hollow of your throat the anchor points to which his eye is drawn.

You shuffle a little closer to the outlook’s rain-veiled edge. The roughspun blanket, still drawn tightly around your shoulders, shifts. Arthur quickly averts his eyes, but even so is met with a sliver of bare skin that runs neck to navel. The subtle outline of a breast, the mild fishbone curve of a rib.

And all at once he’s unbearably, disastrously hard, filled with a painful but directionless longing — not just for intimacy, but for the simple reassurance of another body pressed close, skin to skin and breath to breath. A kind of tenderness he’s been deprived of for so long that the memory of it brings not warmth but the brittle cold of hoarfrost. Absence like a thick pane of ice, the things he’s lost visible just underneath.

From the periphery of his line of sight, you’re but an indistinct blur in the vague shape of a woman. How appropriate then, that you should be the focus of this formless arousal. And how infuriatingly pathetic. He hadn’t lied when he’d said you weren’t his type, and yet here he is, his cock stiffer than it’s been in months at just the suggestion of a woman’s naked body.

In desperate search of both distraction and something to obscure himself with, Arthur pulls back the front flap of his satchel and fishes out your blue notebook. He glances briefly in your direction, already anticipating your angry shout of indignation — but you’re far too occupied with watching the progression of the storm to so much as glance in his direction.

The notebook’s contents are far more legible than he’d initially assumed. Most of the foreign characters seem to be either names or places, which makes it possible for him to pick out the main thread of most sentences.

Its first half consists of what looks like a ledger. Neatly organized columns with foreign characters and numbers that he hasn’t the slightest idea how to parse. When he flips past it, a slip of paper scrawled with the same strange, flowing text flutters from the pages and alights delicately into his lap. Arthur picks it up, and as he examines it, it occurs to him that he has no idea how to orient it.

Prior to this, he’d only ever seen Chinese characters painted on the roadside food stalls accompanying railroad workers on their long trek westwards. A strange, complex syllabary. He’d once read somewhere that each word of the language had its own unique character. A sort of pictograph that, when studied, relays its meaning to those who knew how to read it.

He scrutinizes the slip of paper in his hand, but finds himself unable to pick out even the vaguest of resemblances. The corner of the paper bears a square seal of red ink, inset with an intricate consortium of straight lines. Curiosity spent for the moment, Arthur slots the document back in place.

The rest of the notebook looks to be an odd mixture of field observations and long, ornate paragraphs about various landscapes. A few pressed wildflowers, field observations of city flora and fauna, crudely drawn animals reminiscent of the scattered petroglyphs he’s found carved in long-abandoned settlements. An earmarked passage describing the wetlands bordering St Denis, full of strikethroughs and hastily added phrases squeezed into the margins. Another describing what sounds like Cotorra Springs.

“The amber fields are dotted with sprigs of larkspurs and wild flax like blue-violet stars,” Arthur reads aloud.

You turn to face him so quickly that your wet hair arcs through the air like an ink-stained brush, scattering water droplets that sizzle and hiss when they fall into the fire. Wild-eyed as a spooked horse, but frozen into a horrified silence as he licks his finger and traces the rest of the line across the page, continuing, “And even further north, viridian-blue pools from which rise plumes of white smoke, the water still and clear as glass. Hills of black obsidian —”

You scramble towards him and, while clutching the blanket around your shoulders shut with one hand, slap the notebook out of his grip with the other. It lands perilously close to the fire, but you snatch it up without giving a second thought to the nearness of the flames.

“That’s private,” you hiss, hugging the notebook to your chest the way one might accidentally smother an infant.

“Thought it was fair turnaround, seein’ as you never extended that same courtesy to me,” he retorts.

The memory of that miserable morning after surfaces in him like a bloated corpse too persistent to stay hidden. His billfold emptied, ill-gotten gains vanished, and his journal speckled with smeared, bloodied thumbprints from beginning to end. Above a sketch of a mountain wildflower he’d drawn a question mark next to, the word “crocus ?” written in an angular, jagged scrawl.

“Yeah, because I thought you were going to die!” you argue back. “Figured you probably had your next of kin listed somewhere in there!”

Next of kin. The phrase pierces through like a stitch popped out of place, and Arthur nearly flinches. It’s an unintentional blow on your part, but nevertheless he deflects the only way he knows how. When bitten, bite back.

“Oh that’s real charitable, comin’ from the dope-peddler,” he jeers. “You save this compassion for everyone you fuck over, or just me?”

A clear and unguarded expression of hurt crosses your features. The same you’d worn when he’d had to pry his shotgun out of your hands. Forlorn, helpless as a wounded prey animal. But it passes quickly into a cold disdain, your head raised high again and your eyes hard as flint.

“Do you know,” you say quietly, lip curling with contempt. “I seriously considered cutting your throat when I finally realized who you were. I should have.”

Then you blink, forehead wrinkling as you sniff at the air. You glance at the fire, where his forgotten can of beans is beginning to burn.

Arthur curses. He hastily swipes one of his discarded riding gloves from the grass and pulls it on, then grabs the can and blows on its contents, fanning away its delicate wisp of black smoke.

You retreat to the far inner corner of the outcrop and frantically page through the notebook until you find the red-sealed paper sheafed inside. With a sigh of relief, you slump against the rough granite wall, the tense set of your shoulders loosening as though some secret string stretched taut through the frame of your body had suddenly been cut loose.

A sullen silence permeates the shelter, punctuated only by the grating scratch of metal as he scrapes burnt food off the edges of the can with a spoon.

“You forgot to mention that the whole place smells like shit,” Arthur says finally. He keeps his eyes on the can, attention focused squarely on the arduous task of excavating beans.

“What?”

“Cotorra Springs. Smells like week-old shit. Especially around the pools.”

The rustle of blankets. From the corner of his eye, he watches you tentatively scoot closer. “You’ve been there?” you ask. Your voice is still deeply reproachful, but touched with genuine curiosity.

“You haven’t?”

“No. I’ve just seen pictures. And notes from people who have.”

“Huh,” he says. He scrapes another carbonized mouthful from the can. “Could’ve fooled me, the way you wrote about it.”

You raise your eyebrows. “You think so?”

“Sure.

The corner of your mouth quirks upwards in a reluctant smile that unfolds like the breaking light of a clouded dawn. “Well, that’s… that’s good to know.”

“You writin’ a book or something?” he asks.

“That’d be nice, wouldn’t it?” The smile wilts slightly, and you drop your gaze down to the notebook on your lap. “No. Just a favor for an old friend’s husband. The man fancies himself an explorer, but can barely string a sentence together. He’s paying me to pretty up his notes for him. Half of which I think are made up. There’s some bullshit in there about an enormous rainbow colored pond full of boiling water.”

Arthur laughs. “Naw, that bit’s true. I’ve seen it. It’s a hell of a thing.”

You seem skeptical. He doesn’t blame you. Even after having walked the rust-banded edge of that craterous spring himself, his memory of it still carries with it the preternatural awe of a place half-dreamed. He tells you about the slow gradation of color leading inwards from the rim. Ochre to cadmium, to turquoise, to a deep cerulean with the unreal brilliance of a painted ocean. Steam hanging like a pungent fog. Entire stretches of ground covered in a thick, boiling mud, bubbling ominous as something out of Dante’s Inferno. A constant gurgling of earth and water, as if he were treading upon some living thing in the midst of an infernal digestion.

Halfway through his description, you flip the notebook to a clean page and ask him for a pencil, then begin scribbling down his words with an unceasing, determined hand. This bemuses him. That anyone might find his drivel meaningful enough to commit to paper is a new experience altogether. It’s an odd feeling, but not at all an unpleasant one.

That is, until you begin peppering his narrative with so many questions that it takes the better part of an hour to accommodate them.

What kind of plants grew there?

“Bunch of disgusting slippery shit around the edge. Algae or something. Other than that, can’t think of a single thing that’d lay roots in boiling water and sulfur.”

Did the mud boil like roiling water, or was it more the viscosity of a slow simmering stew?

“More like wet cement, really.”

Were there animals?

“No. Nothing there for ‘em.”

Birds?

“Didn’t see any.”

Insects?

“A shit ton of gnats, but not much else.”

How wide were the prismatic bands around the crater? What was the geology like? Did the surrounding forest taper off gradually in the vicinity of the spring, or was the loss of vegetation sudden and absolute as a drawn border?

“Give me your notebook.” he says, having finally reached the point of exasperation. “Easier if I just draw it for you.”

To his faint surprise, you hand it over without hesitation. He sketches out what he’s able to recall, all the while acutely aware of the madness of the situation. Fucking illustrating an account of his own wanderings for the woman who robbed him while they both sit in varying states of undress. Scribbling out a messy landscape in the same notebook whose contents he’d derided just a little while ago. Focusing all his attention on Cotorra Springs so as to ward away the unfortunate possibility of another inopportune erection.

The mediocre drawing he finally manages to scratch out would have disappointed him under any other occasion. Instead, he feels a warm flood of relief at its conclusion. If this doesn’t shut you up, then nothing will.

Nothing will, it seems. To his immense chagrin, the drawing sparks another round of questions. After silently admiring his work just long enough to spark hope of your satiety, you ask him about the species of the trees. Had he explored the nearby forest? Were there flowers? What season had he visited in? Was the acrid smell of sulfur present even here?

“Look,” Arthur says wearily. “You clearly come from money. Why don’t you just hire someone out to take you sometime?”

You snort at the suggestion. The corner of your mouth lifts upwards into something that’s only nominally a smile, and more the type of grimace that accompanies an old wound. “The only two men I’d trust enough to take me out into the middle of nowhere are dead. And with the money I owe, I can’t… I can’t just… you know what?” you say abruptly. “It’s getting late and I’m fucking exhausted. I’m going to sleep.”

And with that, you tug the blanket tight around your shoulders and huddle against the ground like a felled shrimp. You lay with your back to him, the words left unsaid hanging over you both like an unripe fruit of a question.

Arthur fetches his bedroll and unfurls it close to the fire. A battered pillow emerges from the worn tarp as he spreads it flat. After a moment of contemplation, he picks up the pillow and tosses it in your direction. It hits you square on the head.

Immediately, you sit up and snarl at him. “What the fuck is wrong with — oh.” You pick up the pillow and grasp it tight, as if at any moment he might change his mind and demand it back. Your small “thank you” is puzzled and uncertain.

“I’m gonna put out the fire,” he says. “You try to slit my throat in the dark, I’ll wring your neck.”

But the threat comes out empty and toothless, and judging by the renewed sarcasm in your voice when you tell him you’ll keep it in mind, you seem fully aware of it.

Arthur douses the flames by kicking dirt over the embers, which glow dim and vermillion for minutes afterwards, fading slow to dull, crumbling ash when the heat finally bleeds out of them. The pleasant smell of smoke lingers inside the shelter for a good while longer, but even that dissipates eventually, leaving just petrichor and the crisp, clean scent of early autumn rain.

The worst of the storm has shifted westwards. Water drips in a steady stream from the outer edge of the overhang, churning the ground below to a soup of mud. The cloud cover is still dense, but it’s thinned enough that moonlight gleams through the feathery underbelly in a pale and spattered mottle. With it, he can make out the dim outline of your body, the rise and fall of your chest in a slow, steady rhythm he sorely doubts you’d have the patience to feign.

He lies awake there in the dark for a long while, shuffling through a jumble of discordant emotion. It’s as if the pieces of several sets of puzzles have been mixed together and jammed into an incomprehensible mess, so hopelessly and thoroughly muddled that he can no longer tell where one thing starts and another ends. He sorts his way through it until the rain weakens to a grey drizzle and the drip of rainwater turns from the unbroken stream of a faucet to a series of droplets beating out an abstruse morse code against the ground.

In the end, he’s only able to definitively place a single solid sentiment. Pity.

———

Couple notes:

Arthur's understanding of Chinese is incorrect, but aligns with the assumptions a lot of Western scholars during that time period had regarding it. There was a big tendency to treat it like Japanese, which despite using some of the same characters, uses a completely different structure.

Cotorra Springs seems to be based off Yellowstone. The big boiling rainbow spring is actually real: it's called the Grand Prismatic Spring and seriously does look like something out of a fever dream. Yellowstone also does smell like sulfur in some places, but it’s not so much like week old shit as it is the potent fart of someone who’s eaten far too many deviled eggs.

No algae grows in the spring. It's actually cyanobacteria, but there's no reason Arthur would know this. It does look pretty gross up close.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan/reader #arthur morgan/oc #fic #red dead redemption #rdr2 #my work #talking bird

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onecanonlife · 3 years

Text

In which Tommy travels back in time and tries to prevent a nightmare from happening to everyone he knows. Everyone else, meanwhile, is highly concerned.

(fic masterpost w/ ao3 links)

(first part) (previous part) (next part)

(word count: 4,132)

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

Part Four: Eret

“They’re here.”

The words are said in her own voice. She does not remember willing her mouth to move. She does not remember how she got here, nor where here is. Inside, somewhere, for sure; her surroundings are blurry, twist and warp everywhere she looks, and it’s confusing, dizzying. The air is hazy, clouded with smoke and drifting sparks, flickering on a hot, dry wind, and a film of red has descended on her vision, as if her glasses are tinted. She doesn’t know what’s happening, nor why she spoke, but even as she listens to the words, she is certain of their veracity, a deep, dark dread pooling in her chest. They are coming. They are coming for her, and for everyone else.

She is scared. It is a wide, unfocused, fear; she can’t seem to concentrate enough to figure out what or who she’s scared of, what or who they are. The details slip away when she tries to grasp them, and the act of thinking feels like wading through thick mud. Her thoughts are foggy, unfocused, and she can barely feel her own body, like she’s a passenger in her own skin.

But she is scared. Her skin buzzes with it, with a pure, unadulterated terror, with the sensation of running out of time.

“We knew they’d find us,” someone says. They—no, he, he feels right in a way she can’t explain—he stands next to her, though she cannot turn her head to look. His voice is familiar to her as summer rains, the crunch of a footstep on sand, the ring of a pickaxe on gold, but she does not know him. “We knew this was inevitable. I’d hoped for more time, but—”

He is scared, too. She can hear it in his voice, and every inch of her aches to soothe him.

“We won’t be able to win this,” she hears herself say instead. “Not against all of them.” Her voice pauses. “Not this time.”

“Who’s here?” a new voice says, lighter than the first, accented differently, reverberating with an echo that wedges in her bones, empty and unnatural. Their presence feels like an absence. “Do we have visitors?”

“Enemies, more like,” the first voice says.

“Ah,” says the second. “I’ll go tell them to fuck right off, then.” A pause, and then, “Is Techno coming?”

A name she knows but doesn’t. A face flashes in her mind’s eye, and once gone, she cannot remember it.

“Maybe,” says the first. “Why don’t you go see? And if he’s not, you can go ahead and, um, tell them to fuck right off. That’ll be really helpful.”

There is a blue of motion in the corner of her eye, someone passing out of the room, though they are soundless, and the air does not change with their leaving. She still cannot turn to look.

“He’s not what he was,” she hears herself say. “He won’t be able to hold them.”

“I know,” the other says, and there is defeat in his tone, heavy and terrible. She wants to take his hand. She wants to look into his eyes. She wants to know who he is. She can do none of those things. “I know. There’s nothing else we can do now. Are you ready for this? What you were telling me about?”

She feels herself swallow past a lump in her throat. “Ready enough to try,” she says, and her voice is choked. “But I don’t—”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says, and then, he is in front of her, and he is right there, but her eyes will not focus, and every time she blinks, she forgets his features, forgets—but she cannot retain them long enough to describe them, even to herself, and she’s left with nothing, like trying to snatch at dying embers before they go cold and turn to dust. She thinks she could cry with the frustration of it, and she still doesn’t understand, has no idea why she wants to know so badly, why this is so important to her. “It’s all gonna be okay.”

“It won’t be,” she says. “I didn’t want it to end like this.”

“Neither did I, old pal.” There are lips on her forehead, a gentle kiss. She leans into it, wants to keep the memory of it forever. “Don’t think of it as an ending. Just a—a see you later.”

She laughs, unhappily. “There won’t be a later.”

“Maybe not,” he says softly. “But I’d like to think that’s not true.”

There is a sound, then, a noise like a shriek and a cry and a grinding of metal against metal, discordant and clanging, and it’s as if it punches her in the throat. She gasps for breath, the air suddenly too thin to sustain her, and past the sound, the terrible sound, the sound that is drawing closer, some destructive thing on the hunt, she hears his voice: “We’re out of time.”

Behind her. There is someone behind her. She turns, and her vision flares with red, but she can make out blond hair, blue eyes, something small and pink held in their arms, clutched to them desperately, protectively, and then the world is tilting, blurring and changing, and the turns again and she is kneeling, her knees on hard stone, and she knows, she knows that something awful is happening, and they’re out of time, they’re all out of time, and her hands mark the ground with desperate, rushed motions, smearing paint—no, blood. She doesn’t know how she knows that, but she does, and her motions, too, are beyond her control.

And yet, they feel natural. Like something buried in her rising up to the surface. She has no idea what she’s doing, even though her body does, and yet, and yet—

The universe hums at her fingertips, and it is as familiar as her own name.

“Eret,” someone gasps, someone pleads, “Eret, what’re you—he’s still up there, we have to go get him—”

“He’s buying us time,” she manages, her voice distant to her own ears. The next words that she says are not comprehensible to her, power vibrating through them, something other, something wrong and yet right all at once, and the blood—it is her blood—begins to glow, shimmer with a silver-red light, and she can barely look at the patterns she’s made, her mind skittering off of them like a rock skipped across a pond; she’ll sink if she lets herself.

“Eret, please,” they say.

She stops her chanting. The spell is set. Half of her feels calm, serene. The other half of her feels like she’s screaming.

“I couldn’t save anyone else,” she says. “I’m sorry. But I can do this, at least.”

“Wh—Eret!”

Alarm, true alarm, fear, and she meets their eyes. His eyes. His face solidifies, sharpens, becomes clear. His eyes are duller, his hair streaked with white, his face scarred. But it’s Tommy. Too old and too young all at once.

The glow brightens, illuminates the contours of his face. Lights up the room. Warms her skin.

Tommy screams.

The world rips, or perhaps she is ripping the world, but she is falling, falling back and away, falling out of herself and a void is underneath but not in time for her to escape, the world is imploding but there are footsteps, there is someone shouting, and someone yanks her head back by the hair, and there is a sharp slide of a blade across her neck, a gush of something hot, and then pain, and—

Eret wakes up choking.

He sits bolt upright, hands flying to his neck, pawing at it, pressing it, trying to stem a flow of blood that does not exist, close a wound that is not there. It takes several full minutes for his body to convince his brain that he is whole and unharmed, that he is neither bleeding out from a blade to his throat nor tumbling into some vast emptiness as the world destructs around him, destructs from something he did—

What was that?

Slowly, he calms, regulates his breathing, but not all of the panic leaves him, adrenaline flooding his veins and setting him shaking. He takes his hands down from his throat, stares at them; they tremble, but there is no blood painting them.

That is, perhaps, the most vivid dream he has ever had. And also perhaps the most frustrating. He can’t say he’s ever had one like it, where he felt like he was trapped within himself, unable to affect his own actions, spouting off words that he had no context for.

He shudders, suddenly, a full-body convulsion.

Air. He needs air.

It’s the dead of night, it seems. L’Manberg is quiet, peaceful, enjoying her first night of true independence. It’s still a bit hard for him to believe, that it was won just like that, and by Tommy, no less. He was prepared for the conflict to stretch out a lot longer, little though he liked the idea. But now, it’s all over, and they have to figure out how to proceed. Or at least, Wilbur does; Wilbur is still in charge, president now rather than general. He’s not sure how he feels about that.

He likes Wilbur. Rather a lot, actually. But sometimes, it concerns him, how much Wilbur seems to enjoy power.

Though he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the thought of having a little power himself, power to protect anyone he chooses, to lead if need be, so perhaps he’s just a hypocrite.

All thoughts for later, though. For now, the night air is a balm on his face, fresh and free, and he breathes in deeply. The world is fine. He is fine. He can even imagine where the dream came from; Tommy was acting so very strangely yesterday, and he’s been stressed in general, so it’s not hard to figure that his mind conjured up some outer manifestation of it, some representation of the way he feared everything would come crumbling in around them. Dreams are tricky things. It’s never wise to put too much stock in them.

The one thing he can’t push aside was the other person. Not Tommy, and not the one who left. The one who kissed his forehead, called him a friend. He’s not sure why his mind would invent someone when he has plenty of friends here to fill the role, and something about it unsettles him. Because the depth of attachment he felt for this person, who he is sure he doesn’t know, who he doesn’t recognize at all, was frightening, almost, in its intensity.

And yet, it was also comforting. Familiar. Safe.

Absently, he reaches up and touches his forehead. He’s reading too far into this, to be sure. But he can’t help but wonder who he was, even if he was just an invention of his troubled, tired brain.

He sighs, and decides to mount the walls. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to fall back asleep any time soon, so he may as well have a decent view. May as well help keep watch, even though they supposedly don’t really need to anymore. He’s not sure he’ll trust this peace until the documents are all drawn up and signed, but hopefully Dream is a man of his word. Hopefully he is one that keeps his promises.

The night is peaceful, and there’s a cool wind blowing from the northeast. He turns his face into it, breathing deeply, and that is when he sees it: movement. A figure on the ground, moving slowly but steadily toward the walls. He leans further out, trying to get a better look; is this something he should raise the alarm over? One person probably can’t do a lot, unless that person is Dream. He hopes it’s not Dream.

He squints as the figure approaches. They really are making a beeline for the walls, and there’s no indication that they’ve seen him. He wonders if he should call out, make them aware that they’ve been observed. Would that dissuade a potential troublemaker?

And then, the figure gets close enough for him to make out details. Rumpled red and white t-shirt, blond hair. It’s unmistakably Tommy. Which begs a new question: what is Tommy doing outside L’Manberg’s borders so late at night?

He did the same last night, from what Eret gathered. Went to Dream and traded his discs for L’Manberg’s freedom. A risky ploy, one that he’s surprised actually worked, but he supposes he’s been underestimating the value that this discs have to many people on the server. He wasn’t here for the onset of the wars over them. Still, he admires the sacrifice that Tommy made, even if he can’t make heads or tails of that interaction they had yesterday.

But then, Tommy’s always been a bit of a strange kid. This was a new kind of strange, but he’s fifteen going on sixteen years old, and he’s proven himself to be resilient. He’s sure everything is fine.

As he muses, Tommy clambers his way up the wall, and once he’s up, he just stands there for a second, leaning against one of the parapets. His face is pinched, lined with exhaustion and something else, something that Eret can’t quite interpret in the dim light of the stars. He seems preoccupied, caught up within himself and whatever he was doing, and Eret considers letting him go without saying a word. But concern wins out over that, and he clears his throat. Tommy jerks, wheeling on him violently, lips slightly parted.

“Hey, Tommy,” he says, raising a hand to placate him. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t startle me,” Tommy says. “I’m unstartleable.”

He smiles, inclining his head. “I’m not sure that’s a word.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Tommy says. “What’re you doing up here?”

“Unsettled dreams, I’m afraid,” he says. He sees no reason to hide it, and perhaps admitting to a bit of weakness will put Tommy more at ease. Currently, he’s holding himself tense as a bowstring. “I came out to get a bit of air. What about you? Any particular reason to go for a stroll this time of night?” He cuts himself off before he can say something stupid, such as, I’m sure Wilbur wouldn’t be happy to know you’re out and about this late. Because while that is the truth, and he’s sure Tommy knows it, knows that the man is protective over him like he is over practically nothing else, he’s also sure that Tommy’s independent spirit wouldn’t appreciate him pointing that out.

“No,” Tommy bites out. “No reason at all.”

That is so clearly a lie that it’s almost insulting. But he takes one look at Tommy’s closed off posture, the jut of his chin, and decides to leave it. What’s most important is that Tommy is back safe; he won’t pressure him to reveal something he’s not comfortable with sharing.

“Alright, then,” he says. “You’re welcome to join me, if you’d like.”

Tommy shoots him a scathing glare at that. But to his surprise, he then walks over, a bit hesitantly, and joins him in bracing himself against the ramparts, staring out over the surrounding countryside. He doesn’t say anything else, and Eret tries to study him without making it obvious.

“I think it’s pretty amazing, what you did,” he says. “I can’t pretend to understand how difficult that was for you, but you single-handedly won us a war. You’ve probably had your fill of receiving thanks, but I think it bears repetition.”

“I know it was amazing,” Tommy says, and his voice is oddly hollow. “I’m very amazing, thank you so much.” He sighs, then, shoulders hunching a bit. “No, it just—it just needed to be done, so I did it. That’s all there was, really. Not even sure if it’ll hold up. Dream’ll use them as leverage if he thinks he can get away with it, and then we’ll have a whole other mess of problems.”

“Do you think he’ll keep his word?” he finds himself asking. Perhaps it’s the maturity Tommy seems to be displaying, the awareness, but he seems like the one to ask.

“Don’t know,” he says. “At this point? I hope so. He’s still got people he’s accountable to, so maybe. If not, we’ll have to kill him.”

“Right,” he replies, and wonders when death entered the picture. They knew it was a risk, of course, in war, but no one has died yet, on either side, and he rather thought that everyone was looking to keep it that way. “I pray it won’t come to that.”

Tommy snorts. “Let me tell you something, Eret,” he says. “Praying doesn’t do shit. Gods die just as easily as men do.”

That—sure is something for a teenager to say. He’s not sure why it strikes such a chord in him.

“Hope, then,” he says, and tries not to reveal that he’s rattled.

“Hope’s not much better. Unreliable, that is,” Tommy mutters, and Eret thinks that it might be time to change the subject. Otherwise, he’ll have to confront just how jaded Tommy sounds, and as much as he likes the kid, he’s really not sure that he’s the one best equipped to help him, even if Tommy would allow him to do so. Surely, someone like Tubbo or Wilbur would do better in trying to talk him through it.

“I’m not sure I understood what you were trying to thank me for, earlier,” he says. “Or yesterday, rather.”

Tommy shoots him a glance. “Don’t worry about it,” he says dismissively. “You don’t need to make it a thing. It wasn’t a thing.”

“It felt a little bit like a thing.”

“Well, it wasn’t, so piss off.” Tommy frowns, and then turns to face him fully. He turns as well, trying to show him that he has his undivided attention. “Look, it was just a, a general thank you, yeah? Enjoy it, because you’re not getting another one. But you’re not completely shit all of the time, I guess.” He sounds so very put upon in a way that only teenagers can, and Eret suppresses a grin. “Don’t read into it, shit head. But listen, Eret,” —His tone shifts, suddenly, going lower, more serious, and Eret leans in a bit on instinct— “you are sticking around, yeah? With us, with L’Manberg?”

“Of course,” he answers, taken off guard. “I’ve no plans to be elsewhere.”

“Good,” Tommy says. “That’s—that’s good. Not that I care if you stay or not! Don’t get ideas! But you should stick around, because we are clearly superior to everyone else on this shit server, and we’ll treat you right. Not like Dream would. Especially not like Dream would.”

“Right, yeah,” he says, sort of feeling like he’s lost the thread of this conversation, and more than a bit disconcerted at the intensity of Tommy’s words. “Don’t worry, I have no plans to go anywhere near Dream.”

“Good,” Tommy says again, and this time, he seems satisfied. Eret raises an eyebrow at him, but he just goes back to looking over the edge of the wall, and Eret shakes his head a bit, going to push his sunglasses further up his nose.

And then realizes—he’s not wearing them. Hasn’t been wearing them this whole time.

“Shit,” he hisses, and pats himself down frantically, trying to see if they’re anywhere on his person, but of course they’re not. He’s wearing his nightshirt and loose trousers, and he can picture exactly where his glasses are: sitting on the nightstand beside his bed. He didn’t think to grab them, shaken by his nightmare as he was, certain that he wouldn’t be running into anywhere else.

“What? What’s the matter?” Tommy asks, alarmed, and he realizes something else.

His eyes have been on display throughout this entire conversation, and Tommy hasn’t said a word about them. Hasn’t so much as reacted. Hasn’t so much as stared. And that—that is foreign to him. Incomprehensible. He knows very well what his eyes bring to mind, knows very well the reasons why he chooses to hide them. Better that than to scare everyone around him away. Better to hide than to have no one. But Tommy hasn’t said a word about them. He hasn’t—

He doesn’t know what to do with this.

“My glasses—” he stutters out. “I don’t—I don’t have—”

“Oh,” Tommy says, and visibly relaxes. “Yeah, did you drop ‘em somewhere or something? Did they fall out of your pocket?”

That—that is not what Tommy is supposed to be asking. Eret shakes his head, but the motion brings him no clarity. He’s trying to think past the drumbeat of instinctive anxiety, though it’s fear that apparently has no basis, even if he doesn’t know why.

“You’re not scared?” he manages.

Tommy’s face goes slack in surprise. Surprise, as if that’s the last thing he expected Eret to be asking, but surely, surely he understands Eret’s nerves? Surely he understands why Eret is confused? Surely—he must know, right?

And then, he sees a bit of that understanding dawn on Tommy’s face, his lips forming an ‘o’, and Eret braces himself.

“Of what, those?” Tommy says, making a general sort of gesture. “Gonna take more than that to frighten me, big man. You’ve got some weird fucking eyes, but I don’t see why that should bother me. And fuck anyone who is, right? They’re just eyes, man. Everyone’s got ‘em.” He pauses. “Except for Dream, maybe. We’ve never seen them. He could be hiding anything under that mask. Wait, shit, what if he hasn’t got any eyes? What if he doesn’t have a face?”

He sounds genuinely disturbed by the line of questioning. But also, he’s darting glances at Eret every now and then, as if checking to see what his response will be, and—is he trying to distract him? To calm him down, perhaps, in the most Tommy-like way possible?

Something in Eret’s chest grows warm.

“As far as I know, Dream’s just a guy,” he says. “I’m sure he’s got a face.”

“An ugly face, maybe.”

“You—” He can’t help but check. He needs to know, needs to be certain. “You really don’t mind them?”

Tommy shrugs. “Nothing I haven’t seen before,” he says. “They’re fucking strange, and you’re fucking strange, but it’s alright, man. You don’t—I mean, I know you, and that seems more important than anything else, yeah?” And Eret’s face must be doing something at that, because Tommy scowls at him, sudden and ferocious. “No, no, I see what you’re thinking, this isn’t a thing either, you bastard. This isn’t a thing. You’re just being an idiot, so I’m correcting you. This is a correction, because I simply can’t let you go on thinking things that are wrong. You get that? I’m right and you’re not and I’m telling you that. That’s what this is.”

“Right, of course,” he says. “I wouldn’t dream of claiming otherwise.” He pauses. “But thank you, Tommy. Really. That kind of means a lot.”

Tommy’s face reddens. “Whatever,” he murmurs, but he sounds unmistakably pleased. “It’s fine. I’m gonna—I’m just gonna go now. G’night, Eret.”

“Goodnight, Tommy,” he replies, and watches as Tommy practically runs for the nearest ladder.

And he remembers his dream. Remembers Tommy looking at him with trust and terror in equal measure. Remembers the scars that dotted his face in the one second that it became clear. Remembers the tremble in his voice, and the horror in that last moment as someone came up behind them and slit his throat.

He gets a sudden, overwhelming urge to call out to him, to ask him about it. But he tamps down on it. To do so would be ridiculous, after all, and Tommy seems to have enough on his plate without him adding to it. And what would he even say? Oh, by the way, I watched you watch me die in my dream just a bit ago. You don’t think there’s any meaning to that, do you?

Because that would go over so well.

So he just watches as Tommy sets foot within the L’Manberg borders and heads off at a good clip toward the building he’s claimed as his house. It’s kind of a sad structure; they really do need some better architecture around here. Maybe he should get on that. He’s a fairly good builder himself. He might be able to draw up some plans.

For now, though, he turns his face back toward the stars, and tries to feel like there’s nothing missing.

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earendilslight · 3 years

Text

Soooo, I've been simping Thresh since 2014 and now I finally can be open about my love for him because of the cinematic, and since I'm about to apply for the C1 Cambridge certification and I'm in desperate need to practice my writing, it's a perfect time to write fanfics with Thresh 💖

It's just a very little text, maybe, if it gets enough love I'll turn it into an actual fanfiction. But in the mean time, enjoy!

Also, if you happen to notice any mistake let me know!

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He came out of the shadows, where the dim light could reveal his features. It was a tall man, with long dark hair, dressed all in black, from the elegantly fixed necktie to the long-leathered trench coat that covered him down to the knees, a common attire used by the upper classes in Noxus. His face was slim, almost as the shape of the tip of a spear, with sharp cheekbones and a mouth that looked incredibly flexible as he smiled pettily at me. But it was not his smile that shocked me, no, it was his eyes. Eyes that shone like green, supernatural flames, like something evil lingered behind his mortal appearance.

The gaze of the monster in my nightmares. It was the same eyes that had terrified me for as long as I could remember, and now they were there, in the form of a devilman who smiled at me with cruel intentions. I suppressed a gasp, with trembling fingers, grasping at my robe while taking a step back.

I was petrified. How was I supposed to know this was the creature I pretended to make a deal with? I wonder If I would've been so bold to come here if I had known.

"Having second thoughts, miss?" he asked. His voice was deep, dark. The whisper of a phantom "You are indeed right to be frightened. Your soul would be in constant agony, roaming forever inside the lantern. Your friend made a choice, a very foolish one, I must say, and now he must pay the price of his own naive decisions. There is no point in wasting your life as a prisoner nor I'd like to carry a soul like yours."

"A soul like mine?" I said, trying to sound confident, but I could barely utter any words without stuttering.

"Do you wish to spend eternity in the lantern?" he asked, ignoring my question.

"No!" I replied almost immediately, without hesitation. The man looked pleased, even though there was barely a change in his expression.

"Then leave this place at once." He turned around,walking back to the inside of the house.

I realized how much of a mistake I'd made almost too late. I had been so scared that I was about to bail my plan and abandon Charles to his fate. I would never see him again, it didn't matter what choice I made. The only difference would be that, if I could convince that man to take me instead of him, Charles could be free and we could actually find a way to release myself and every other soul trapped in there. He, from outside, while I researched closely to the monster. And even so, I was shaking. Until that point, I hadn't considered the whole implications of being at the services of this devil, and the possibility of dying or, in the worst case scenario, spending the entire eternity in agony, was terrifying. But, hadn't Charles made sacrifices for me too? He was the only family I had left. The thought of my little brother suffering forever was unbearable, wasn't I supposed to be the one to protect him?

I couldn't abandon him like this...

"Wait!" I cried, so hard that it echoed across the entire yard and inside the manor. The man stopped at the door, turning slowly, first his head, then his whole body, now barely a silhouette in the dim light, staring at me without moving a muscle. I had my hand extended towards him, like trying to reach for his own, and I realized he was observing my gesture.

"Maybe... I could be of use outside the lantern..." I muttered, not even sure of what I was saying. He chuckled, almost amused with my comment. It was a muffled sound, not even a laugh.

"How come?" He asked with curiosity. Now I had his attention. It might have been a ridiculous thought, but I was starting to believe it could work.

"You're new to Noxus, sire" I said, straightening my back with an almost futile intention to appear confident. "People here talk a lot. In fact, most of them are already wondering who this mysterious visitor is. Where did he come from? What does he want? Noxus it's not a place who treats kindly it’s visitors, especially those who appear out of thin air and might be dangerous"

"Oh, I assure you, miss, I do not fret a bunch of drunken peasants who might try to trespass. Believe me, they are right to consider me a treat".

"I also consider you someone with a plan" I replied rapidly, getting to keep his eyes on me, and now, he seemed kind of... surprised "You don't strike me as a man who just wanders around this city in search for souls to torture. I believe you are here for a reason..."

He turned completely around, with an annoyed expression in his sharp face. As if I were a ridiculous fly trying to explain to a deadly spider how to seam its web.

"Your reasons are unknown to me" I continued "but I do know that once the people of Noxus begin to suspect you, Gods forbid, those who roam in the shadows, you would be the target of much more dangerous creatures than just drunken peasants."

It was true, actually. Unfortunately, Noxus was a city where you could disappear while walking back home just for people to find your dead body around the market the next morning and no one would bat an eye for you. Not to mention the multiple cults that made human sacrifices to the forgotten deities, besides robbers, assassins, rapists, the spirits that still roamed the streets late at night. Not to mention people had seen members of the Black Rose being more active than before. If this man was careless enough, some of them would notice, sooner or later, that there wasn’t something right with him.

"And what does this have anything to do with the liberation of your dearest brother from the lantern? And with you not taking his place inside of it?"

"I can be of good use outside the lantern, like I said"

Oh, dear God, what was I doing?

"If you let him go, I will be at your service, sire. You can keep me alive, not... dead and I can do anything that implies going outside the manor. People would suspect much less if they see actual movement in the mansion. It's not weird for a lord to have people at his services, even if it's just one harmless housekeeper..."

He seemed… intrigued by my proposal. I could tell he was analyzing every word that came out of my mouth, trying to find a deeper meaning or maybe ulterior motives behind my desires. Keen eyes watching my every move and reaction, almost as piercing through the flesh, into the darkest parts of my soul.

"Imagine I agree to your proposition” he speculated “What makes you think I would just let you go outside as you please?" he started walking towards me. There was this dreadful air around him that made my skin crawl. Like my heart was sinking down my throat and my blood froze little by little in my veins, with every step he took down in my direction.

The glowing, flame-like eyes coming closer, slowly, like the inevitable march of time and death, until the man stood there, five meters away from me, and I could smell the scent of his clothing, carried by the wind. Incense and the sea. Not the dry wood and dust of the hills of Noxus, but a fragrance I almost had forgotten, the one I smelled when I was a child, in a ship...

"I'm pretty sure you have ways to keep me bound to this place" I said, without escaping his glaring and hiding under my robe my shaking hands, while he studied me like a specimen he was about to dissect. "I do not doubt you could trap my brother again, and me, if I betray you. Or to even kill me, if it comes that way"

Maybe he was amused by my daring, maybe he was surprised at how much of a imbecile I was. Either way, he didn't utter a sound. The wind started to blow, much more cold than before, a voice that sang between the trees and the grass, moving the branches of the cypresses and the oaks as if they were to start dancing with the breeze, dragging with it heavy, grey-colored clouds announcing the impending storm.

“Do you wish so much to become a prisoner?” the man asked once more. The surrounding darkness of the clouds made his eyes brighter, like wildfire in the middle of the sea, blurred by the mist of the bay. “To never set a food without being watched? To know the true depths of the despair that brings with it the lack of freedom?”

I smiled, softly. Even when his face showed no change, I could tell he was, at least, studious to my reactions. I believe he was expecting me to be frightened by this, or to a certain degree intensely disturbed. For better or worse, life hadn’t treated me kindly. Since I was ten years old I had been at the service of people who considered me little more than trash and a burden, the next master worse than the last. Ironical, isn’t it? Seemed life had prepared me to serve a monster.

“Sire, I have served my whole life as a prisoner. From one Master to another, I’ve been tied to Bilgewaters my entire life” I admitted, looking directly into his cold gaze and when thunder started to strike, his eyes weren’t dulled by their light. “I do not fret to serve one more time, even if it’s forever…”

There was something that changed in his air. I cannot point out what it was, but his semblance was different, as if the winds of the storm had finally made him feel cold, even though I doubt something like him would be able to feel coldness. His previous smile had disappeared, and his mouth was now a grimace, a straight line, which made the jailer look much more severe than he already was.

“What is your name, miss?” the man asked, with a muttered, calm voice, with both hands behind his back.

“Senara Raion, sire” I responded, trembling not only because that man made me feel paralyzed, but because a very thin but chilling rain had started to fall above us.

He stared at me, thoughtful, almost as if he were expecting a reaction on my behalf.

“Miss Senara, tell me…” Suddenly, he extended his hand towards me, with no alteration to his face. “Do we have a deal?”

I looked at his face, the diabolic eyes, his gloved hand. There was no turning back…

“We do, sire.”

Had I known the future consequences of my choice… I would’ve never set foot on that hill...

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Hope you liked it!

#Thresh #Thresh x oc #League of legends #League of legends fanfic #I'm a simp for that man #Daddy pls chain me #I should be studying instead of writing this but it gives me lifeeeee

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manawhaat · 4 years

Text

Howl

Title: Howl

Characters: Alpha!John x Omega!Reader, previous Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader, Alpha!Sam, Jody Mills.

Summary: After spending twelve-hundred years in hell, John Winchester is spit out and lands on The Bunker’s doorstep while you’re away on a case. Sam and Dean insist you stay away until they can help him let go of the Alpha inside him and become human again. But when the bunker unexpectedly locks down the day you return home, you find yourself trapped inside with an Alpha who’s more monster than man.

Prompts: (This fic covers 3 challenges.)

@flamencodiva 1700 challenge - “I’ve been waiting a long time for you.”

@firefly-in-darkness summer-challenge - Limerence – the state of being infatuated with another person

@wi-deangirl77 Supernatural Schitt Challenge - “Let’s not ruin a meal by talking about the process.”

Warnings: A/B/O dynamics, slight angst, dub-con, fear kink, scent kink, blood/minor blood play, hunter/prey dynamics, extreme pining, heat sickness, allusions to stalking, creepy!John, oral sex (female receiving), rough sex, biting/scratching, claiming/knotting, breeding kink, true mates, cum play.

Word Count: 7.3k (not even a little bit sorry)

A/N: Huge, huge, HUGE thank you to @mrswhozeewhatsis for helping me make this what it is. You seriously elevate every single story you touch. Hell, you elevate EVERYTHING you touch! @sebbytrash and @sherrybaby14 also did kickass jobs betaing. I had a rough idea about this for a bit before I started to develop it and as soon as I started actually writing, I ended up signing up for a couple challenges, so this fic kills three challenges with one alpha. I liked a lot of quotes in Vanessa’s challenge so there’s actually 4 of them in here even though I only signed up for the one.

Lemme know if you like it, and maybe support my writing❤️❤️

“What do you mean John is back?”

Jody stops in her tracks and her face is a mirror image of yours, so you switch Sam to speaker and hold the phone between you and her.

“He’s back, Y/n.” Sam sighs, voice strained with exhaustion and confusion. “It’s him. He’s not missing a soul or anything but, uhh, he’s… different.”

“Different how?” A million things are running through your brain and you can only imagine what the boys must be thinking.

Shuffling fills your ear, quickly followed by the heavy creak of the bunker’s front door. His voice is quiet when he answers. “He was down there for a long time. It’s like it warped him. He’s-” Sam pauses, searching for the right word before landing on- “feral.”

Jody’s eyebrows shoot up and she clarifies, “Feral?”

Sam huffs. “Yeah. I mean, he’s only been back for a couple of days but the more we watch him and talk to him it’s like he’s more Alpha than human. Jody, I know you guys wrapped up your case but would it be okay if Y/n stayed with you for a bit?”

“I’m a big girl, Sam,” you scoff. “I dealt with your soulless ass and Dean as an actual fucking demon. I can handle a little more testosterone than normal.”

“No.” The voice belongs to Dean. “I’m serious, Y/n. This isn’t like me or Sam in a rut. He was down there for twelve-hundred years. He’s stronger than before he went down there and he’s not himself. Hell really did a number on him. There are some serious red flags here, sweetheart. He’s dangerous, and if something were to happen I’m not sure that we’d be able to protect you.”

“Jesus” Jody breathes.

The length of time put into words makes your stomach churn. The idea of anyone, anything spending so long in hell only to resurface is more than enough to send shivers up your spine.

“We’re not trying to get rid of you. We just need some time to figure things out. He’s barely-” Sam’s voice cracks- “he’s barely human, Y/n. Just give us enough time to make sure you’ll be safe around him, okay?”

Your eyes meet Jody’s and she shoots you a look that says you should listen to them. Making the guys go through this alone fucking sucks, but you trust them. “Okay, okay. I’ll keep my distance. But please keep me updated and let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

Sam and Dean sigh in relief. “We will. Thanks, sweetheart. We’ll talk soon.”

The guys keep you up to date and a little over a month has passed when you start to feel you’ve overstayed your welcome at Jody’s. You all decide it's time for you to come home and you’re off the following morning.

The drive is long but pleasant and the sight of the bunker looming in the distance is a comfort as you draw near. The iron door swings open and your friends emerge with smiles on their faces, waiting for you to park and get out before crowding you at once.

As they approach, you pick something on the breeze that you’ve never smelled before. Sam pulls you in and the warm spice wafting in the air makes you press your body into his, a little too close, too intimately. He rumbles out a laugh and you just purr in response, letting him feel the heave of your chest against his. It’s only when Dean practically peels you away from his brother that you let yourself moan into Dean’s neck, running your fingers through the back of his hair to pull him closer and get a better whiff.

“God, you guys smell so fucking good,” you admit.

Sam’s brows furrow and he asks if you’re due for a heat.

“Nope. I’ve been taking my pills… Maybe I just missed you guys!” You wink and Dean squeezes your sides, but you playfully slap him away with a broad smile. “Actually, the gift you want is in the trunk. Let me take this stuff in and I’ll come back and help you with the rest,” you promise. “Oh, and where’s John?”

“Went for a walk. He’ll be back in a bit and we’ll introduce you then.”

They rush off to your car while you head inside. The creaky slam behind you is followed by the alarmingly loud clacks and clunks of multiple locks setting into place, the sounds enough to set you on high alert. The lights don’t kick off, so you’re sure the bunker isn’t in full lock down, but before you can investigate the locked door you’re suddenly struck with the scent that you smelled on them outside, It sends a cramp through your belly and you take a deep breath to combat it, almost tasting the air until you’re interrupted when your phone rings. Dean’s face pops up on your screen and you answer the call to hear his voice, light and playful.

“Hey, what the hell? Open up. I know you’re excited to be home, but c’mon. We live here too,” Dean says, half laughing.

When you try the handle, it’s stuck in place. “It’s locked from the inside. I didn’t even touch it.”

“Son of a bitch.”

You stay on the line with him while they try their key from the outside. It doesn’t work and when they point you to the manual lever along the wall, it doesn’t budge. You can’t find any external locks to try on your side so you head down to the war room to try the mechanical system override.

A wave of dizziness washes over you when your foot hits the bunker floor off the bottom of the staircase, but you steel yourself and search the room for what you’re looking for. As if fate is against you, the search is aborted by the wash of a fever flooding your body.

It only takes a minute or two, but emotions and hormones slam through you at an alarming rate. Your heart and brain race as your body temperature kicks up a few degrees.

No, no, no. I’m taking suppressants. This can’t be happening. How is this happening so fast?

Sam and Dean are audibly yelling outside and through your phone, bickering about how to get into the bunker and that they should have known you’d go into heat upon returning to the smell of them. But their worried voices are muffled by a fog that comes over you, and somewhere in the bunker there’s a low growl that has your ears perking up. The sound is so faint you’re not sure it’s even real, until it comes again.

Your blood runs cold and you grip the phone tight in your hand, eyes wide as you look into the dark expanse of the bunker. “Guys… I think I just heard something.”

Their efforts to break down the front door stop cold. “What did you hear?”

Just then, the growl comes again and sends shivers up your spine. It’s the voice of a predator somewhere in the depths of the bunker you’re trapped in.

“I- I don’t think I’m alone in here.”

The fever and pain in your lower belly spike again and you’re almost crippled by the scent in the air. It’s faint but your body would know it anywhere, and before you can think about it you’re thrust into a strong and sudden heat that has you boiling and worried. Fresh slick gushes through your core, leaking into your underwear as you moan lewdly, clinging to the wall for support.

“Oh, fuck. Alpha!”

The phone remains loosely held in your grip but it’s dropped to your side as you rush through the halls, completely oblivious to Dean calling your name and warning you to stay where you are.

Every step you take has your body buzzing harder and harder. The sounds have stopped but the scent is getting stronger. Your mouth is dry with need and your body is almost reaching its peak just on the pulse of sheer power you’re being drawn in by.

The door to the dungeon is in front of you when your feet finally stop. Part of you registers that you’ve moved through the entire bunker in a matter of seconds, and wants you to stop and think about that for a minute, but the energy surging through your blood urges you to reach out and open the door.

“Don’t open that door!”

The voice booms through your skull, echoes off the bunker walls, shocks you, and fills your body with cold dread. Flinching back in surprise, your back hits the wall and you suddenly remember Dean on the phone. He’s rambling, but you cut him off with worry and lust fighting for dominance in your heart.

“Dean, I can feel him,” you admit, not even realizing it until after the words have echoed back at you in Dean’s voice.

“Don’t go in that room,” he warns. Commands. Your inner omega should be cowering. That’s twice you’ve been told and yet your body is quickly starting to think those words are more of a dare than a warning.

“It’s him, isn’t it? It’s John.”

A groan slithers through the cracks of the door at the sound of his name on your tongue and you know you’re right.

“He must have gotten back without us noticing. He’s dangerous, Y/n. Do not go into that room. Come back and help us find a way to get you outta there before you get hurt!”

You register the guys talking to you, yelling at you, warning you and begging you, but your body is moving on its own accord.

“Omega, stop!” John barks at you from the dungeon and you whine with need, sinking to your knees and taking in shaky breaths.

Sam’s voice catches your attention and you hear him in the middle of his sentence. “...away from there. Go to your room, take another suppressant and use your toys to calm down. Please don’t argue. If you’re going into heat then you need to leave right now. You aren’t safe there.”

Picking yourself up off the ground, you shake your head and try to break the spell. They’ve kept you away for a reason and if the guys are this worried, you should probably try to listen to them. Four steps is all you manage to take before the pain in your lower belly becomes too much and you slump against the wall. Now that you’ve been this close to the caged alpha, your body won’t let you leave.

“Guys,” you pant, sucking in ragged breaths to steel yourself from the pain. You take another two steps and collapse, screaming in agony as your nerves shred themselves, ripping themselves apart trying to escape your body and get closer to John.

Chains rattle, metal scrapes in the dungeon, and the snarls that burst from John’s chest have Sam and Dean calling for you through the phone. You grip it tight, crawl back down the hall, and sigh in relief as you give your body what it wants and the pain eases. When you settle against the wall across the hallway, the distressed sounds behind the dungeon door calm.

“I can’t.”

Hot tears prick at your eyes as you stare at that door in horror and need. You’ve hated being a weak omega with little to no say over your own life since the day you presented, and now what little control you’ve managed to find (with the help of the brothers) is slipping through your fingers. You don’t want this, but you are completely and utterly unable to deny it.

“I can’t leave. I need him.”

Soft sobs are the last thing the boys hear tumble from your mouth before you hang up and toss the phone away.

If you can’t leave, you’re gonna stay and do everything you can to listen to the men in your life. So you tear open your jeans and stuff your hands inside, desperate to quell the throbbing between your legs and gain back some semblance of control over your body.

On instinct, your mind goes to Dean. He’s been exactly who you needed him to be and he’s never let you down. Every touch serves a purpose, and his skill always afforded you the luxury of being in expert hands. But here and now, the more you think about him, the less you can remember; not the feel of his fingers inside you, let alone the taste of his tongue or girth of his knot when it’s locked you together.

A cry of Dean’s name fills the air, as if calling out to him will magically bring him to you. Will restore the memory and give you the headway you need. But Dean’s pushed out of your mind and before you realize, the images that fill your brain are of the man behind the door. Photos you’ve seen in passing over the years in Sam and Dean’s rooms and journals. The memories are a little fuzzy, but you have enough of the mental image to piece him together. Broad shoulders, thick neck, long legs, and strong hands.

Choking on desire, you’re frozen still and silent, pussy fluttering wetly around two fingers. An angry rattle of chains meets your ears on the other side of the door and you push your fingers through your folds for him, for the alpha you’ve yet to meet. The stranger that’s sent you tumbling down into this overwhelming heat.

“I can smell what you’re doin’ sweetheart,” he says through the door, and you hear him inhale long and slow; you know that he’s savoring the smell of your dripping cunt.

It’s enough to have you kicking off your pants and tearing off your shirt. The air around you is sweltering and your clothes are already soaked with sweat and slick. Your panties are wet against the back of your hand as you fuck yourself dizzy, try desperately to run from that pain and the overwhelming inevitable that’s flaring in your blood the longer you sit outside the dungeon.

Unbearable pain vibrates through your cells as you reach an almost orgasm. Everything is a blur and your tongue is heavy and dry in your mouth. You’re slowly suffocating and going blind, burning and dying. Heat sickness has always been a myth in your mind, but now you’re feeling it and you cry out in fear and frustration, worried that this might just be how you die. As if he can hear your thoughts, as if he can feel you growing weaker with every passing minute, your alpha rages and a roar booms through the bunker. It’s not anger or lust, but fear, and it matches your own.

You muster your strength and bravery, crawl across the hall and finally push open the dungeon door. Heat spills from the room and it’s musty with the pheromones he’s putting in the air, the sweat on his skin, and the need in his blood.

Wrenching back the shelves, you meet John Winchester face to face for the first time. He’s sitting in the middle of the dungeon in jeans and a flannel shirt. It’s buttoned over a black t-shirt and his sleeves are rolled enough for you to see the raised veins on his forearms. Chains and rope surround his body, strapping him tightly to the iron chair in the center of the room.

As you step closer, your initial analysis of his bindings is wrong. The padlock is near his right hand, the knots of rope at his hands are sloppy, and the chains on his upper body give him enough room to move a little against them. The only one that’s really secure is the padlocked chain collar around his neck.

“Like my handiwork?” he asks as you eye him. “Tied the knots and wrapped these chains, myself… but these won’t hold. I don’t want to hurt you, but I won’t be able to stop when I get out. And I will get out.”

John shifts against the bindings as you step closer, bares his teeth to reveal elongated canines that make the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. The veins in his neck are clear and visible, blood pumping through them hard and fast, and his teeth bite into his lower lip when you step into the devil’s trap.

Drops of blood spill out of his mouth and a shudder wracks through you- he’s hurting himself in his effort to stay still- but you can’t control yourself. You’re too far gone now that you’re this close.

“I need you, John. Need your knot. Need you inside me. I’m yours and you’re mine.”

The words are the first you’ve spoken to him and they surprise you both. John hardens himself, slams his eyes shut and strains in this seat, holding himself as far away from you as possible until you rip your underwear off your body as a show of your desperation.

The scent of your soaked pussy makes his blood boil and a roar builds deep in his chest to explode out of his mouth. His body writhes with the force of it but in a flash the powerful sound turns into a menacing cackle. Wild eyes widen up at you and his blood-stained teeth have your full attention when his tongue tracks over them.

“Oh, sweetheart. You’re gonna taste so good.” His hands grip at the arms of the chair, thick, sharp claws dig into the wood enough for it to splinter. “I’m gonna tear you apart,” he laughs, full bodied, crows feet at his eyes, mouth split wide open on his face.

Part of you doesn’t want to believe him. There’s a throb in your core that calls out for him, that yearns to feel his lips and skin against yours. Slick pools between your legs and John sucks in a long, harsh, deep breath, pupils expanding as he savors your scent.

“You think this is a game, baby girl?” Your pussy flutters at his words, even as his demeanor darkens further. “You’re gonna bleed, just like all those people on my rack in hell. Gonna sink my claws into you, see where you rip and where you hold up, see how hard I have to bite to get you to beg me to stop. Gonna break your bones and give it to you harder when that little omega pussy is busted open and bleeding around me. Stick around, send me into this rut and you’ll be wishing you never set foot in this bunker. That’s a fuckin’ promise.”

The thought of being torn apart is that of nightmares. Dean had rough ruts after hell, but he was right: John is dangerous. Every rational thought in your brain is telling you to run, to find a way back to Dean, but there’s an electricity in the air that tugs your ions closer to his.

His eyes are dark and stormy, the muddy wash bordering on red, and salt and pepper spread through his dark hair and the beard clinging to his strong jaw. Tentatively, your hands reach out for him and he hisses, jumps at you with dripping teeth and dark eyes, guttural sounds tearing from his throat as he struggles to get to you.

In an effort to sate your heat and keep your distance, a dizzying compromise lands at your feet. If you can take what you need from him, you might be able to gain the higher ground. If you give your heat what it wants fast enough, you can outrun him and gain control of your body again. Only half of your heart believes it, but you can’t stop yourself from easing into his lap to test the theory.

Heat sears your crotch where you grind down onto him, rolls off of him in waves that leave you in a cold sweat. “Will you come to my funeral, John? Will you watch me burn to a pile of ash on a shitty pyre? Because you’re gonna have to if I don’t do this… if you don’t knot me right fucking now.”

“I might have to either way, darlin’,” he growls, the chain collar around his neck clunking and rattling with his effort to both get closer to you and keep away all at the same time. The blood on his lower lip forms into a fat drop, lingers on his skin like it doesn’t want to leave, and you watch it fall and land on your inner thigh where you’re straddling him.

Even with his dark promises, your hands hastily pluck apart the buttons of his jeans and pull the material down to reveal a thick shaft surrounded by dark hair. He’s rock hard in your hands and before you can waste any more time your pussy is stretched open around him, every inch of his throbbing cock stuffed inside your slick walls.

You sigh contentedly as your heat settles, now that it has a taste of what it wants. Just having him inside you feels better than anything you’ve ever felt before, and a ragged howl escapes his throat at the rough slams of your hips down into his when you finally start to move.

Everything stands still while you take what you need from the alpha beneath you, claim him as your own with high pitched whimpers of his name, giving in to your most primal instincts. Every thrust has the two of you reeling toward the edge of bliss embarrassingly fast, and you grip his hair to force his eyes to yours when you’re close.

“Watch me, John. Watch me cum for you.”

Your efforts double, you slam your mouth into his, taste him for the first time, and cry out against his lips as the tingle of your orgasm spreads through your belly and explodes through you. The feel of you coming around him pushes John past the point of no return and into his rut. He’s tried to hold back, tried to tame the animal inside and protect you the way a good alpha should, but each buck of your hips has him barreling into a rut that you can smell, stifling and hot with a hint of sulfur, while you tremble in his lap and ride out your pleasure.

John’s eyes change- swirl from deep brown into an onyx wash that clears into a deep red that mirrors the emergency lights of the bunker. His body shakes and spikes another ten degrees in an instant and when you’re sure he’s about to actually catch on fire, an electric pulse consumes him, and then you. The surge shoots out of your bodies and the bunker lights flash with loud sparking pops before instant darkness falls through the bunker.

The red emergency lights and bright white flood lights kick a moment later, just in time for you to see John’s muscles tensing as he pulls at the chains he’s wrapped in, his rut taking him to full power. They groan and creak, and it’s when one snaps with a loud rattle that you realize the true strength of him.

“Oh my god.” You cower in awe, hormones no longer fuzzing your brain, before scrambling out of his lap. However, you’re not quite quick enough to facilitate your escape.

“You’re mine.”

A thick arm wraps around your back, and you shriek at the sharp sting of his claws on your hip. His one-handed attempt to keep you there with him draws blood, and you desperately wriggle out of his hold and off of his lap before rushing off into the bunker.

Two hallways pass by your sides before the clamor of breaking chain and splintering wood rattles into the bunker and stops you in your tracks. The wolf in him cries out for you, and a primal part of you is desperate to howl back. An eerie silence follows, sinks in bone deep, and you clap a hand over your mouth to stay quiet when you start moving again.

You don’t get very far before you walk into a brick wall of his scent, tumbling further under a tall, crashing wave of heat trying to drag you down to the depths of a hellfire made of a Winchester. The scent of the alpha radiates strong and insistent, and the door shuts quietly behind you as you slip inside, eyes keenly observing your room drenched in John’s scent.

At first glance, you see no differences, but the weight of the air tells you to look closer, and when you do you find that everything in your room is slightly off; as if all of your personal possessions have been picked through but weren’t put back into their rightful place.

The sheets on the bed have clearly been slept in and a pair of your underwear on the ground catch your eye. The soft pink material is moist when you pick them up and the smell that wafts up from them is unmistakable.They fall to the ground without a sound and you shakily wipe John’s cum off of your hands onto your sheets with a grimace of repulsion. How many times had he used your clothes for his pleasure? How many times had he laid in your bed, eyed the photos of your long gone family and defiled your intimacy?

John hadn’t even met you, yet, but from the time the boys brought him home he’s picked you open and left you exposed, vulnerable, and violated. He’s been living in the walls of your home, spending his nights in your bed just waiting for his moment to strike. The thought leaves your legs weak beneath you and you suddenly can’t breathe.

Bursting out of your room, you cling to the walls for support, searing pressure building in your lower belly as you move. If you’re in pain, you must be getting farther away from him. The hope in that thought is enough to stifle the pain and you’re crawling toward the library when your name is howled out into the bunker.

“Alpha,” you moan back against your own will, hands clapping over your mouth in an effort to stop the sound that’s already made its escape.

Two steps forward, five steps back.

Soft shuffling off in the distance switches directions and you know that John heard you call out for him. Panic bubbles in your blood and you battle pain, confusion, and need as you turn left toward your imminent escape path, eyes cast behind you in apprehension. You make it less than halfway down the long hall before you turn your eyes forward, finally sure that you’re on the path to freedom.

Stopping in your tracks, you stare in horror at the dead end before you. In your panic, you realize that you were supposed to turn right to get out, and you’ve just sealed your fate with one wrong turn.

Adrenaline and defeat kick around in your body and you know he’s going to find you. On cue, your body grows warmer, slicker and needier for him, and an electric crackle fills the air, telling you he’s getting close. He knows your scent too well and though you can’t see him, you’ve already been caught. Running will only make you weaker, so your stand still, waiting for the inevitable.

Soft shuffling has your ears pricking up at attention and your heart stops when you finally muster the gall to turn around and face your fate. John’s looming at the end of the hall, standing stock still just long enough for your pussy to leak and flutter for him. It’s that reaction that has him barreling down the hall on all fours like an animal, red eyes gleaming, claws scraping at the floor. He’s the most feral, lethal predator you’ve ever seen and this is what Sam and Dean warned you about. This is how you’ll meet your end- throat torn out by this hell sent Alpha with a cursed last name.

The child in your soul is the first to react, and your hands fly to cover your eyes. Maybe if you squeeze them shut tight hard enough you’ll wake up from this bad dream. Maybe you’ll be able to crawl back into your mother’s bed and find safety in her arms instead of death in John’s.

Your palms press painfully hard against your eyelids while you wait for the hit that never comes. What feels like years pass without a sound, and when you finally let your hands fall from your eyes all you can see is John’s mouth, the tension at the corners where he’s trying to restrain the snarl, white teeth practically dripping.

Body trembling and petrified at the way you pine for him, this wild stranger in front of you, your feet take a step closer to him without your permission. When your chest presses to his, the tears finally roll down your cheek and his mouth slams into yours. He hauls you up off the ground and your legs wrap around his waist before you’re slammed against the wall. All it takes is a slight shift of his hips and he’s inside of you again, splitting you open and swallowing your cries. He spins and a door breaks against the bottom of his boot a few seconds later, clattering to the floor while he lays you down on the bed and fucks an orgasm out of you with splinters still in your hair.

The orgasm hits hard and you’re still writhing in pleasure when John pulls out, shoves you up the bed, and pushes his mouth as far between your legs as it can go. He’s only just begun, but you’ve never been touched this way- this profound or this intensely. If you weren’t still in a blur, you’d be wondering how long John’s waited to worship someone like this.

Every lungful of air you’re able to suck in sticks heavy in your chest and throat. There’s a weight to the room that feels like you’re on another planet. In another dimension. All you can manage are gasps and moans and you finally splutter out ‘how?!’ because your brain literally cannot understand it. How can this feel so good? How can this possibly feel so right? How does he fit here so well?

He grins up at you, fire in his wild gleaming eyes when he growls, “Let’s not ruin a meal by talking about the process.”

As he devours you, takes you apart piece by piece, his lust-blown eyes shine up at you. They hold a lifetime of secrets and your body steals any semblance of control you might have been holding onto, bucks up into his mouth, pushes itself into his hands.

John holds you like you’re the most important thing he’s ever beheld. His infatuation and reverence sparks an epiphany. The monster between your legs isn’t donning a mask. John is a mirror, clear and revealing, exposing a part of you that you never knew you had before.

You moan his name, voice hard and eager to please. Eager to be pleased, filled, fucked ten ways to Sunday. You want John to ruin you, split you open with that cock and make you a ragged shell for nothing but pleasure and pups. The more he takes of you the more you want him; and the more you give in, the less afraid you are--of him and of your own desire.

John fucks you raw and hard like an animal, bruises your wrists and sinks his teeth into your body, breaking the skin here and there, licks and sucks marks between the bites he has no control over. What started as worship turns to chaos, and true to his word, he doesn’t relent, not even when you’re begging for mercy. Claws leave raised welts and lines of blood over your body as he digs his hands into your flesh, pushes and pulls you where he wants you, handling you like a rag doll for his pleasure.

The sheets beneath you are bloody and somewhere in his frenzied mating you feel yourself tearing around him in a sharp sting. A moment later, your inner thighs are wet with blood and slick and the wet squelch only has him bucking into you deeper and faster. Salty tears run down your cheeks as you cry out, but John ignores them and suffocates you beneath him. His claws scratch at your skin when he wraps a hand around your neck and grunts into your ear.

“Right here, Y/n. That’s where my mark is going. You ready for it?”

The question goes unanswered; all you can manage are strangled groans of ‘alpha’ and sobs of pain and fear before his pace speeds up. His knot throbs inside of you, stretches your walls that much more, and he pulls back enough to look down at you.

Tears litter your cheeks and you’re flushed, wrecked, and battered under his hands. John drives in deep with a smile on his mouth, savors the way you wince in pain at the feel of him slamming against your cervix like he’s trying to fuck your womb.

Long canines bite down hard where your neck and shoulder meet as John slams into you one final time. The red floodlights bathing the scene flicker and surge as your energies peak. His knot pops deep inside, painfully thick, locking him in place as he cums with a roaring howl that matches your own. The sound is guttural, primal, filled with pleasure and pain, and loud enough for Sam and Dean to hear from outside.

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

An hour after he’s claimed you and his knot has popped inside of you, you lay in his arms, unsure of everything other than the fact that you belong there. That John belongs inside of you, pressed deep and eternal. Every bit of your body hurts and his hands smooth over you, gentler than you even think possible, like a monster soothing a lamb before the slaughter. The white gleam of the flood lights in the hall outside illuminate the side of his face when he smiles softly down at you, his teeth and hands still stained with your blood.

Fear has a hold on you, hasn’t fully let you go yet. John is a stranger to you but here you are, clinging to his warm chest, body and soul marked as his in every way, forever. There’s a depth to his mossy brown eyes that reminds you of the men on the outside. Of Dean. The alpha who’s cared for you in the past, taken you in, and given you a home and family to love like your own.

It seems a lifetime ago since you were in this same position with Dean. From the first time you met, every heat and rut you went through, you went through together. The memories of how he used to kiss you, soft and comforting, and tell you cute jokes while his knot deflated send flickering warmth through your heart. But all too quickly, the happy memory is followed by a pang of hurt shooting through you.

Like magnets, you were drawn to each other, but Dean never claimed you because deep down you both knew that you weren’t his to have. Now, with John’s mark on your neck, heats and ruts with Dean are gone and you can’t help but wonder what the future will hold. If every heat and rut will feel like this one, or if you might be lucky enough to get a glimpse of the caring, playful alpha of your past. Tears roll down your cheeks and your mouth quivers at the thought of living with such brutality.

“You have his eyes,” you finally say, unable to keep the thought of Dean to yourself any longer. His brow furrows and you clear your throat. “Dean’s eyes.” He doesn’t respond, just levels you with a look you can’t place. “Well, I guess he has yours.”

A hasty kiss cuts off any other thoughts and you give in, letting that mouth soothe you in all the ways you know it can’t...shouldn’t. Not right now. Not yet. Not when you’re still reeling with fear and confusion and the crackling flame of your heat casting grim shadows through your future.

“I know,” he coos, his gravelly voice wrecked with emotions you’re both trying to come to terms with. “This isn’t the way it’s supposed to happen. Not me meeting you, and definitely not this….”

John’s long fingers swipe over his claim on your neck, retreating at the small wince of pain he earns from you. Guilt worms into his chest and he holds you there, mouth just a kiss away from his.

He knows the answer but asks anyway. “Are you scared of me?”

You nod, shy but honest. “Yes.”

John hisses in disappointment, at himself and at you. How could you not love him the way he loves you? The way he’s loved you since he set foot in here and smelled you lingering in the air. He felt you wrap yourself around him when he paced the halls at night; slept in your bed to know you just a little more. He’s been obsessed with the ghost of you, and now you’re his.

“I’ve been waiting a long time for you,” he admits, and your heart flutters, caught off guard by the meaning behind it. “Always thought it was Mary, but the second I walked in here, I knew. It was you.”

“I don’t want this,” your mouth spits out before you can stop it, before you can realize that you’re lying to his face.

John grins, gummy and wide, strikes fear in you with his irrefutable confidence but pulls you closer and speaks against your lips. “I knew, Y/n. Smelled this omega pussy every time I walked by your room. Didn’t say anything to the boys about it- didn’t wanna upset them- but I knew you before they even told me your name or that they had my omega here just waiting for me to come and claim her.” His hands stroke your cheeks and those eyes bore into you and unhinge you with the kind of care that only someone truly out of control can conjure.

“I could feel your energy when I touched your things, could smell this hot cunt on your laundry.” He inhales, the action crude and obscene. “Sleep didn’t come so easy, but the second I laid down in here it was like I could feel you pressing yourself up against me. I knew you and had you every night, so when I smelled you come through the door I knew I had to lock myself up or this would happen.” A chuckle escapes his lips. “Well, guess it was meant to happen, huh?”

Even with his claim on your neck, you can’t do anything other than gape at him. You’re mortified and enthralled by his words, and secretly long for freedom from his overwhelming intensity.

He shifts a little so you can feel his knot inside you and coos gently at the anxious whimper you let out. Gathering you closer to him, John feels your heart race against his. As if his touch is all you need, the exhaustion of the day starts to drag you down and there’s blood on his tongue when he kisses you goodnight.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ve gotcha.”

Those are the last words you hear before tumbling into a dark and dizzying sleep.

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

When you wake, it’s to the feel of thick fingers splaying you open, rubbing your swollen labia and massaging your inner thighs. Time is lost in the bunker and in your heat. It could be twenty minutes or a year later and your body wouldn't be able to tell the difference. Not when broad shoulders have your thighs pushed apart, the contented sigh on your lips turning harsh at the slick drag of John’s tongue.

He licks over you, parts your folds to find your clit, then sucks hard and makes his way down to your fucked-out slit. The wet, thick squish of his old cum seeping out of you vanishes when John forces his tongue inside to scoop it out and swallow it down. Shuddering violently against it, you fist his hair and kick off the blankets to finally look down at him. His eyes are red and your fever is raging again.

“My boys ever do this? Eat their cum from your little omega pussy?” he asks. It’s dirty and fucked up, wrong on so many levels, but he’s got a gleam in those treacherous eyes and you moan back against your better judgment.

“Don’t… keep it in me.”

Pride overwhelms him and his teeth dent his lower lip as he grins up at you. “Okay, sweetheart-” he sinks his fangs lightly into your flesh, holds it for a second and then gives you the painful satisfaction of breaking the skin- “yeah, let’s keep it in you. Make sure we get some pups in this gorgeous belly.”

Mewling in agreement, he releases his bite on your inner thigh and stalks back over you. Eager to feel him inside of you again, you pull at him and whimper his name so needy and so sweet that he sinks into you while he’s still soft. He’s pliant and warm as he pushes his old cum back into you, until he’s as deep as he can go, blunt tip squished up against your cervix. John’s right back where he belongs, and you can’t help but whimper at the small amount of lost cum that seeps out around him. As if he knows what you’re thinking, he licks at your lips, lets you taste his seed on his tongue and assures you in that midnight-dark voice the way only a stranger, only a soulmate, can.

“Don’t worry, omega. Your heat’s not done yet, and I’ve only just started my rut. We’ll get another load in here, soon enough. You’re gonna be so full of me and my pups.” He kisses your jaw. “All round.” Fingers squeeze at your tender breasts. “So beautiful,” he grunts, thrusting up enough for you to wince at the tight pinch of him so deep.

His mouth follows a pre-marked path down to the fresh marks on your neck -- the one bite on your body that actually means anything -- and his long, sharp fangs reopen his mark and sink down further into your flesh to solidify his claim. The power of his bite aches deep into the muscle and blood seeps out of the corners of his mouth. Sucking and licking your claim, John bites you over and over, deeper each time. All you can do is gasp and groan beneath him in pain and arousal, fingers raising blood on his back as you scratch a path down to his ass to pull him in closer. Trying to fuse your body and his in any way possible, to share breaths and blood if you can, even if it’s only through your warm needy mouths.

“Those boys aren’t getting to you any time soon, Y/n. I don’t think this place is gonna let anyone in or out until I’m done with you.” His hand wraps around your neck, pushes high to grip the edge of your jaw, and the pinch of his fingers against the bone lures a hiss from deep within you. “You’re mine, understand?”

You nod as best you can, eyes fluttering shut as he grows harder inside you and hotter against you with another flare of his rut. There isn’t anything in the world that could take this from you. You don’t know John, especially this dark version of him spat out of hell, but you’re his and he’s yours. True mates. And you’re convinced that the strong current that vibrates between you will keep you locked in here with him until your heat and his rut have died off.

“All fucking mine,” he says as he pulls you closer, the promise raw and real, and you’ll follow this monster anywhere.

Even to your death.

#john winchester x reader #alpha x omega #flamencodivacelebrates1700 #that's some supernatural schitt #firefly's summer challenge

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deans-haunted-baby · 4 years

Text

The Ones Left Behind

Alrighty time for some truth bombs. I’ve had almost a week to absorb the end of Supernatural and season 15 as a whole. And I think this is the moment where I need to throw in my two cents. For all intents and purposes I won’t go in-depth into 15x20 seeing as that conversation will just open up a whole other can of worms and I don’t need that headache. I have my reasons for being less than indifferent with how the Winchesters’ story concluded. So I won’t go there.

Instead I’ll be focusing all my energies on the unsatisfying conclusions of 4 particular characters. Two of which were main cast members (one that was on the show 12 years and one 4 years) while the other two (played by the same dude) were brought back after a decade long hiatus for a much-anticipated comeback only to be wasted and mangled unfairly by Dabb and his hack horde of a writing staff. Call this a follow up to my last post. If I sound bitter I am because these people don’t have a single clue on how to helm these characters, their relationships or their storylines 😠 Nor do they deserve them.

And yes I’m well aware of Kevin Tran, Rowena, Ketch and several others who got the shaft on this show. Those could be future posts for another time.

But I cannot stress this enough; ADAM MILLIGAN, JACK KLINE, MICHAEL AND CASTIEL ALL DESERVED FUCKING BETTER. There is no arguing these facts, none whatsoever. Not one of these characters deserved that exit to be the final chapter in their story. I won’t do an entire analysis of each character’s arc and role in the show as I’ve already done that in my rant about 15x19. But I will highlight how much season 15 royally screwed over these characters and tossed them aside like trash; as if none of them were ever part of/contributed anything to Sam and Dean’s history/world building of Supernatural’s universe.

*WARNING* This is going to get heated.

Before I dive into the heart of these issues I want to state this is not a “shipping post”. I don’t ship anyone on Supernatural, hopefully this blog has been pretty self-explanatory. So I have no arguments/opinions in those areas. I’ve been a fan of this series for 15 years because of the characters, the familial bonds and relationships formed between characters throughout its run. And I’m well-aware that the Winchesters are the lead protagonists of the show, no need to remind me. These are purely my own thoughts based what I’ve obtained from show canon. Let me just say I can’t get over just how much these writers contradicted and ignored what they put forth in the journeys of these four individuals. its a real headscratcher.

You mean to tell me that after TWELVE DAMN YEARS of Castiel being a rebellious warrior angel, searching for his own identity and meaning in life; making that promise to Kelly Kline about raising Jack as his own/risking his life for him. After sacrificing himself for his son a year ago, acknowledging he was satisfied with his role as a father which restored his faith; that it was all because of/for Dean Winchester?

You mean to tell me that after Michael, THE PRINCE OF HEAVEN and PROTECTOR OF HUMANITY, was locked away in a cage with a human whom he emotionally bonded with for thousands of years (10 years our time); who was abandoned, betrayed and manipulated by his neglectful/abusive father. After choosing free will and aligning himself with TFW for humanity’s sake, just sided with the Earth’s destruction because his little brother called him names?

You mean to tell me that Jack, A THREE YEAR OLD CHILD, who’s barely just beginning his life and spent his entire duration on the show wanting to be normal and not wanting to be special. Connecting and being integrated with humans; a child who’s biggest fear was outliving everyone he ever loved. Is suddenly ready to walk away from his family, his home and his teddy bear; to give up being a kid forever and run the universe?

You mean to tell me that Adam, SUPERNATURAL’S MOST INNOCENT CHARACTER and FORGOTTEN THIRD-WINCHESTER BROTHER, after being eaten by ghouls; pulled away from his mother out of Heaven, manipulated by angels, trapped in Hell for thousands of years because Sam and Dean left him there to rot. After coming back and helping his neglectful siblings save the world only to be ripped away from his best friend and THE ONLY OTHER PERSON who gave a damn about him; is sentenced to a life of loneliness, homelessness and turmoil until he dies and ends up in Hell where he’ll mostly be tortured and turned into a demon?

NO. I DO NOT AND WILL NEVER ACCEPT THIS BULLSHIT!

Season 15 not only manages to contradict itself where these characters are concerned (while assassinating them before the final curtain). But the writers deliberately discarded them before giving us that *sarcasm inserted* epic solo-Winchester conclusion. Regardless of how you feel about Adam, Castiel, Jack or Michael, ALL OF THESE CHARACTERS are connected Sam and Dean’s story and part of Supernatural. And when you throw them away like they mean nothing, you’re essentially throwing away a part of the show’s history. You’re ignoring 15 years worth of story building.

As I said I’m not going to go into 15x20 for reasons, it doesn’t offend me as much as what was done before that finale. Because I think those other show exits really affect 15x20 even worse than people realize. You want to know why, I’ll explain.

Lets start off with Castiel and Jack, OH BOY! We know where they end up; running Heaven and the Earth together which is all fine and dandy. I love my Dadstiel father/son duo being an endgame family unit. But here in lies the problem, we never saw it. Not even a cameo. And technically their onscreen storyline ends at 15x18 and 15x19 which is an ugly, anti-climatic bookend to an incredibly deep relationship that had 4 years of development. First you have Castiel who completely forgets why he made that deal with the Empty to begin with. HIS FUCKING SON. Not to mention it wasn’t about true happiness it was about giving himself permission to be happy; there is a difference. And then you have Jack wandering around next episode, vacuuming up power cause suddenly he’s a machine now, acting like he doesn’t give a shit over losing his dad to an entity HE’S BEEN DREADING ABOUT FOR A FUCKING YEAR.

Towards the end of season 15 I noticed neither of these characters were acting like themselves. Their motivations, their personalities and strong ties to one another had mysteriously dissolved. Castiel became less concerned about the danger his son was facing after 15x15 (what the hell was that in 15x17?) and more about speaking when spoken to by either Sam or Dean. Does he know how Dean truly feels about Jack; proclaiming the child is “not family”? I doubt the in-character version of him would let Jack leave with Dean after that insult. Castiel’s not even worried whether or not his son is alive or safe before he makes the big confession later. And for some reason Jack (who’d become heavily suicidal) was more concerned with clinging to the Winchesters, willing to die for them, instead focusing on himself and the one person who’s shown him nothing but unconditional love and given him strength since birth. Both of these characters are canonically depressed and suffer from low self-esteem that was never resolved which makes me furious.

When Chuck killed Jack at the end of season 14, this devastated Castiel in the first half of season 15. He actually got to grieve that loss throughout the episodes and deal with his anger over it, allowing the audience to anticipate the day they’d be reunited one last time. This part of Castiel’s S15 arc also ironically mirrors Jack’s S13 arc of mourning Castiel’s death until resurrecting him. And when this son finally returned to his father, who got to rescue him, it was such a poignant moment between the two. It was a cathartic payoff after witnessing Castiel in so much pain over Jack. There was so much building up between that Dadstiel reunion in 15x11 and the Empty’s pact in 14x08; this was suppose to be a tragic yet pivotal plot-point in both Jack and Castiel’s stories. And with SPN wrapping up we all expected something BIG. Yet somehow the writers retconned the whole thing by making it all about Dean, which is such a gross disservice to these characters and 4 years of storytelling.

For instance, since 15x18 was Castiel’s exit episode, why wasn’t he allowed to hug his son or Sam goodbye one last time? Why didn’t he have more of a focal role instead of standing around majority of the episode with barely any dialogue as so much precious air time was wasted on frivolous things? Why didn’t he get one last badass fight scene with someone like Death instead of being choked out and tossed around like a powerless mortal? Why did the group need to be split up to begin with when it served no purpose either than that *ugh* moment? Why wasn’t Jack allowed to call Castiel “dad” once before the show ended? He deserved to hear his son address him as dad!

AND WHY THE HELL COULDN’T JACK FEEL CASTIEL’S DEATH THE MOMENT IT HAPPENED?

The show already established to the audience the significant cosmic bond these two characters shared since before Jack was even born. It was so powerful it boosted Castiel’s grace. Jack could remember who Castiel was from the womb and that he’d protected his mother. Not to mention HE FUCKING RESURRECTED CASTIEL OUT OF THE EMPTY ONCE WITHOUT GOD’S POWER. You’re telling me Jack couldn’t feel his dad being taken away forever despite how far apart they were? No, he’d feel it in his heart. Had we’d been given a scene like that at the end of 15x18 (something of substance) with actual grief shown in 15x19 maybe the episode would’ve faired better for them.

That said it wasn’t, because Jack was treated the exact same way in his final exit. Hardly any lines and just a bunch of scenes of him standing/walking around until that pathetic reveal at the lake. HE DOESN’T EVEN GET TO INTERACT WITH JAKE ABEL’S MICHAEL/ADAM which would’ve been a great follow-up to the AU!Michael storyline in seasons 13 and 14. I swear these directors didn’t give Alex and Misha any motivation during their last three episodes and it’s evident in their hollow performances. But why would they when the scripts are basically telling their characters to quickly fuck off so the brothers can have their final outing. Jack doesn’t even behave like himself after he becomes the new God. His personality is apathetic, cold, alien, stiff and way too mature for the 3 year old child so closely connected to his family/the human world. In that moment I saw Alex Calvert not Jack Kline. It’s bad enough he doesn’t get a meaningful farewell but again Castiel, HIS DAD, is a complete afterthought to this kid 🥶

And that’s what we’re left with. Forever. A frigid, hollow ending to one of Supernatural’s most healthy, touching, family dynamics. It makes you wonder what was even the point. I can’t even fully enjoy the fact that its canon Jack and Castiel are together fixing Heaven because of what the show presented onscreen as their last hurrah. It’s not sitting right and it makes 15x20 even less appealing to me.

Moving onto Michael and Adam. Get ready for this. I could rant forever about how dirty my boys were done by this show. How they were discarded in the SPN series finale recap etc. just as they were FOR THE LAST TEN FUCKING YEARS. Was there even a plan going on here or was this just everyone making things up as it went? Their ending is the most unsatisfying and cruel thing because its INCOMPLETE. There is no real closure or resolution with them thanks to the monstrosity that was 15x19. AND NO ONE CARES ENOUGH ABOUT THEM TO GIVE A SHIT.

Much as I’ve enjoyed this show for many years, it NEVER deserved Jake Abel, his talent or his time. I keep seeing so many anti posts about Dean Winchester’s final fate in Supernatural and all I can think about is “try being an Adam Milligan fan for the last decade”. I’ve had to watch this boy go through hell with nothing to show for it either than years of memes. ridicule and the show’s mockery in forgetting him. Actually he’s the ONLY CHARACTER in this series you’re encouraged not to remember 😡 Also quick question: why give us this really interesting and healthy relationship between an archangel and its vessel if nothing was ever going to become of it?

At this point I don’t know why Adam or the idea of him was even introduced way back in season 4 let alone revisited in season 5. Because the only thing I see when I look at this character now is SAD WASTED POTENTIAL. Storylines never explored. Relationships that never got off the ground. Backstory we never got to see (like for instance his past with John Winchester and his time in the cage). A character’s birthright (Men of Letters) that was never actualized. AND the unexplained factor that Adam could look directly at Michael’s true form without his eyes burning out (making him a special case). And the thing is he could’ve been a really great character, both him and Michael. They could’ve easily reached popular status just like Castiel given the chance since Jake is a freaking acting-powerhouse. We were given a taste in 15x08 just how awesome these characters could be and how they could’ve contributed so much to the story and its core group. But unfortunately it wasn’t meant to be.

Michael will never redeem himself after years of scrutiny and being made out to be some kind of unhinged monster. This show constantly enjoyed pounding into our brains how fearsome Michael was. Warned us via Lucifer (LUCIFER, PEOPLE!) that he wasn’t rational, compassionate and didn’t care about anything except war, death and destruction. And that he was incapable of feelings and emotions. This is how Supernatural saw Heaven’s Prince and guardian of the Earth. Christ, they actually did a two-year storyline about an evil Michael from the AU world who enjoyed torturing and killing while trying to destroy the universe. I want to know WHAT THE HELL THIS SHOW’S WRITERS HAD AGINST THESE CHARACTERS? Why they felt the need to bring back Jake Abel, AFTER A DECADE OF FANS WANTING THIS, if it was simply to piss all over his characters one last time before the show wrapped. This is absolutely unprofessional and childish; the fact that Jake is taking this bullshit in stride makes it all the more shameful 😡

We could’ve learned so much more about Michael’s past and his present relationship with Adam. These characters didn’t need to sit in the cage for a decade they could’ve easily been incorporated back into the show as far as season 8 or 10! And been an asset to the Darkness storyline in season 11.There were characters and storylines introduced that served no purpose. Why did we need to keep seeing characters like Charlie Bradbury or (as much as I like him) Crowley or Garth (love him too) or Lucifer or Abaddon or the Wayward sisters? I would’ve much preferred having Adam and Michael around and got to know them instead; especially after 15x08. I would’ve wanted to see what their dynamic with TFW could’ve become had they been long-time allies. Did John ever tell Mary about Adam’s existence? I’d like to see what her reaction would’ve been like had the Winchesters remembered him during that damn 300th episode. I guess that’s another loose end untied.

But because of what Supernatural did to these two characters, it forever taints Sam and Dean. I don’t think Dabb or purist fans realize this. But when new viewers come into this show about two brothers preaching important things like “saving people”, “family first” or “family don’t end in blood” they’re going to see how badly the main protagonists treated their innocent half brother. How Castiel and Jack were treated. They’re going to see the heroes of the story abandoning this kid in Hell forever with no intention of EVER rescuing him. And that’s why their final appearance leaves such a bad taste going into 15x20. Cause as much as Dabb and co didn’t give a shit about Adam and Michael they also didn’t give a rat’s ass about protecting Sam and Dean’s integrity. That’ll be a stain they can’t undo.

So through all of it, we’re stuck with the abomination that is 15x19 aka the eye-soar to an unfinished/unpolished story of two horribly disregarded characters. Michael gets the pleasure of being character assassinated right before he’s stupidly killed off instead of going out a hero or becoming the next God (as it was his birthright and the setup was there in the narrative). And Adam gets killed off-screen, OUT OF HIS OWN DAMN BODY, then brought back by Jack only to live a miserable, isolated existence since his brothers have nothing to do with him (the dog and car are more important); his best friend is dead, he has no job or money or a fucking home and he’s legally dead! Really what is there left for him besides the brutal fate awaiting in Hell when he dies?

SERIOUSLY THEY COULDN’T GIVE US ONE SCENE WHERE THE WINCHESTERS CHECKED IN ON ADAM TO MAKE SURE HE WAS SAFE?! 🤬 His last scene pretty much sums up this shit for what it is. Tragic. I feel like crying for this poor sweet boy.

Congratulations Dabb, BL and co for giving us these much deserved broken story arcs of characters you destroyed and made OOC before leaving the airways. You did your show’s protagonists justice by doing this *sarcasm inserted* after 15 years of being onscreen. I doubt these idiotic decisions are going to age well in the long run. They certainly don’t look good on the Winchesters. Anyway that’s my hot take for the day.

ALL THESE ACTORS AND THEIR CHARACTERS DESERVED BETTER.

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chaseatinydream · 4 years

Text

pirate king (77) || atz

You hold your breath unconsciously, gazing deep into the inky depths of the sea as the waves roll beneath your feet. Your mind begins to count each heartbeat, one, two, three, four... and that’s when you see it move again.

Goosebumps creep over your skin, and you’re ready to run when it emerges, rippling against the sea, and that’s when you realise that it looks exactly like you.

A pair of vibrant blue eyes lock onto yours - and you feel its gaze deep within your soul.

You know those eyes.

Your lips part of their own volition. “You’re m-”

“Chin Hae?”

“Captain!” Your words come out more of a startled squeak and instinctively, you whirl around and shove the coat behind your back the fastest you can, schooling your face into the most innocent expression you can muster as your captain approaches you with a mildly exasperated, but amused smile from his cabin. “You scared me!”

“Only those with something to hide would wear such a guilty look on their face.” Hongjoong raises a meaningful eyebrow at you, settling in front of you on the bulwarks, one knee drawn up to his chest and completely at ease on his perch. There’s a twinkle in his eye as he regards you, and you laugh, a little embarrassed yet set at ease.

“Well, I’ve been caught red handed. I promise I’ll confess my crimes, but not right now. Don’t peek!” You scold when he tries to glance surreptitiously around you and your captain grins mischievously at you, drawing back. “Why did you need to see me?”

At your words, Hongjoong’s previously content expression darkens slightly, worry shadowing his face with its heavy weight. A sigh leaves his lips, tired and drawn out,

“Do you know who the head commander of the Royal Navy is?”

You frown, a little surprised by such an unexpected question. “No...?”

Hongjoong’s smile is bitter, lost as he looks out to the black sea, watching as dark clouds roll in beneath the half moon.

The signs of an approaching storm.

“He’s my father.”

Your eyes widen in shock.

When he sees your speechless expression, he laughs, the sound tight in his chest. “Surprising, isn’t it? That the son of the head commander of the Royal Navy would turn out to become one of the most wanted pirates sailing the seas.” One of his hands come up to touch the eye-patch over his eye, and his expression is so forlorn you feel your own eyes sting. “Captain...”

He holds up a hand before you can say any more, smile sad. You wonder if he even knows what kind of expression he is making, that makes you want to take him into your arms and hide him from all the pain in this world. “Don’t feel sad for me. My ties with that man have been severed ever since the day he did this to me. He is nothing but an enemy to me now. What I am worried about is that the only one with the authority to approve such a ridiculous bounty would be the head commander himself, which is why I’ve been trying to think about the reason why he would possibly do such a thing.”

“Maybe he’s insane.” The words slip out before you can think them through, and immediately clap your hands over your mouth in horror. Hongjoong looks shocked for a moment, before his lips split into a smile and he laughs brightly, amused. The urge to start insulting his father suddenly wells up in your chest just to hear that sound again.

“Oh, he definitely is.” Hongjoong’s chuckles fade into a warmer smile, and you can’t help but think it much better suits his features than that bitter expression on his face earlier. “But an insane man makes a dangerous opponent, and with what’s at stake here,” his eye lingers on you and one of his hands come up to cup your cheek, an emotion far too deep to be fondness flitting across his face. “I cannot afford to take any chances.”

You recognise that expression because you’ve seen it before, in another pair of green eyes filled with anguished acceptance at your rejection. Dread fills your chest, from the tips of your toes all the way to roots of your hair. Oh no...

“Are you sure you haven’t had any encounters with the Royal Navy before meeting us?”

Your captain’s question takes you by surprise, and it takes you a long second or two to answer. “No... I don’t believe so. At least if I did, I don’t remember them.” Your mind is still swirling with tentative worry, pondering whether you should ask him outright or not.

You can’t let his feelings for you continue to grow anymore - of course, should they exist in the first place. The kindest thing to do would be to stamp them out before they bloom, for a blossom to fall would be infinitely more painful than yanking out an ungrown seedling. But how do you go about doing that?

You’re not sure if you have the strength to push yet someone else away again.

Hongjoong remains silent for a moment as he thinks on your words, his one green eye searching your face, and your heart seems to pause in your chest. “You... don’t believe that I’m telling the truth?”

“No, no, no, of course I believe you.” Hongjoong is quick to reassure you, although his gaze is still faded, lost in thought somewhere. “It’s just... a mystery to me, you see. From what I heard from the Tortuga town officials today, the Royal Navy is offering more than the entire bounty on this ship to have you taken in alive. Which brings me to the question of: why does the Royal Navy want you so badly?”

From now on, we’ll be in immense danger because of this, goes unsaid by him.

A bitter taste lodges in the back of throat when you hear the words ‘Royal Navy’, a shudder running through your body. That’s a ridiculous amount of money, you think, despair seeping into your bones. “Will the crew be in danger because of me, captain?”

Hongjoong must hear the tremble in your voice, because his expression softens, and one of his hands come up to rest on your shoulder, almost painfully gentle. “Well, it’s not like we haven’t been in danger even before you joined, so nothing’s changed there.” Still, you can hear the strain in his voice, the worry that lingers in the back of his mind that clings to him like a relentless parasite. “I promise, we’ll protect you with our lives.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Your voice sounds tiny even in your own ears, and you look down at the floorboards between your feet, unable to meet his gaze. “I wanted to know if the crew would be in even more danger because of me. Because if it ever comes down to it, captain, you should just-”

The grip on your shoulder tightens almost imperceptibly. “Chin Hae. Hey, Chin Hae, look at me.” He coaxes you to look into his eyes, his fingers lightly grasping your chin to tilt it upwards. “Don’t go getting any silly ideas now. You’re a precious crew member to me. As the captain, I would do anything in my power to keep you safe from harm, and I know the rest of the crew feels the same.”

“But is that really all there is to it?” You’re shocked at the boldness of your own words, and for a second, your captain falters, eye widening in stunned surprise. Before you can catch yourself, the words that have been dangling off the tip of your tongue finally burst out, like a dam that has crumbled in the face of his raw sincerity. “Or is it because your feelings for me extend past that of a captain and his crewmate?”

You’ve seen many sides of your captain, angry, cheerful, drunk and mad with worry, but it’s the first time you’ve seen your captain truly stunned into silence, his mouth opening as if to say something, but then closing. His hand falls from your face as the two of you stare into each others’ eyes, searching for something.

You don’t know what you hope to find.

“So... you know.” Hongjoong’s the first to break the silence, running one hand through his hair as he turns away from you, and you feel as if a musket ball has just slammed you straight in the chest, the agony there radiating outwards. Something hurts there, so badly you nearly can’t stand it, but all you can do is to continue staring at your captain in shock.

“Yes, I do confess that my motives to keep you safe are not completely pure.” When Hongjoong speaks again, his voice is steady, eyes fixed firmly on the sea, unrepentant in the least. “I’ve grown fond of you, unimaginably so, it seems to me. I will keep you safe with all the power I have, and as the captain of the Treasure, the power afforded to me includes that of the crew.”

“But they’ll be even more likely to be hurt!” You protest weakly, fingers twisting painfully in the fox fur jacket tucked behind your back. Hells, what do you say - how do you respond? “There’s no rule that demands them to be taken in alive!”

I’m already dying anyway... you want to say, but the words remain trapped in your chest. Hongjoong’s smile is tender as he rests a hand on your head.

“And that’s what I love about you. You’re too selfless.” He says gently, and you choke back a sob. Look at yourself before calling me selfless, you big fool. “I apologise for being selfish, but I keep close what I value. I am a pirate, after all.” His green eye burns near iridescent in the night. “I fight till my last breath to protect my treasure. That’s what a pirate’s life is all about. The rest of the crew know that too, the day they choose to follow me.”

“Captain-” You try to speak, but your words can’t seem to escape your throat. Hongjoong releases you from his grip. His warm gaze remains firmly fixed on you. It burns, like salt water on an open wound. “I don’t... I can’t... return those...”

“I’m already aware that Wooyoung has already propositioned to you, and that you may not return my feelings at all.” Hongjoong says easily, but you can hear how carefully he’s choosing his words in an attempt not to put you in a difficult position, and the pain in your chest only grows. “I want you to know that there is no need to, and I’m doing this completely out of my own selfish desires. Even if I did not hold any romantic feelings towards you, I would still lay down my life to keep you safe, as a captain should to his crew. That was all I wanted to say.”

The two of you stand there in silence, seemingly trapped in a single moment under the storm and the faded light of the trapped moon.

“Stupid...”

The words escape you and then before you know it, you’re pounding on his chest furiously with your hand balled up into a weak fist, tears streaming down your cheeks. “Stupid captain... stupid, idiotic, moronic captain...”

There’s no point in keeping me safe when I’m already dying, stupid...

“Don’t cry.” Hongjoong brushes your tears from your eyes as you continue hitting him weakly, before he tugs you into his chest. You wail quietly into the shoulder of his shirt, and his fingers card through your hair, a pained smile on his face as he looks down at you. “I’m sorry I’m stupid.”

“Damn right you are.” You choke out between sobs, hitting him on the shoulder with each word. “I can’t repay you with anything, and yet you’re willing to give up so much to keep me safe? You’re so idiotic, captain.”

An insincere, apologetic hum. “I’m sorry.”

“So dumb.”

“Mmhmm.”

“So foolish.”

“Yup.”

He holds you close until your sobs have subsided into quiet sniffles, before he speaks out loud once more. “But this stupid captain is the pirate king of the seas, and he’s really selfish about guarding his treasure.” He pauses for a moment, pressing his cheek against the top of your head. “So can you have some faith in him, that he’ll keep you and the crew safe to the best of his ability?”

“Stupid captain,” you sniff again, into his shoulder. “If you ask like that, how am I supposed to say no? You don’t play fair at all...”

“Good.” You feel his smile, and he slides down from the bulwarks to crush you against his chest. “Now I have the strength to think of a way to run from the Royal Navy for the rest of our lives - and the courage to face them in a battle, if necessary.”

With a final ruffle of your hair, he turns around to head for the cabin once more, tossing ‘it’s late, you should get to bed,’ over his shoulder. But you find yourself watching his retreating back, as it moves further and further from you.

Unable to take it anymore, you run after him and grab him by the wrist, stopping him dead in his tracks. “Chin Hae, what are you-”

“It’s my turn to confess. I made a jacket for you.” The words spill out, unchecked, like a rushing river as you yank out the garment to wrap it around his shoulders. Hongjoong’s mouth parts slightly in shock, and you take the opportunity to adjust it on him. It fits him perfectly, you think, and your lower lip quivers. “More than me being safe, I want you and the entire crew to stay safe too, understood? So please...” your fingers clutch the lapels of the jacket tightly. “You have to stay safe too, Hongjoong... That’s me being selfish right now.”

Before he can reply, you run for the infirmary, slamming the door behind you. Hongjoong stands there for a moment in silence, before he looks down to run a finger through the red fox fur. The stitching is a little clumsy, but it only makes it all the more precious to him.

“You called me Hongjoong.” He whispers quietly, a gentle, sad smile touching his lips.

>>>

From the depths, a pair of blue eyes watch, unfeeling as the coldest depths of the northern sea, before they ripple and vanish with the riptide.

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #hongjoong #seonghwa #yunho #yeosang #san #mingi #jongho #wooyoung #ateez pirate king #w; ot8 #w; pirate king #w; fanfiction

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retromotherfuckers · 4 years

Text

Six Years (Part 2)

Pairing:

Past/Eventual Bellamy Blake x Fem!Kane!Reader, Platonic Octavia Blake

Summary:

Octavia knew who she was now, but you couldn’t figure out what the hell you had become.

Warning:

ANGST, themes of addiction, depictions of depression/lowkey anxiety, self destructive behavior? ✨cannibalism✨

Word Count:

1.4k ~roughly~

A/N:

not that much bell in this chapter and i absolutely hate it but it’s just a filler so .... enjoy if that’s at all possible. if the format is confusing, lmk and i’ll either switch it up for explain :)

“You have to come back. I’ll never forgive you if you don’t.” Your voice had been broken for almost an hour and the only thing you could do was whimper; the tears that stained your face were meaningless, now. You didn’t want to think it, but the idea that they might take too long and get caught in the death wave was suffocating. A pressure started to weigh on you chest, consuming you until your hands were almost quivering. You shook your head, trying to push the thought away.

“Hey,” Bellamy breathed, bringing both hands to the sides of your face and resting his forehead against yours - he knew it wasn’t enough, but his word and touch was all he had left to give. “This isn’t a goodbye, right? I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“This is a stupid fucking plan,” You said, loud enough for the others to hear. Had the situation not been so dire, you would’ve let out a small chuckle at the loud, ‘we know!’ Murphy gave in response.

He let the humor give him some comfort for a moment and a quiet laugh shook his shoulders. “Yeah, it is. But we can’t just leave Raven. You know that.”

You wished he wasn’t right but nodded nonetheless. Squeezing your eyes shut, you knew you were being selfish. Raven would certainly die if they didn’t get her. At least they’re trying to give her a chance to see a possible brighter day.

But why did it always have to be Bellamy?

“What happens if-”

“Stop it. Don’t think like that, we’ll be fine. I’ll be fine.”

You shook your head in agreement, not wanting to spend this precious time thinking about the what ifs. A few moments of silence passed with you two drinking the other in; trying to soak up all you could in the limited time you had to spare. This wasn’t supposed to be a goodbye but it sure as hell felt like one. Your hand cupped his face and the other was rested on his neck. You could feel the amount of effort he was putting into not completely breaking down. It was in his cheekbones, his nose, his perpetually furrowed brow, the curve of his jaw. His neck, his eyelashes, his lips.

He was trying so hard to make you not worry.

Has he met you?

Nothing could shake the bad feeling crawling up your spine. You couldn’t stop the sob that threatened to escape, one final plea for the man you couldn’t lose. “Please come back to me,”

Just like that, he pulled away to meet your eyes, making a declaration you’d begin to hate him for.

“Always.”

You hadn’t seen nor felt the sun for six years. The hole in the ceiling let the first of its rays create a spotlight in the pit. For just one fleeting moment, you closed your eyes and allowed yourself to enjoy it. Cocooned in the familiar warmth, you embraced the feeling, like greeting an old friend.

Had it not been there, your favorite pair of eyes would’ve been stern and dark; now, they were a gentle whiskey, basking in the heat of the star. If Bellamy was looking at you in any other way, you’d be able to focus on how much they felt like home. How as soon as you laid your red-rimmed orbs on his, it felt like there was finally the smallest possibility of a maybe.

You couldn’t explain what it was or why, but you knew it was something.

When he looked at you like you were a threat, though, the shadowy, unnamed dread you had gotten so used to filled your stomach. The sudden apprehension that adorned his face ripped you from the only fallacy you’d let yourself give any mirth to. Bringing you back to the real world with a punch to the cheek.

The bright and divine amber sun meant nothing if you had no one to share it with.

Letting the axe fall from your hand, you crashed out of the arena before anyone could act quick enough to stop you - they were too distracted. You fell into your bedroom and immediately became submerged in water; riptides pulling you down and all you could do was let it happen. They say if you fight a riptide it’ll only kill you faster, kind of like quicksand.

The distance between you and reality kept growing and you didn’t even think it was worth trying to bring your head up for air. Trapped within the merciless depths of the ocean, there were weights around your neck, forcing you lower and lower and lower.

But it was all just numb, like you had been reduced to nothing.

This is why the morphine was so important - not only did it bless you with dreamless sleeps, but it made the decision for you. It made all the faces blend together. Miller wasn’t one of your oldest friends, Marcus wasn’t your father, Octavia was nowhere to be found and Bellamy...

Well, he never really existed at all.

So, you checked your hiding spot for the next best thing. Maybe this time you’d float to the surface. Maybe you’d drown.

You didn’t really care either way.

A disgusted scoff broke through the doorway, an intentional slice of the thickening tension in the room. It didn’t take a genius to know who it was.

“Pathetic.”

“Since when did you care, Bloodreina?” You nearly spat, cutting the raven haired woman with the title like it was the one thing she didn’t want you to call her. You convinced yourself that your words hurt her more than they did you. With moonshine glued to your hand, you took a very large pull from the bottle, inviting the well-known haze to set over your eyes.

“I don’t,” She said, cold and detached as ever. It was a tone you’d never heard her use with you; one reserved for the enemies that didn’t want to comply. You guessed that was all you were to her, now. “But there can only be one champion and only one Kane is useful to me.”

“What-”

“You and your father fight in two days. Win and be reinstated or lose and die. Choose not to fight, and I’ll kill both of you myself.”

She wasn’t bluffing, that you knew. But there was no fucking way you were going let her near him. You didn’t know how to react, though, given what you had almost just done. It didn’t even feel like it was you. As if you were a horse and someone else was controlling the reins - pulling, pushing, grabbing, forcing you to do all these things you never would’ve done before those doors closed.

All you knew was that more than anyone else in this underground hell, Marcus Kane was the one who deserved to get out.

A bitter smirk pulled at the corner of your lips, but your eyes stayed the same; gaunt and defeated. “Sure you want to lose your best executioner?”

You just have to take a bite.

At the silent glare from your queen - the first sign of any kind of emotion you’d seen from her in a while - a sneer slipped onto your face into your voice. “Well, then, at least you’ll actually be the one doing it for a damn change.”

Octavia’s scared voice cut through the room, a shudder breaking through, all but tearing you into pieces. It was low and gravelly, the complete opposite to when she was still the girl under the floor. “We’re back bitches!” felt like centuries ago, now.

“You said we had five years. We’ve only been down here for two.”

Cooper, the woman running the farm, quickly started to defend that she’d already done everything she could think of to try to eradicate the fungus that was taking over your crop supply. She said she saved a few plants, but that it wasn’t enough. Indra inevitably cut her off, being as straightforward as usual. The dark-skinned woman brought up the one thing you hoped no one would acknowledge.

“How long?”

You heaved in a breath at her words, you wished you weren’t there. You wished you were allowed to be as ignorant and innocent as the others. Abby’s detached and unwavering voice saying that there was only one potential solution was deafening. It shredded your ears, a grinding you’d never be able to escape.

This was worse than anything you’ve had to deal with while being on this fucking planet. Worse than watching your father be tortured into taking the chip. Worse than a drill digging into your back while being fully conscious. Worse than watching the Mount Weather genocide - feeling like it was so wrong, despite what they had put you through. You just hoped and prayed that the ends justify the means.

“No.” Tears had already found their way onto your cheeks as you choked the lonely letters out. You were the only one sitting down, but your legs still shook. Your eyes had closed minutes ago and your head stayed between your shoulders. You had never felt so defeated. “Please.”

When the next three little words left Indra’s mouth, you knew nothing would ever be the same again.

And no amount of moonshine or morphine was enough to dull that incessant nightmare.

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daresplaining · 4 years

Text

A Few Thoughts About the Current Run

I feel like I ought to say a few things about my feelings on Zdarsky’s run, as of right now (August 2020, pre-Annual-- that may be important). I haven’t said much about this run, and I should admit that I actually stopped reading it for a while. At a certain point, I realized I was dreading the release of each preview, and took that as a sign that maybe I should take a break and just re-read some back issues instead. This is, above all, supposed to be fun; I never, ever want reading DD to feel like a chore.

That said, I am now caught up and feel ready to begin untangling exactly why this run is so distasteful to me. I’ve been fortunate to have other DD fans to chat with about this, which has helped me to pinpoint what my problems are... because on paper, this run seems like something I’d enjoy. Matt accidentally kills a guy; that’s always fun. Marco Checchetto is great. The story explores Daredevil’s relationship with the citizens of Hell’s Kitchen, which I love. Foggy helps Matt with an action-y Daredevil thing; that’s awesome. There are some very cool fights. Elektra is in it. Stilt-Man is (briefly) in it. It has all the trappings of an interesting narrative. But there is a giant hole in the middle of this run, and that hole is Matt Murdock-shaped and impossible to ignore.

I read Daredevil comics for a lot of things (anyone who’s been following me for the past few years might think I read Daredevil comics for Mike Murdock, and you may have a point there) but first and foremost, I read them for Matt. There is a lot that makes a good DD story great-- historically, the comic has featured great supporting casts, and that’s another problem with this run that I’ll get back to in a minute-- but Matt is always the anchor. One of the greatest strengths in Daredevil comes from the fact that the protagonist is such a compelling character. You are interested in what he’s doing. You want to follow his story. You enjoy being inside his head. I’m not saying that you can’t write a good Matt-free Daredevil story-- you definitely can. But if Matt is present and written poorly, the whole story will collapse around him, and that’s been my experience with Zdarsky’s run. Part of the reason I’ve taken so long to write this post is because I’ve been trying to figure out if my complaint comes from my own personal taste-- which is not a basis on which I can critique this comic-- or whether the problem is inherent in the work itself. Having discussed it with other people, I feel comfortable saying that I think the problem is in the writing.

Zdarsky’s Matt feels profoundly unfamiliar to me, and that in itself isn’t necessarily a problem, but I don’t find this new version of my favorite superhero interesting. I actually find him a little repellant. If this run had been my introduction to Daredevil, I would’ve said “Nope” and read something else. Matt is a character with depth. He is intensely multifaceted. His relationship to superheroing is complicated, his views on justice and morality are rich and often contradictory. Zdarsky somehow missed all of that and has crafted a one-dimensional character with a blatantly black-and-white sense of morality. Matt’s reaction to accidentally killing someone seems to be to decide that all superheroes are bad-- something I complained about at the beginning of the run and which, unfortunately, only grew more annoying as the story progressed. Zdarsky’s Matt is painfully self-righteous, to a degree that makes him extremely unlikeable (at least to me). And yes, Matt has been written as unlikeable before. I actually love when Matt behaves badly; I find that fascinating from a narrative perspective. But I’ve realized that the key reason that has been effective in the past is because the story has never condoned that behavior. When Matt was emotionally abusive toward Heather Glenn, Frank Miller went out of his way to show us-- via the side characters, via blatant expressions of Heather’s pain-- that Matt was in the wrong. When Matt was a jerk in Bendis’ and Brubaker’s runs, when he drove his friends away, when he acted irrationally and harmfully, the narrative commented on that jerkiness and irrationality.

But Zdarsky does not do that in his run. He presents Matt’s irrational and jerkish behavior without comment or nuance, as if it’s a perfectly normal, reasonable way for Matt to act under the circumstances, and I have been surprised to realize how distasteful I find that, and how bad it makes Matt look. There’s a difference between having a character who is comfortably flawed-- whose behavior you’re supposed to occasionally question-- and a character who is just unpleasant and unlikeable, seemingly by accident. In the most recent issue (#21), Matt has an extremely upsetting interaction with Spider-Man, one of his oldest friends, and Matt is positioned as heroic for behaving this way, and it made me feel a little ill, because there’s no textual examination or questioning of this behavior. It’s just Matt, pushing people away, being Angsty(TM) and Gritty(TM) and lone wolf-y just because, in a way that is grating and unpleasant and completely lacks nuance.

The other major element of Zdarsky’s characterization of Matt is religion. I’ve mentioned before (as have other DD fans before me) that Matt is not generally written as religious, and it’s a strange phenomenon that this characterization has appeared in multiple adaptations (the movie and the Netflix show) while having very little actual presence in the source material. But it was a key theme in the Netflix show, and while hopefully that influence will disappear from the comics as more time passes, we are still in a honeymoon phase wherein MCU elements are still popping up in the 616 universe. It’s clear that Zdarsky really liked the show, and Soule as well; I’m certainly not letting Soule off the hook here, because the idea of Matt being devoutly Christian showed up his run first. But there, you could get away from it if it wasn’t your thing (which, for me, it’s not). Soule had whole story arcs that didn’t mention it. But Zdarsky has made it 75% of Matt’s personality. When he isn’t fighting or sleeping with someone in this run, Matt is angsting about God.

I hesitate to complain about this because it’s Zdarsky’s right as a DD writer to change the protagonist however he likes. It’s frustrating, yes, but not actually a sign of bad writing per se. Plus, not everyone is me. Many people-- probably including many people who were fans of the Netflix show and are entering the comics via that connection (which seems to be the target audience for this run)-- may be religious and may connect to MCU/Zdarsky Matt in that way. And that’s wonderful. I want to be very clear: it’s not the religiousness itself that I’m complaining about. My complaint is this: if you’re going to drastically alter a character, you need to back it up. You need to dig into it, make that new personality element feel powerful and real, and integrate it into the character’s pre-existing personality. And if you’re going to base the entirety of that character’s emotional journey on that new trait, you need to work to make sure it’s accessible to your readership. I, as a non-religious person, have no sense of why Matt is so upset about God. I have no frame of reference for his pain, either from my own experiences or from previous Daredevil continuity, and Zdarsky does nothing to develop or explore the basis of Matt’s faith, and so it all just falls flat. I feel alienated by this run. I see an angsty, self-righteous, prickly jerk ranting about needing to do God’s will, and then I put the issue down and read some She-Hulk instead. If Zdarsky (or Soule-- again, he could have done this too) had made an effort to actually explore and explain Matt’s feelings about his religion, rather than lazily shoving that characterization in there and assuming readers will just accept it, it wouldn’t bother me nearly as much as it has.

Also, I feel I have to mention; this is a fantasy universe. Matt went to Hell and yelled at Mephisto in Nocenti’s run, and it was awesome. Maybe this is just me, but if you’re going to bring in religion, at least have some fun with it! Bookend Nocenti’s run: Matt goes to Heaven, runs into God, and she gives him some free therapy and a souvenir t-shirt (or, I don’t know, something). To give Zdarsky credit, he did at least hint at that sort of thing in Matt’s conversation with Reed Richards in #9.

I'm going to cut this post short, because I really don’t enjoy writing negative reviews. I’d much rather post about things I love, and over the next few weeks I do plan to highlight aspects of this run that I’ve enjoyed. But I’ll end by saying that the weaknesses in Matt’s characterization could have been mitigated by a great supporting cast. Having prominent secondary protagonists would have provided outside perspectives on Matt’s behavior and given the reader other characters to root for when he got too out-of-hand. They would have drawn out the human elements in Matt’s character and helped give him that nuance he so desperately needs. But this run, just like Soule’s before it, is woefully underpopulated. Foggy’s presence is extremely weak and his appearances far too infrequent. Apart from brief cameos in MacKay’s Man Without Fear mini, Kirsten McDuffie and Sam Chung have both vanished, and I’m worried that Kirsten might have joined Milla Donovan in the limbo of still-living-but-permanently-benched ex-love interests. The women in this run are all either villains or people for Matt to sleep with (I was pumped about Elektra’s return and the idea of her training Matt, but her characterization was disappointing (I may write a separate post about this), and Mindy Libris could have been really compelling as a moral person trying to survive life in a crime family, but instead she was just a one-note, underdeveloped victim for Matt to lust after). To Zdarsky’s credit, he has clearly been trying to give the Kingpin a humanizing story arc, but even that I haven’t found compelling enough to want to keep reading (though that could just be me). Cole North was intriguing at first, but he ended up feeling more like a concept than an actual person. And none of these characters engage with Matt on a human, emotional level, which is what a good supporting cast needs to do. I commented early-on that this run felt like all flash and no bang (Is that a term? It is now.) and I think I still stand by that-- it’s all bombastic plot concepts and big ideas without any of the actual development or nuance necessary to make them work. There is nothing in this run that has pulled me in and held my interest; in the absence of a Matt I can connect to, I need something, and so far I haven’t found it.

I could go on, but I think I’ve made my point. This run was nominated for an Eisner for best ongoing series, so apparently someone likes it, but it has become clear that-- so far, anyway-- it’s just not right for me.

#Daredevil vol. 6 #Daredevil #Commentary #This is very negative. I'm sorry. Feel free to ignore it.

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gwynposting · 4 years

Text

All Along the Watchtower (Ch. 2)

This story takes place after the “All Along the Watchtower” ending of Cyberpunk 2077, so spoilers ahead.

Ch. 1 | AO3 Link

The gentle glow of neon red fought against the encroaching abyss of the deep. It felt dreamlike, in a way, to have everything suspended in place, weightless, drifting through the sea. Here it wasn’t just her body drifting aimlessly through the water, it felt like the weight crushing her very soul began to lift, she felt as if she could finally breathe free.

But the depths were also a bit disorienting - it was difficult to make heads and tails of direction or speed down here. The only thing V had for reference was the figure in front of her, illuminated by the twin headlamps attached to her diving suit. She was V’s rock, her guiding hand through the unknown, the abyss.

“I wish Evie could’ve seen this,” Judy said as she looked to the towering church before them, it’s darkened silhouette like a leviathan

Evelyn’s name caught V’s breath. She felt the blood drain from her face. Her pulse quickened. Her pupils dilated.

Evelyn’s bruised and beaten body, lying in the middle of the room.

V sought breath after breath in frantic hyperventilation but nothing came. No air would sate her lung’s desire.

Her body lying in the tub.

Judy turned in curiosity to find V flailing in the water. V tugged and grabbed at her throat as if she were trying to free herself from a vice wrapped around her neck. “V?” began in confusion before she realized something was seriously wrong, “V!” she shouted.

Judy...

Her lungs were on fire, as if they contained a dozen lit matches. She felt paralyzed by her visions.

“No, no, NO,” she heard Judy’s desperate voice becoming increasingly frantic, “Stay with me V.”

Judy made a dash over to V to hold her steady, but V didn’t even react to her presence. The sounds around her became murky, like the bass of a concert bleeding through cement wall. All she could see was Judy’s frantic display. It consumed her.

“V! She pleaded, “Not you too,” her voice was a cry to the gods, to anyone who would listen, “I can’t lose you too V. I can’t do it again. Please, Valerie. Stay with me.”

And then nothing.

V awoke with a shock. The snug embrace of her blanket that had been so welcoming before now acted like a vice trapping her in its confines. With one motion she stripped the blanket off and to the side. Her shirt clung to her form, caked with sweat. She tried to gasp for air but nothing would come, as if she were being strangled, like water had seeped into her lungs. She made a mad dash for the sink.

With a grotesque retch, she purged herself into the sink. But before she was done, she began to violently cough into her hand. Her throat burned with each hack until she was left breathless, in a sort of daze staring down at the sink below. Blood stained her hand and seeped down into the sink below. With the blockage free, V finally took her first breath. It came like fire, as the air traveled through her roughened throat to fill her aching lungs.

V collapsed onto her forearms that shakily held her upright. Her breathing was rapid and shaky, with each labored breath feeling like daggers dragged along her throat.

She glanced up into the mirror. Her eyes were lidded, dark circles present underneath. Her skin was flushed. V was hardly able to keep herself stable. She could feel her faculties, both physical and mental, slipping from her grasp.

“Walking talking corpses,” she began to hear, a faint echo in a fading mind. The dread began to seep through her once more. The unshakeable feeling of inevitability, forever present in the back of V’s thoughts, once more resurfacing. How many times had she faced death at this point? Deshawn, Mikoshi. And now she’d have to die once more?

But this time the stakes were different. It wasn’t just about the loss of her own life anymore. It wasn’t about becoming the legend of Night City and going out in spectacular fashion. She had a family. She had Judy. She would have to leave Judy behind.

“Fuck, V. I was so worried. I saw what was happening on the news and you weren’t getting back to me and-”

“I know, Judy,” V cut her off, switching off the car radio’s live coverage of the chaos at Arasaka tower, “I’m sorry. I’m okay. I’ll fill you when I get there, be home soon.”

She couldn’t believe she almost did.

The rhythmic drum of rain droplets bounced against the window. The diver on Judy’s wall glowed under the soft blue lighting, as if they were traveling down the ocean depths.

“What happened in there? In this ‘Mikoshi’?” Judy took the cigarette out of V’s mouth and inhaled, “You still haven’t said anything about it.”

Judy’s eyes were filled with worry, and it killed V to see them so afraid. V closed her eyes and looked away, she didn’t think she even had the strength to tell her if she had to face the hurt.

“Well,” V hesitated, her voice shaky and unsure, holding back tears, “Johnny’s out. But uh,” her breath hitched, “I guess my brain isn’t mine anymore. I only got about 6 months left.”

“F-fuck,” Judy stuttered, her breath caught in her throat. She took a deep inhale from her cigarette, “Fuck, V. You sure?” Judy’s voice was weak, a shadow of its usual strength.

“No, but that’s what Alt said.” V looked down to what she feared - tears streamed down Judy’s face.

“Is there -” Judy began, “there has to be something you can do.” Judy pleaded more than affirmed.

V looked away and wiped the tears from her eyes. “V?” Judy croaked.

“The Aldecados have some contacts that might be able to help, but...” V paused and let the silence linger. She still hadn’t come to grips with it herself, “I was called a ticking time bomb by Alt Cunningham. The AI who instantaneously fried everyone in Arasaka tower.”

The silence was suffocating.

“I’m sorry, Jude.” V’s voice was withered, stripped away by the knowledge that Judy would have to go through yet more loss. That Night City would claim everything that she held close.

Judy wiped the tears from her eyes, “You don’t worry about me, okay? We’re gonna try every last option on this earth before we give up.” Her voice was more assured, as if she were trying to convince V that it would all be okay.

Or maybe she was trying to convince herself.

“And no matter what, V, I will be here with you ‘till the end.”

With that, V began openly weeping, seeking out Judy’s breast to curl into. Judy lovingly wrapped her arms around V and brought her close as she whispered sweet comforts. Each muffled cry sent daggers through Judy’s heart.

“I can’t do it again, Judy. I’m so tired.”

V’s cracked voice pained Judy. But even though it felt like Judy’s own world was crumbling apart around her, she had to be strong for V, “You can, and you will.” Judy gave herself a few moments to steel herself, “You have a family. You have me. We will be there every single step of the way. You don’t need to go through this alone anymore.”

V remained silent, through Judy’s soothings and touches, before finally sitting up. “I think I need a smoke,” almost as faint as a whisper. Judy nodded and retrieved another stick from her pack and held it out for V. She captured the cigarette between her lips and held still as Judy set it alight. She took several draws before she was sated.

“Can I tell you something?” V asked hesitantly.

Judy blew a puff of smoke into the air and turned to her, her cheeks puffy and eyes still bloodshot, “Shoot, V.”

“After I left Arasaka, I couldn’t stop thinking about Jackie. About his funeral. About Mama Welles and Misty and Vik. About how I’d never see that goofy smile anymore.” V took another draw before continuing. “Then I thought about my own funeral, and saw you standing over my body, just like Evelyn. Part of me just, I don’t know, wanted to run off to die on my own and spare you the grief of another loved one dying. Make you hate me instead.”

Judy reached over and grabbed one of V’s nipples, squeezed, and twisted. V squeaked out in shock. “Fuckin’ gonk,” she said, icily, before letting go, “I’d have hunted you down and killed you myself.”

“I don’t doubt it,” V chuckled and took another draw, gently massaging away the pain with her fingers. “Intrusive thought, I guess. In my defence, I went from thinking I was dead meat to actually having some real hope to then have it all stripped away. My state of mind wasn’t exactly in the best place. Sorry, Jude.”

“Don’t apologize,” Judy softened her tone, her eyes becoming more sympathetic, “I can’t even begin to understand what that must feel like.” Judy took one long draw from her cigarette and let out a slow cloud of smoke.

“Just promise me one thing, V?” Judy’s voice became calm, but serious, “no matter what happens, no matter where this trail leads, we do this together, okay?”

V nodded, “Together.”

V felt as if she’d radiated every bit of heat away from her body. Her muscles ached, her throat was on fire, and she couldn’t stop the ceaseless shivers that wracked her body.

She flinched as she felt something brush along her shoulder, but settled into the touch once she looked up and saw Judy’s reflection in the mirror. V tried a smile of assurance but the smeared blood along her lips wasn’t terribly convincing. Judy leaned her head against V’s back, as if to hug her from behind without being too constricting. “C’mon,” Judy cooed, “can I draw you up a warm bath?”

V’s voice was hoarse, rough with exhaustion and fatigue, “Yeah, thanks Jude.” V felt enough strength to start cleaning out the sink and whipping the blood from her hands. She had to shake the memories that cropped up.

Jackie’s blood.

“What time is it?” V croaked, splashing cold water over her tired eyes.

“Just a bit before 5,” Judy cooed.

The sound of rushing water filled their cozy home. They didn’t have a water heater, but they at least had some running water. The Aldecados had set up in a ghost town much like Rocky Ridge about an hour outside Tuscon while they established a basis of communication with their contacts in the city. Most of the old-timers stuck with their own tents that they peppered around town, while Judy and V were more than happy to claim a cozy house off the main street.

“Let me go heat up some water,” V said, feeling silly she’s not being useful.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Judy tutted her teeth. “You stay put.”

Judy held V’s hand to help guide her down onto the ledge of the tub. With V safe, she made her way over to the kitchen and grabbed the tea kettle out of the cupboard. Judy filled it with water then placed it on the stove, turning it on.

While she was waiting for the kettle to reach boiling, Judy returned to their bedroom and picked out a plush blanket. She returned to the bathroom to see V stripped down, sitting on the edge of the tub. She was hunched over, shivering. Goosebumps lined her arms. When Judy entered, V looked up to her. Judy saw it in her eyes, how much everything was getting to her. To see the uncertainty and fear looking back at her made Judy’s heart drop in that moment. V looked so small, so vulnerable.

V shook her head, “It’ll just get dirty,” V muttered, gesturing to the blanket in Judy’s arms.

“Hush, you,” Judy sidled up beside her and wrapped it around V. Despite her protests, V quickly grabbed the edges and brought them close. Judy kept an arm around V and leant her head on V’s shoulders. They didn’t say anything, they didn’t need to. They sat in silence until the gentle whine of steam began to fill the air.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Judy tried to joke, before making her way to the kitchen to grab the boiling kettle. Judy carefully picked up the whistling pot and brought it back to warm up the cool water. Judy kneeled besides V and began to pour. The splash of pouring water and clouds of steam filled the air as she emptied its contents into the bath. Judy tested the temperature of the water with prodding fingertips, then plunged her hand in to stir and distribute the heat.

“I think we’re all set,” Judy said as she shook off her dripping hand. Judy began to shuck off her sweatpants and shirt. “How’d you like to do it?”

“Can you hold me?” V whispered. Judy felt her heart drop.

“Por supuesto, calabacita” Judy soothed as she tried to keep her own voice steady. As difficult as it was to see the woman she loved so vulnerable and hurt, she had to be the emotional rock V had been for her. Judy shed her underwear and dipped her toes in before fully submerging herself. Judy let herself enjoy the comfortable warmth for a moment before making room for V to get in.

V quickly followed suit, tossing the blanket in the laundry pile before dipping herself in the bath, being careful to take her time. Her arms shook with fatigue as she lowered herself down.

She sought Judy’s outstretched arms and sank back into their embrace. V clung to the arms wrapped around her as if she were never to let go again. Judy sat herself out of the water more so that V could snuggle into her without her head dipping below the water level. Judy’s breasts became dotted with goosebumps as they became exposed to the cooler air.

“This is the second time this week, Jude,” V shook in Judy’s grasp.

“I know,” Judy sighed. They both understood the rising frequency of the attacks.

“I’m scared,” V squeaked, almost a whisper.

“Fuck,” Judy mouthed to herself to herself, as if viscerally reacting to the pain laced in V’s voice crack. Fuck this was hard. “I know,” she tried to calm her shaking voice, “But hey, we meet with Mitch’s contact tomorrow. Your fate isn’t written in stone here. Remember that feeling in Vik’s clinic when he broke the news that the relic was killing you? You had no hope of surviving. Every single lead went bust. But you managed to survive V, because you’re one of a kind. I know we’ll find something.”

“Maybe. I’m just… tired, Jude. I’ve been dying for how long now? It feels like I’m just... prolonging the inevitable. Like I’m… stretching myself thin.”

Judy placed a kiss on the top of V’s head, “I know, hun. But the important thing is that now you’re not alone. You don’t need to be strong anymore, we’re all here to help you.”

V allowed Judy’s words to sink in before she tightened her grip on Judy’s forearm, “I don’t like to think of where I’d be without you, Judy.”

“Good thing I’m stickin’ around then, hm?” Judy leaned in to V’s ears and whispered, “can’t get rid of me that easy~”

V let out a small chuckle, “I love ya, y’gonk.”

“I love you too.”

***

“What was he like?”

V stared off aimlessly into the valley below, idly massaging her forearm. Her legs dangled down the small cliffside. The sky bled deep reds and purples as it prepared the way for the sun’s arrival. Clouds caught and mixed the colors to produce vibrant displays.

“V?” Judy repeated.

V’s name caught her ear and brought her out of her reverie. She turned to Judy, a light blush of embarrassment creeping up on her cheeks.

“What was he like?” Judy repeated, motioning down to the spot on V’s forearm that she was palming over - a tattoo that said “Johnny + V” inside of a heart.

V followed Judy’s gaze and recognized what she was getting at. She reflexively moved her hand away from the tattoo, as if she hadn’t realized she’d even been so sentimental about it. She was still rather bitter about that night.

“He was…” V paused in reflection. She still hadn’t come to terms with… everything. She still caught herself thinking out to Johnny, only to get nothing but silence in return.

“You would’ve hated him,” V said with a short laugh, “he was one massive prick. But at the same time, I miss the guy.”

V sought out Judy’s hand and Judy received it readily. Judy remained quiet, letting V have the floor to continue when she was ready.

“He did end up liking you though,” V glanced over to Judy with a smirk, “even with the whole diving business. I guess he was thalassophobic.”

“And we kinda proved him right with that eh,” Judy aired.

“Think it rubbed off on me too after that,” V tried to smile, but the thought of returning back to those depths made her palms feel clammy and cold. She could feel the familiar tightened around her throat return, like a phantom grip threatening to squeeze the life out of her.

“Sorry if you had any plans to do some more diving with me,” V chuckled in a morbid laugh, “Guess I’ll have to stick to experiencing the BDs that you scroll, so I don’t have to feel the anxiety going out myself. For now, I guess.”

Judy brought V’s hand up to her lips and placed a lingering kiss, “You go at your own pace, V. Even if that means you never step foot in the water again, or even watch a BD. Don’t ever feel like you need to push yourself past your limits for me.”

“Yeah… thanks, Judy.”

The silence returned once more as the tips of the sun’s rays began to clip over the horizon. The valley was basked in royal shades, a mixture of vibrant colors and long cast shadows.

“It feels weird that he’s not poking around in my head anymore,” V said solemnly.

“Was he always around or…?” Judy floated.

“I think so, to some extent. Even when I’d take my blockers I guess he’d still experience everything. Just… we wouldn’t be able to communicate.”

V thought a moment before continuing, “I’m assuming it’s similar to the night I got this,” she waved around her tattooed arm, “little present from Johnny. The first time I gave him control of my body,” V’s voice turned icy. “I had to watch that trainwreck of a night unfurl before my eyes and have absolutely 0 control over it.”

V sat still for a few moments. She had never really ever had the chance to vent out to anybody about Johnny, the good or the bad. Her entire life until recently was foot on the chooh, just trying to stay alive. No time for reflection.

“But,” V’s voice began to quiver, “I still think he was a good person. Underneath it all. Think in the end he recognized how badly he fucked up his old friendships, hell, even fucked it up with me.”

“Aww did you fix the bad boy up?” Judy giggled.

V couldn’t hold back a smile and playfully elbowed Judy in the arm. “I guess it’s more that we rubbed off on each other, over time.” V looked over to Judy with a cheeky look, “And before you ask, no, I did not take on his delusions of grandeur. Did start smoking again though.”

“Guess you and me got that in common,” Judy replied with a single huff.

V held the silence for a while, collecting her thoughts. “But I am glad we took out Mikoshi. Not just for Johnny, it was the right thing to do. And I have him to thank for getting me to come around.”

“I’ll mark your relationship as ‘It’s complicated’ eh?” Judy leaned her head on V’s shoulder.

“I think,” V started, “when all of this is over… y’know, if we pump the brakes on me dying… I’d like to return to Night City and do a proper send off.”

“Then I guess we better focus on not dying then,” Judy replied.

The pair winced and squinted their eyes as the sun finally crested into the sky. Its radiance began to creep down their bodies and chase away the chills of the desert morning. Judy’s familiar hum was a welcome addition, and V leaned her cheek on Judy’s head and basked in the moment. She would make sure to cherish every single moment, because sooner or later, she knew she wouldn’t be able to.

And then she heard that familiar voice ring through her head as if he never left, “Happy endings? Wrong city. Wrong people.”

Author’s Note: Chapter 3 is out on AO3 already. I’d post it here but I don’t want to spam this tag so I’ll post the tumblr link in a few days (when I remember). I’m not nearly as dutiful about posting to my tumblr as I will be with AO3 so if you want consistent updates, be sure to check there.

#cyberpunk 2077 #judy alvarez #judy x v #female v #AATW #v and judy

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might-be-a-zygon · 3 years

Text

Flat 40b

Chapter Five

What Road to Take?

AO3 link in the reblogs

Thea wasn’t really sure how she’d wound up spending so long chatting to that odd woman in the odder room. It was all a little concerning, honestly- just a woman sitting alone in a little room like that, with such a secure lock. She’d been half worried that someone had trapped her there, but when Thea had held the door open for her to follow, she’d just said she was waiting for a friend to visit and asked Thea to shut it for her.

She hadn’t expected the sky to have darkened when she left the room, but she wasn’t particularly worried. It wasn’t a far walk to the flat, after all, and she hadn’t had much else to do that day.

Still, her casual dismissal of how late it’d gotten did turn to some degree of guilt when she spotted Yaz, still sitting up in the kitchen, looking at her with a degree of relief.

“Where have you been?” She asked, looking Thea up and down as though expecting to see some injury. “Bill said you went for a walk after the lecture and they you never came back- I was worried.”

Thea had the good grace to look guilty, at least.

“I didn’t realise how long I was gone.” She admitted, taking a seat opposite Yaz at the kitchen table, even if all she really wanted to do now was go back to her room and try and work out who that mystery woman was.

“You didn’t even notice it getting dark?” She could tell Yaz didn’t quite believe her.

Thea considered a moment. She could tell Yaz the truth- they were friends, after all. Best friends. By all accounts, she should tell her, but- something deep inside of her was screaming that telling Yaz about the woman in her vault would be a very bad idea. It seemed to be the kind of thing which she just knew should be kept secret.

“I went to the library.” She lied, digging a notebook out of her bag as though trying to prove her point. “Keep having these weird dreams, I’ve been trying to write them down. Thought I might try and make them into a book or something.”

Yaz blinked at her a few times. She seemed to have been caught off guard by that one. “Weird dreams?” She asked, taking her hands off of the mug in front of her and reaching for the book tentatively. Thea handed it over without complaint.

She hadn’t been planning on sharing them again, but in honesty doing so made her feel an awful lot less guilty about lying to Yaz about where she’d been.

“Is that me?” Yaz asked, holding up a sketch of the pair of them in some sterile room.

Thea grinned, nodding. “Yeah! That’s the one where we’re fighting the little goblin!”

“The goblin?”

Thea flicked forwards a few pages to another sketch of a pting. It had a snarl on it’s face, just like it’s real life counterpart had when they’d faced him on the hospital ship.

“I don’t know what I’m actually gonna call them, yet.” She admitted, “But he’s kind of cute, look. They’re these little goblin things that eat everything.”

“And you’ve been dreaming about this?” Yaz asked.

“Yeah. Probably just too much dodgy sci-fi before bed, but I think there are some cool ideas there, if I could streamline them into something.”

“And you- am I there a lot?”

Thea was suddenly very glad she wasn’t much of a blusher.

“Sometimes.” She admitted, not quite looking Yaz in the eye. “A fair bit, really. You’re my best mate, I like it when you show up. Those are always the best ones- we fight aliens and stuff.”

Yaz broke into an almost proud smile, and Thea had to remind herself not to stare. Had Yaz always looked that pretty when she smiled?

“Aliens?” she laughed, as though at some joke Thea didn’t quite get. “I thought they were goblins?”

“Can’t they be both?” Thea asked, flicking through the pages. “I have one in here about vampires who were fish, too…”

“I’m just saying.” Martha raised her hands in mock surrender, “Maybe if it’s been this long and I haven’t seen anything weird, and you haven’t had any weird readings, it was just a machine error or something.”

“There’s got to be a reason that we were brought here in the first place.” The Doctor responded stubbornly, not even looking up at her. He’d been tinkering with the same bit of the console throughout their entire conversation, and it certainly wasn’t helping her feel particularly heard in the situation.

It wasn’t like she needed his undivided attention- they’d not spoken in person once since she’d moved into the flat- but it was more than a little frustrating to be ignored while she was trying to report what was going on to him. It didn’t help that most of the reason she’d agreed to this in the first place was to learn about emerging technology, and since he’d registered her as a first year, she was going through all the basics over again.

“Go through it again.” He said, more instruction than request.

“Go through what?” Martha asked, showing her frustration a little more, now.

“What’ve you found.”

“I told you already! There’s nothing suspicious. No signs of aliens or anything, just a normal Uni campus.”

The Doctor made a frustrated noise, and Martha couldn’t tell whether it was aimed at her, or whatever he was fixing. He muttered something under his breath, quiet enough that she clearly wasn’t supposed to be able to hear it, though she could just about pick out the word Rose. That one stung.

Of course Rose would have been able to track down whatever was going on immediately.

Or, at least the Doctor might have believed her when she said that nothing seemed suspicious.

“The energy readings from your flat are off.” The Doctor insisted, finally giving up on what he was messing with, though if Martha thought she was actually going to have any attention paid to her she was sorely mistaken, since he moved straight back to checking the readouts on the monitor. “Who’s living there? You’re sure they’re all human?”

“Well I haven’t exactly tested them all.” Martha replied sarcastically, “But everyone seems normal. They’re eating and sleeping like humans.”

“Nobody’s wearing a shimmer?”

“What’s a shimmer?”

“Oh it’s all-“ he made a vague gesture in mid-air which was apparently supposed to mean something. “You know. A shimmer.”

Martha gave him a blank look.

“…Right.” He nodded after a minute. “I’ll get you something to test for a shimmer.”

“Doctor-“

He cut her off before she could actually voice her question, brow furrowing, “Oh- Yeah you’re right, that won’t work if they’re Zygons.” he said, despite not having given her time to actually say anything even if she had known what a Zygon was. “Tell you what, I’ll get you a DNA scanner too.”

“Hang on.” Martha said, “You want me to scan my flatmate’s DNA? How am I meant to do that?”

The Doctor shrugged her concerns off. “I know you’ll work it out.”

Her meeting with Jack had dragged Yaz right out of the town centre, to some pop-up milkshake shop which was she’d heard a few other students chatting about. She’d been meaning to ask if Thea wanted to go (as friends, obviously), so it wasn’t as though she was actively blaming jack for dragging her away from the University for a little while. After all, they had to make sure to avoid his past self.

She’d arrived first, though she could hardly be annoyed about that- it’d been her idea. She arrived, checked that Rose and the other Jack were absent, texted the all clear, then grabbed herself a drink, and snagged a booth in the back corner where they’d be able to chat with some degree of privacy.

“Yasmin Khan.” Yaz heard a voice that was becoming increasingly familiar from behind her, turning around to smile a little at Jack as he approached her.

It was odd, really- being relieved to see him, rather than dreading it. That first time she’d been scared out of her mind (though in fairness, he had kidnapped all three of them), and the second- well. She wasn’t too proud to admit that she’d been so overwhelmed by the Doctor’s return she’d hardly noticed Jack stepping out alongside her. This time though? Well, seeing someone she could actually talk to about all of this was amazing.

“Thank you for coming.”

“I’m always here to help a friend.” Jack said seriously, despite the grin on his face. He slid into the booth opposite her, “Loving the choice of venue, by the way. Very 1950s.”

“Remind you of home?” Yaz asked, just for something to fill the small talk, though she was really itching to get straight onto the topic at hand.

“You’d think.” Jack laughed slightly, as though at some joke she wasn’t privy to. She didn’t push him.

“So.” She said, when he didn’t elaborate. He sat forwards slightly in his seat, already knowing what she was about to say, “You know about this chameleon thing the Doctor used to make herself human?”

“Not quite.” Jack admitted, glancing over behind her, in the direction of the counter. “I know what it is, but I’ve never been around when she’s had to use it.”

Yaz seemed to deflate a little at that. It was hardly his fault, but she’d really been hoping for some more concrete advice about the whole situation.

Noticing her reaction, he gave her a reassuring look, “Hey, don’t worry. I haven’t see it but I called in a friend of mine who has. Great girl, you’ll like her. She was with the Doctor the last time. Plus she’s from this Time Zone so she’ll cause a lot less chaos hanging around here than either of us will.”

“You brought backup?” The relief on her face grew. She’d been beginning to feel very out of her depth, especially with all of Thea’s talk about weird dreams and secret rooms. What was she supposed to say to discourage Thea from sneaking around when she was supposed to be keeping herself safe? She was still the Doctor under all that, after all.

Jack grinned. “The Doctor drops into a lot of people’s lives. Makes a lot of friends. I knew a woman, once, used to say that for a lonely man, the Doctor had the biggest family in the world.”

Odd as it was to hear the Doctor being referred to as a lonely man, Yaz smiled. It was nice to think how many other people out there would always be there for the Doctor when she needed them.

“And this friend of yours can help?” She asked.

“Oh yeah.” He smiled at someone behind her, and Yaz turned to get a look. “PC Yasmin Khan, meet Dr-”

“Martha!” Yaz exclaimed, shock plain on her face, because- That was Martha, right? It was so clearly her. Except Martha was younger than this woman, by a fair few years, and at least judging by the shocked expression on her face, she didn’t recognise Yaz either.

“You two have met?” Jack asked, looking between them.

Both responded at the same time.

“Yes.”

“No.”

Another bewildered look shared, though Jack barking a laugh boke the tension.

“The joys of time travel.”

Martha seemed to relax slightly at that, slipping into the booth next to Jack, and setting a drink down in front of each of them. Yaz didn’t relax. She couldn’t just yet. If the Martha she’d met was younger, why didn’t this one seem to recognise her at all?

“Jack said the Doctor used the Chameleon Arch again?” Martha asked, drawing Yaz’s attention away from that issue for a moment. It was strange, but Jack had said she could help, and Yaz needed all the help she could get working out what was tracking them.

“That’s the thing that turns her human?” Yaz checked. The Doctor had never actually given it a name during their panicked preparations.

“Hang on, her?” Martha raised an eyebrow. “Blimy. He said he could change his face but I never knew he could change it that much.”

“You knew the white haired Scotsman?” Yaz asked. It was what the Doctor had said she’d looked like before.

“He got Scottish too? This must be a few regenerations since I last saw him.” Martha laughed. “I knew spikey hair and sandshoes.”

“Can’t believe I missed them turning Scottish.”

All three of them laughed a little at Jack’s statement, seeming to break a lot of the tension.

“So, spiky hair and sandshoes is who we think is here?” Yaz asked Jack. “You said the past you came here with a previous Doctor to investigate.”

“Oh, no. That was the Doctor with the ears and the leather jacket.” He supplied.

Yaz tried to picture the Doctor running around in a leather jacket, then quickly stopped herself. Nice as that image was, she doubted she’d get much else done today if she didn’t get it out of her head.

Still, that Martha thing was still nagging at her.

“Hang on, if the younger you,” Yaz nodded at Jack, “Is here with a younger Doctor. Then-” she glanced at Martha. “There’s a younger you living in the same flat as me and Rose. Does that mean…?”

“Another Doctor.”

Martha looked between Jack and Yaz, clearly thrown off by this whole thing.

“Hang on. I don’t remember coming here.”

“I don’t either, not really.” Jack said, though he seemed very calm about this whole thing. “Crossing your own timeline can sometimes scramble your head a bit. Makes you forget stuff, so you don’t find out about your own future too early.”

Martha gave him a look. “Do I want to know what you’ve been doing hanging around in your own timestream?” He winked at her, and based on the face she pulled, the answer was no.

“So, three Doctor’s then.” Yaz said, changing the subject. “That feels like a bad thing.”

“Well it’s not a good one.” Jack conceded. “We’re gonna need a way to differentiate, for a start.”

“Ears, Sandshoes and-“ Martha looked to the two who’d met the latest Doctor for a descriptor.

“Rainbows.” Yaz supplied. “She’s going by Thea Smith, right now, though.”

“Thea?” Martha looked surprised. “I would have expected Jane Smith.”

“Might be a little close to home.” Jack suggested.

The pair of them shared a sad look, and Yaz didn’t want to ask.

“Ears, Sandshoes, and Rainbows.” Yaz repeated, trying to get them back on topic.

“They’re like codenames.” Martha said. “It’s like we’re playing spies.”

Yaz felt a shiver run down her spine at the idea of ‘playing spies’. She’d been there, and fun as it had seemed at first… Well, she didn’t want to do it again. She thought about being on the run with Ryan and Graham, knowing how scared her family had to be, the plane, and that endless realm that those creatures had taken her to. They were all still fresh, and had very much put her off the James Bond lifestyle.

“Not spies.” She responded, quickly. The other two looked at her with some surprise. “There was a thing, with the Doctor, and some old mate-but-not-mate of hers. It wasn’t-“

Both of their expressions turned to understanding.

“The Master?” Jack asked and, when Yaz nodded, he spoke with the same bitter anger he’d used when talking about the daleks. “Pity. I’d hoped he’d stay dead.”

Opening up the diner portion of the TARDIS as a student hangout had seemed like a good idea at the time. They’d get to hear more gossip from around campus, and Clara had been kind of hoping it’d get them more information, though as of now she’d mostly just heard nonsense about who was dating who, and which of the tutors had the worst reputation.

The only real consolation was that they were far enough out of the way that they weren’t too busy, despite it being a Saturday morning. She had the distinct impression that most people were probably too hungover from the last night of Fresher’s week to fancy a milkshake.

It’d been an especially easy morning, really, since she’d roped Me into helping her out behind the counter, and she was just cleaning out one of the machines when her girlfriend had nudged her in the side, nodding towards a figure who’d just stepped into the shop.

“Is that…?”

“Jack Harkness.” Me responded, with a tone that suggested she was already bored of whatever drama he was about to drag them into.

It was hard to blame her- it wasn’t as though Earth had a lot of immortals, and from what stories of Me’s Clara had heard and read, they’d run into one another a fair few times over the years, usually with dramatic or dangerous results. Thankfully, he walked straight past them, to settle in a corner booth.

“What’re the bets that he’s behind this?”

Clara shot her a look that said ‘be nice’, despite the very real possibility he did have something to do with this.

“Should I go talk to him?” Clara asked.

Me shook her head. “I’ll do it. I’ve known him longer.”

“Play nice.” Clara said, a pleading note in her voice.

“I’m always nice.” Me responded in mock-offence, though the smile she gave Clara was a little too soft to maintain that charade. She leant in to kiss her girlfriend’s cheek, before slipping off towards the corner table.

The fact that they’d settled in the corner was honestly enough of a worry. There were two empty tables in between them and the nearest other customers, and they were speaking in the kind of low voices which implied they were plotting something.

“Okay, so no spy stuff.” Jack said as she approached, “But we’re keeping the code names.”

“Jack Harkness.” She said, drawing his attention, as well as that of his friends. “I should have known you’d be the source of all this.”

“Me.” Jack looked interested at her intrusion, even if his friends looked baffled. “Or, do I still have to call you Lady Me? Because you know I’m not big on titles.”

“Titles like Captain?” She retorted.

“Touché.” He smiled, in a way which made it unclear whether they were friends or foes. “Least you haven’t threatened me with a sword this time. Loving the uniform, by the way.”

“Still the same insufferable flirt, then?”

“You know you love it.” He grinned, before turning to his friends. “Martha, Yaz, meet Me. I have a feeling she might know a little bit about our problem.”

So, on the one hand, hanging around outside his dead wife’s office was an awful idea. On the other, the Doctor really couldn’t resist. He wasn’t planning on talking to her- he just wanted to see her, for a minute.

He knew that it would only upset him, really. He was just opening up an old wound. Somehow, though, that didn’t phase him. Seeing her for a few minutes- letting himself look back just once. It had to be worth it.

The Doctor was fully planning on seeing a face from his past that would make his hearts ache with loss- though the one he got was one that made them sink with guilt, instead.

Ashildr. He’d lost track of her a very long time ago- somewhere before all that hazy business on Gallifrey. Still, in this time zone he’d have assumed that she’d be managing Trap Street, still, not hanging around a University.

Not walking out of River Song’s office with a smile on her face.

Whatever she was planning, he already didn’t like it.

“Ashildr.” He said by way of greeting, glancing towards the door, but barely catching a glimpse of River before it slammed shut.

“Who?” From the look of false-innocence on her face, he got the impression that Ashildr was being purposefully difficult.

“You.”

“Call me Me, Doctor. How many times do I have to remind you?”

“Me isn’t a name.” He replied, sounding almost like a petulant child.

“Nor is Doctor.” Ashildr replied coolly, crossing her arms.

Since he didn’t have much of a retort for that one, he found himself falling silent for a moment, though when she didn’t get a response, and began to walk away, he found himself asking a question just to stop her from leaving just yet. He really didn’t like that she was here- with everything else that was going on, it made him nervous.

“What’re you doing here?” He asked, still not sounding the most friendly. He didn’t remember much about his last few meetings with Ashildr, but he remembered coming away from them very angry with her. She had to have done something, he just didn’t remember what.

She shrugged, maddeningly casual about the odd reunion. “The same thing as you, I imagine.”

Well that one certainly couldn’t be true. Ashildr may have had some questionable practices, but as far as the Doctor was concerned his and Missy’s current predicament had to be pretty unique.

“I really don’t think you are.”

Seemingly a little thrown off, she asked. “You’re not here investigating all the odd energy readings?”

“Energy readings?”

Ashildr narrowed her eyes at that. It clearly wasn’t the answer she’d been expecting, at any rate. “Why are you here, then?”

“I’ve got a thing to do.” He replied, sounding totally confident in his own vague explanation, even if she looked unconvinced.

“I told you once I’d protect the world from you, Doctor. I meant it.”

“I know you did.”

“Well then, I’d-”

Before either of them could continue their argument, the office door opened, and an annoyed looking River Song stuck her head out, looking between the pair of them as though they were naughty schoolchildren. Seeing that one of them was a Professor did nothing to change her demeanour- not that the Doctor had expected for a minute it would. Not with River.

“Excuse me, I don’t know what the two of you are bickering about, but if you could take it somewhere that isn’t right outside my door, I think it would be better for everybody. Okay?” She said sharply.

Ashildr offered a quick apology, while the Doctor suddenly found his throat had gone dry, his eyes fixed on the woman he’d been fairly sure he’d never see again.

She waited a full minute for him to speak, before beginning to disappear back inside. “Right, then. I’ll take the gawping fish look as a yes.”

“Y-Yes.” He just about managed as the door slammed shut between them.

By the time he’d managed to process what had happened and turned back to Ashildr to continue their argument, she was already disappearing from view at the end of the corridor.

After the third time going through the information they had at this point (which was about as little as they’d had when they arrived), Amy was really beginning to regret deciding to come back to the TARDIS instead of heading to the Student Union.

“Right…” The Doctor was pacing around the console, still. By now Amy was fairly sure he was talking more to himself than to them. “Right so what have we got? We’ve got a professor who doesn’t age-“

“We’ve got a professor who doesn’t age, and some weird energy readings coming from our flat.” She sighed, looking bored with the whole thing. “It’s the same thing we’ve known all week.”

“Wasn’t River trying to meet the professor.” Rory offered before either of them could say anything more. He just wanted them to stay on track, which between the Doctor and Amy was always a tricky task.

“He won’t set up a meeting with her.” Amy responded, “She said he turned her down when she made a proper request, and he’s never in his office when she goes.”

“So he’s onto her, then?” asked Rory.

“No…” The Doctor had moved back over to the scanner, now, bringing up those readings again, as though he was on the brink of some breakthrough the others couldn’t see. “No. Doesn’t make sense. I’m missing something-“ He turned to the pair of them. “What am I missing?”

Rory gave him a blank look.

“Right. Of course. In my head. Yeah…” The TARDIS made a wheezing noise, which appeared to mean something to him based on his reaction. “Oh! Oh, yes. That’s good, okay…” He began digging through a drawer under the console.

“What’s good?” Amy asked, leaning forwards to try and get a look what he was messing about with. When he didn’t respond right away she actually stepped over to get a look at the odd little device he was holding. It looked a bit like a USB drive, just with a display screen. “Doctor? What’s that?”

“What does he teach?” He asked, instead of answering her.

Amy hesitated. She knew that Bill, Thea and Jenny had been to lectures with their mystery professor, but she’d never bothered to work out what the lectures were actually about.

“Oh, I don’t know. I could ask my flatmate, he’s her personal tutor. Not sure what she studies, though.”

“Oh, that’s great.” He tossed the not-USB-drive to her, “DNA scanner. Should be able to work out if he’s human or not. You’ve just got to get close enough to use it.”

“And how am I meant to do that?” She asked, turning it over in her hands.

“Ask your friend if you can tag along to lectures or something.”

“Oh, great.” Amy replied, sarcastically, “You’re signing me up for mystery lectures with the maybe-alien professor.”

“Try and use it on your flatmates too, if you can.” The Doctor responded, either not picking up on the sarcasm, or deliberately ignoring it. He was messing about trying to wire something into the console, now, though he seemed to be mostly doing a lot of running around and sonicing various things.

Amy looked the device in her hands over. “You should’ve given me this earlier. Would have been easy to use it if I went to that comedy night with Rose-“

There was a clatter, followed by a squealing noise from the sonic, as it protested being dropped.

“Something wrong, Doctor?” Rory peered around the central console, looking concerned.

The Doctor picked up the sonic quickly, trying to brush off his slip-up. “What? No. Fine. I’m fine. Totally fine.”

Amy raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah. Because when someone says ‘fine’ that many times in one sentence, that usually means it’s true. What happened?”

“I had a friend called Rose once, that’s all.” He seemed to be staying at the other side of the console just so he didn’t have to meet their eyes. “Long time ago.”

“You’ve never mentioned her.” Amy said, nothing accusatory in her tone, though she certainly sounded curious.

The Doctor smiled a little, now, in that far off and slightly sad way he did when he was remembering something long since passed. “I don’t always like talking about the people I’ve lost.”

“She sounds special.”

“Oh, she was. Great woman, that Rose Tyler.”

Now, it was Amy’s turn to drop what she was holding.

#thasmin #thirteenth doctor #yasmin khan #jack harkness #doctor who #madeathing

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minichedders · 4 years

Text

scar 0.1

pirate!bucky barnes x reader

You head straight, gaze forward on the black, dark night; sailing away from you. The remains of your ship sunk into the deep depths of the black ocean swallowed whole like a starved man with his first meal.

The dark-haired pirate captain growled and grabbed your hair, pulling your head back, lips pressed against the cold shell of your ear.

“Or maybe I’ll just start with your crew. Make you watch as one by one, they walk the plank each time you don't give me what I want. What do you think hmm?”

“You’ll have to kill me and my crew before I ever tell you anything.”

The pirate smiled, “I wonder if your crew feel the same way,”

He turned you around, his fist still holding tight to your hair. You faced your crew- kneeling on the damp deck, hands tied behind their backs and mouths full of dirty, greasy rags the other crew probably used to wash the floors with. “Which one of you boys would mind if i blow the pretty girls brains? hmm?” the pirate sneered, showing you off to your crew as they all looked at you with pleading eyes. You were all trapped, his crew outnumbered yours, and with no weapons, no tricks, no upper hand you were screwed. You hope had died the minute you saw the black sails; legends reeked the ocean of their death and dread. Captain Bucky Barnes. The Reaper himself has come to collect his awaiting souls.

Whilst faced with the burning question, your crew all hopelessly looked at each other, not a murmur was to be heard. Not that you minded, you knew they had no say. However, you were shocked to see your right-hand man, Thomas struggle to stand up, his leg bleeding and his face half swollen. He stood tall, back straight and his head held high, and even with a gag in his mouth he still managed to shout ‘aye’.

Tear brimmed your eyes as you shared eye contact, he was your brother of the sea, your counterpart and much-loved friend. Barnes turned his head towards you again, replacing his lips by your ear as you broke eye contact with Tom, shutting them and trying your best to turn away from the pirate holding you. The sensation of the pirates smirking lips against your skin made you heave, you could feel every breath, every movement and every thought, as you knew what he would do next.

A single shot was heard, then seconds later, a loud thump. You opened your eyes, trying your best to look unaffected to the pirate as possible, but he had already seen your trembling lip and fluttering eyes.

“Goodbye boyfriend, aye?” He chuckled, pulling you even more tightly to his chest, running his silver gun up and down your bare arm; you could feel the hot sensation of the previous fire it had taken.

You whimpered, looking down. You couldn't bear the shame that you felt. With all your anger and all your might, you sent the biggest blow you could muster into the captain's stomach, turning and aiming your knee into his lower regions. Whilst the captain was curled over in pain, you took the opportunity to take the ready to fire gun from his hands and aimed it at him. One bullet, straight to the head. that's all it would take.

You listened closely to the click of the safety, taking your aim and putting your finger on the trigger. One shot and you had won, you would take this ship, have his crew, the legacy of the great sea captain who took down the infamous Bucky Barnes.

But before you could imagine all the glory and treasure, a cold steal was pressed to your throat, pinching your skin and drawing blood to the surface. A tear left your eye. You could still do it; you would die but you would win.

Alas, Bucky tore the gun from your now shaking hands before you could blink. He took the knife that was wielded by the man behind you, and pointed it straight to your heart, pressing in. His piercing blue eyes look straight into yours, as he spoke- “kill them. kill them all,”

He roughly grabbed your arm, the knife now pressing into your back as he leads you off the deck and down into the quarters. You couldn't hear the screams of your crew, just gunshots and silence.

You reached a dark red door, with intricate carvings on, covered in old grime and dirt when it opened, it revealed the captain's chamber; decorated with the same dark red and black, messy but not quite dirty, smelling of ocean spray and sandalwood. It was nice. For a murderer.

“Now, little girl, you aren't going anywhere until you tell me where captain Rogers is,” Bucky said, locking the door behind him, making his way over to the liquor cabinet where he dropped his knife and replaced it with a glass.

“I-I can't,” You said, already scanning the room for a weapon, a way out, anything. You could use the liquor bottles - but oh what a waste that would be, you couldn't jump out the tiny oval window, the knife was free, but that meant getting closer to the pirate.

He took a sip of the dark golden liquid and hummed, a smile falling on his lips as he tutted and shook his head, “ and why can't you,” he asked.

“I saw him more than two months ago, he could be anywhere by now. If you would've just listened to me before murdering my crew,” You argued, trying not to raise your voice and show any weakness in front of him. One thing you weren't willing to admit was that you were vulnerable.

“Then I'm sure it won't harm you to tell me, as you say I could not find him,” he trailed, moving away from the cabinet, and the knife, and walking over to the large king-sized bed. You made note of the now free knife, and also of the dark silk bedsheets that you could almost feel against your bare skin. You slowly began to pace, back and forth between the door and the knife, Bucky watched you with careful eyes.

“And why would I help you? You've just sunk my ship, killed my crew, threatened my life and not even offered me a drink,” you said, your mind moving a hundred mile an hour as your eyes scanned the liquor cabinet, and then the glistening metal of the knife. Bucky sighed and waved his hand in the air, turning around.

“By all means help yourself to a drink,”

You smiled and turned around, grabbing a glass and a bottle, filling it to the brim and just as quickly pouring the contents down your throat. You filled the glass up again and left it on the top, next to the knife. Your hand rested upon its leather handle, the feel of its grip in your palms felt like freedom. It passed with a fleeting moment as you heard the click of Bucky’s gun.

“I've heard about you know. A women captain. Must have been hard to get all that respect and attention, i know what you've done to earn your title, your reputation. I know that men think you are an enchantress, a sea witch, a mermaid. But standing right here in front of me and not even being able to sneak a knife, i must say, I'm a little disappointed.” Bucky spoke, moving closer with every word until he was right behind you. He spun you around to look at him, leaving the knife on the table behind you and keeping the gun pointed forward into your stomach. You face was red with fury and your breathing was hard and heavy, your hands were shaking with the ungodly urge to strangle the man in front of you and claim back your title as a worthy women captain.

“Now, i also know that you and Rogers have, let's say, intimate relations. So i don't believe that he would go more than two months without coming back for a fuck,” He said, he was rough and domineering; his words made you blush and a frown formed your face as you looked downwards. What you had said was true, you hadn't seen Steve Rogers for two months; you were tired of him using you and degrading you because you were a women captain, but you still missed the companionship of it all.

Bucky noticed your frown and moved the tip of his gun to your chin, pointing it up so you looked directly at him; he studied your eyes for a moment, watching you watch him as if he was reading you. He sighed and moved back, dropping the gun to his side and returning it into his pocket.

“Well, you tell me where he last was and ill let you stay on this boat,” he spoke, after a few minutes of silence.

“And you think that's a good deal?”

“Its either that or I kill you, little girl.”

---

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isnt-it-loverly · 4 years

Text

How the Clouds Depart

warnings: abuse and mentions of sexual assault, please read with caution.

word count: 1.5k

A/N: this is an original story I wrote for my creative writing class. it is based off events that happened in my life and I hope you guys enjoy.

I sit in silence. The wind brushed through my hair and the cold bit at my skin. I stay perched on the damp pavement and as I run my hand over the bumps and grooves. A multitude of thoughts plagued my head. How did I get here? How could I let this happen? I was smart, I was cautious, I knew the signs, and yet here I am. This park was always my safe place. It was a place of innocence, a place of laughter, a place of happiness, and then he came. My tears felt frozen as they dripped down my face and the weight of them pulled me down. I can hear him creeping closer. I turn to look at him in those icy, stone-cold eyes. They are unforgiving, and not an ounce of humanity behind them. I know that he’s here to apologize and try to mend what’s been broken. Unfortunately, I know I’ll probably let him. This has happened far too many times because now I know his routine. I watch intently as he fixes his composer, putting on the mask that hides the monster underneath.

“Eliza,” He says, so very gentle.

My name drips from his lips like a song. It's melodic and almost hypnotizing. The way he speaks to me is like magic because he knows which spells to recite and which charms to use. He draws me in just like a snake ready to trap his prey.

“Yes,” I respond meekly.

He slithers in closer to me and he knows what he is doing. He’s clinging on to something that may not even be there anymore. He is mere millimeters away from me and upon closer inspection, I can see everything. Two dead eyes stare into me, while a devilish smile is spayed across his face, and worst of all there isn’t a man sitting next to me but an ungodly beast from the depths of my nightmares.

“You know that I love you right? That everything I do is out of love, you just need to let go. You need to be better, you just need to trust me,” He said with an unwavering voice.

I look up to the sky to be with my thoughts again. There were no stars and the moon was covered by thick black clouds. The dark has absorbed all the light in the sky. There was nothing bright or momentous about this night, all that resides here are gloom and dread.

This was very typical of him. For Midas never blamed himself only the one who gave him the golden touch, the one who did everything to please him. Oh, how I tried to please him. I was everything he needed: a friend, a listener, and a lover. I tried so hard and yet I keep wondering why he could never see that. I was the one who kept gluing the pages back together while he was the one who tore them out. Every move I made was like dancing around eggshells, but regrettably, I am no ballerina. Perhaps this is the breaking point. How many times can I try to make myself whole again only for him to shatter me like a fragile china plate? I will never be perfect, I will never be better, and I will certainly never trust him. Not after all the blackberry bruises, the relentless fighting, and the unwanted desire for my body. He will never change, so I must.

“Do I? I asked solemnly.

“Do you what?” He replied.

“Do I know that you love me?”

“What kind of question is that? You know that I do. You’re everything to me.”

He stares at me quizzically and I know that I’ve struck a nerve, The gears in his brain are turning and it is almost amusing to watch. The damsel never talks back to the monster. The princess doesn’t save herself, but no knight is coming for me. I must hold my own. It is my turn to slay the dragon. I am Beowulf and he is Grendel, it is time for his reign of terror to end.

“How? Is this what love looks like to you? Are you really happy?” I asked desperately.

“Of course I’m happy Eliza!” He yelled.

He towers over me and his eyes are full of anger and rage. I’m afraid of him and of what he could do to me. He’s never hit me, only grabbed or jerked me around. He made sure to point that out. He begins talking about all the good times. It was true when our relationship first started it was beautiful. He was chivalrous, devoted, caring, and more. Everything a Knight in shining armor should be. However eventually that armor turned to rust, and his true colors showed. He continues to yell at me, thrashing about like a wild animal in a trap.

“If you leave me I will die? Do you understand that?” He pleads.

There it was. That was his go-to move, and it has worked without fail so many times. However, if I stay I will surely die. That I understand perfectly. It’s selfish of me, that’s what he continues to tell me. I need to think of others first, and if I just try to see the world through his eyes then maybe I could understand what I was doing wrong. Maybe then I could understand what I did to desire a love so vile as his.

“Why are you just sitting there? Do you even hear what I’m saying?” He yells.

His voice booms like rolling thunder. He takes my hand in his, but it is not a loving touch. It’s rough and coarse, I can feel the pain radiate up my arm and into my teeth.

The wind howls in my ear, it’s screaming at me not to back down this time. The trees tremble and they are waiting anxiously for what I say next. The birds who were once asleep and safely nuzzled in their nest are now wide awake. Their eyes peer on me, for they too wait for a response. In fact, the whole park was screaming at me. The swings screeched to get on with it and the carousel begged me to finish what I had started. They have been with me since I was a child and now they are all yelling at me to take back control- to take back my life. They’ve always looked out for all of my life but now their songs fill my head at once and suddenly it becomes hard for me to think. And then I see it. A single drop of rain lands in a nearby puddle. I watch in amazement as the water ripples out. Incredibly, such a small drop has a lasting impact. Perhaps this was the final push, I needed to be a raindrop. No, I needed to be a tidal wave.

“No,” I said while jerking my hand free.

The rain started pouring at a steady rate, this was my moment. He was in my domain and now I was in control. The thunder rumbled overhead, giving me the strength I needed.

“No?” He asked with anger welling in his voice.

“I’m done being your rag doll. You’re not going to look at me anymore, you’re not going to hurt me anymore, and you certainly will never touch me again,” I retorted.

“You’re nothing without me!”

“Perhaps. But I will never be anything with you.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying, you love me!”

“I loved the idea of you.”

A flash of lightning illuminated his face. He was desperate, clinging on to any ounce of control he had left. I was behind the wheel now, and as long as I’m in the driver's seat he would never have another say again. I backed away slowly, it was finally over. The trapped had been sprung, he was wounded- there was nothing else he could do.

“Eliza, if you walk away now I will never come back,” he said with a shaky voice.

He looked like he was on the verge of tears. It shouldn’t have made me smile but it did. I wiped the rain from my eyes and laughed.

“Perfect,” I smiled cheerfully.

“Fine, if that’s what you really want. If I am so terrible and worthless then I’ll just leave,” He responded.

He began to walk towards his car that was parked a few yards away. He looked back only once to see if I would change my mind. There was a gleam in his eye, a sliver of hope that I would come crawling back like I always did. Not this time, this time I’m triumphant. I’ve won the war. My life is mine again. As he drives away, I feel the rain wash over me. I feel clean. I feel light. I feel free. As quickly as the rain started it came to an abrupt stop and I looked up at the sky to see that the moon shone brightly next to a million stars. The clouds were gone, and I knew that the moon was telling me that brighter days were ahead.

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Bo Burnham: Inside Songs Ranked from Worst to Best

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The musical of the summer was supposed to be a life-affirming celebration of one of New York’s most vibrant neighborhoods, full of color, romance, and big group dance numbers. Instead for many viewers, the musical of the moment was filmed and performed by one man, alone in isolation from the comfort (or discomfort, really) of his own home, with songs centered on techno paranoia, mental health, and the fear of aging. Maybe after a year stuck in their homes, audiences could relate to the existential dread and general anxiety on display in Bo Burnham: Inside more than a conventional movie musical.

Billed as a stand-up special, Burnham’s latest musical comedy endeavor finds the former wunderkind holed up and feeling more uncomfortable than ever. Writing, editing, directing, and performing from a claustrophobic studio, Burnham’s stand-up special skews more toward being a straight-up musical, and not because the special is light on jokes and missing an audience. Rather this has all the hallmarks of a musical narrative and plays closer to experimental cinema than sketch comedy.

Burnham expresses his characters’ inner-thoughts, fears, and desires via song throughout a contained narrative, in this case the narrative being one man trying to occupy himself during a pandemic. It has ballads, charm songs, comedy numbers, “I Am” and “I Want” songs, and a big reprise. By capturing his personal pandemic experience and putting the whole affair to song, Burnham has created one of the most compelling (and catchy!) accounts of life during 2020.

To celebrate the musical that we all needed after a year in our homes, we’ve decided to rank every song from Bo Burnham: Inside. You can stream along via the Inside (The Songs) album on the streaming platform of your choice.

20. I Don’t Wanna Know

Merely an interlude, “I Don’t Wanna Know” doesn’t quite work outside of watching the special itself. However, it is a clever way to address the fact that modern audiences do not have the attention span to sit through a film at home without checking their phone or complaining about a runtime.

19. Bezos II

While certainly meant to poke fun at the real-life Lex Luthor, it’s not that fun to listen to Bezos’ name repeated. Stil, Burnham does elicit a few laughs with his over-the-top mock congratulations. “You did it!”

18. Any Day Now

A Sesame Street-like mantra that plays over the credits, “Any Day Now” suggests this could all end either hopefully soon or on a depressingly vague far-off date that will never come. We’d like to think it’s the former, but it’s safe to assume what Bo thinks.

17. All Time Low

While this number gets docked points for its short runtime, it absolutely packs a punch with its four-line, single verse. After Bo admits that his mental health is rapidly deteriorating, he describes what it’s like to have a panic attack set to a chipper ‘80s dance backbeat. Unfortunately, we don’t get to ride the wave long enough, and judging lyrics, that’s probably a good thing for Bo.

16. Content

This strong opening number musically sets the vibe for Inside, letting us know that we’re in for some synth-heavy throwback beats that would be best listened to underneath a disco ball. Also incorporating silly backing vocals, a hallmark of many of Inside’s best tracks, Burnham declares he’s back with some sweet, sweet content. “Daddy made you your favorite,” he sings, and he ain’t wrong.

15. Bezos I

Unlike the reprise in “Bezos II,” “Bezos I” gets by off its increasingly deranged energy, with Burnham roasting fellow tech billionaires and working himself up into a manic frenzy by song’s end. Musically, it sounds like the soundtrack to an intense boss battle on a Sega Genesis game before ending with a sick little synth solo and Burnham hilarious squawking. It’s arguably the only acceptable thing that Bezos has ever been associated with.

14. Unpaid Intern

While “Unpaid Intern” is one of Inside’s shortest tracks, it absolutely makes the most of its time. The jazzy tune scorches the exploitative nature of unpaid internships before Burnham breaks out into a laugh-out-loud worthy scat routine. It unfortunately ends too soon.

13. Shit

Inside’s funkiest jam sounds like Burnham wrote the lyrics for a new Janelle Moane album cut. Bo show’s off his vocal dexterity and plumbs the depths of his depression in a surprisingly danceable fashion. Throwing in a little faux crowd interaction helps bring home the fact that we have all felt like this at one point or another during the pandemic.

12. Sexting

This slow-jam details the complications of sexting, throwing out hilariously too-true punchlines like “the flash makes my dick look frightened.” “Sexting” feels like one of a few songs that could most easily appear on previous Burnham specials. Proving that Inside’s musical textures do not come exclusively from ’80s synth pop, the outro of the song expertly mirrors modern pop trends by throwing in some trap-influenced “yahs” at the end of Bo’s lines.

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11. How the World Works

Influenced by comedian Hans Teeuwen and children’s entertainment in general, “How the World Works” finds Burnham going back to the well by playing the ignorant, smarmy white guy who is oblivious of the real issues plaguing nonwhite Americans. What’s even better though is Socko calling Burnham out on forcing others to educate him for his own self-actualization instead of doing the work on his own for the betterment of others.

Socko pointedly asks “Why do you rich f—— white people insist on seeing every socio-political conflict through the myopic lens of your own self-actualization?” Not to keep things too heavy, the song ends with an absurdist bit where Burnham returns Socko to the nether place that he goes when he’s not attached to Burnham’s hand. Scathing and bizarre, it’s a great piece of social commentary.

10. FaceTime With My Mom

While most of the music of Inside feels directly transported from the 1980s, “FaceTime With My Mom” seems only inspired by the past decade’s musical trends, updating the sounds in much of the same way that the Weeknd and Dua Lipa have. This is Bo Burnham as a hitmaker, and his attempt is convincing. “FaceTime With My Mom” earns easy laughs by getting to the seemingly specific, yet universal things that all our moms do over video chat.

9. Goodbye

Every good musical needs a good closing track, and Burnham nails it with “Goodbye,” pulling off a reprise that weaves in many of the special’s signature musical moments and touches on the special’s core themes. A forlorn piano ballad before it soars through Inside’s best motifs, “Goodbye” caps a triumphant musical achievement, coming back to “Look Who’s Inside Again” just to punch you in the gut one last time.

8. Problematic

Addressing his past work and some aspects that have not aged well, while also skewering celebrity apologies, “Problematic” is self-aware critique by way of an ‘80s workout bop. From the specific Aladdin confession to the overall apology for being “vaguely shitty,” Bo has never made accountability sound so good.

7. That Funny Feeling

This is Bo Burnham’s version of Father John Misty’s “Holy Shit,” a laundry list of all the stupid things that are signaling the fall of culture and civilization as we know it. If Misty hadn’t gotten there first, we may have had this one ranked higher. Still, Burnham manages to come up with a sticky chorus that you’ll be humming the next time something makes you feel like you’re living in the uncanny valley.

6. White Woman’s Instagram

Perhaps the special’s most playful moment, “White Woman’s Instagram” uses the musical cues of an inspiring empowerment anthem to poke fun at the predictably, perfectly curated feed of a “girl boss” Instagram. The song is greatly enhanced by the accompanying visuals, which find Bo recreating the meticulously staged and glamorous portraits that women pass off as their everyday lives.

However, Bo always likes to sneak in some sentimentality, and imagines a genuinely heartfelt post to his white woman character’s deceased mother. Don’t worry, the emotional moment doesn’t overstay its welcome, and we’re soon back to laughing at horribly derivative political street art.

5. All Eyes on Me

The droning synth and pitch-down vocals make “All Eyes On Me” oddly hypnotic and beautiful. The song seems to be addressing Bo’s depression along with his need for validation and attention, a juxtaposition that many performers deal with. It becomes clear that Burnham isn’t addressing an invisible audience, but himself, trying to will himself up and out of his dreary mental state.

4. Look Who’s Inside Again

A classic “I Am” musical song, “Look Who’s Inside Again” just may be Inside’s most emotionally resonant track that seems to hit closest to who Bo Burnham was and who he is today. This is the song that I will most likely regret the most for ranking so low.

“Well, well, look who’s inside again. Went out to look for a reason to hide again,” perfectly describes the cycle of depression and will, for me, be the special’s most lasting moment. The downbeat ending “come out with your hands up, we’ve got you surrounded” is heartbreaking enough to send a shudder down your spine.

3. Comedy

The special’s real first number is absolutely packed with hooks, from the “Call me and I’ll tell you a joke” bridge to the “Should I be joking at a time like this?” change-up. This is Bo really flexing how far he’s come as a musician, expertly utilizing autotune and a key change (us “stupid motherf***ers” can’t resist them).

“Comedy” also finds Bo comfortably in the lane that we’re most used to seeing him in, playing the egomaniacal white messiah with a wink. “Comedy” is the tone-setter and it’s so good that it lets you know that you’re in good hands for the next hour plus.

2. 30

Either I’m ranking this song too highly due to its personally relatable nature or the fact that I haven’t been able to get “All my stupid friends are having stupid children” out of my head, but I really don’t care. “30” is Inside’s biggest earworm and addresses the existential terror that comes with no longer getting pats on the back for being a young wunderkind.

“30” also examines generational differences, showing how 30 year-old people are more infantile than ever. However, at the end of the day it all comes back to those shimmering keys and that irresistible refrain. Apologies to my friends with children.

1. Welcome to the Internet

No matter how deep and emotionally rich some of Inside’s other tracks may be, “Welcome to the Internet” is the one that will live on the longest. If this were a traditional musical, this would the antagonists’ showstopper; a vaudevillian romp through the alluring chaos that is the internet. Speeding up and slowing down the pace to mirror the manic, addictive nature of surfing the net, Burnham pitches the negative aspects of online culture as they are: a feature, not a bug. Promising “a little bit of everything all of the time,” “Welcome to the Internet” is almost as enticing as the dark tool itself.

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