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lildevyl · 2 years

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Tommy Innit's Secret Clinic Chapter 8: Michael’s Birthday

Summary: The Bench Trio celebrate Michael’s Birthday!

A/N: So some fluff here! Also this chapter does have some background with Wilbur and Techno. Their backgrounds were inspired by Tommy's Ultra-Important Keychain by SeriouslyCalamitous

Also will tag the chapters with Trigger Warnings. Just to be safe.

HAPPY WRITING!

TW: Mention of Past Child Abuse, Mention of Past Child Neglect, Mention/Implied Past Mugging.

(Bad’s Café)

Tommy couldn’t keep the grin that was plastered on his face off. He was excited about today! It was Michael’s Birthday today and the little trouble maker was turning eleven today. Tommy was at Bad’s Café picking up the two dozen muffins that Bad insisted on giving Tommy to take to the party.

“Tell little trouble maker Muffin Head, Happy Birthday for me!”

“Will do Bad!”

“Tommy!” Wilbur called out as he walked into the Café.

“Wilbur! How are you doing?” Tommy asked.

“I’m doing good. I came by to see if you were working today. I’m guessing that you’re not working today though.” Wilbur gestured to the muffins in Tommy’s hand. Then he noticed a present as well. “What’s the special occasion?”

“Huh, oh! It’s Michael’s birthday today!” Tommy answered. “Michael’s a kid that I sometimes watch on the side for Ms. Pinkett.”

“That’s cool. Give me a minute and I’ll walk with you,” Wilbur offered.

Tommy was about to protest, but Wilbur had already ordered his coffee to go and paid for it. A few minutes later, Wilbur was right by Tommy’s side and gestured for them to get going.

“So, how did you become a part time babysitter for Michael?” Wilbur asked with a teasing tone and soft smile.

“Ms. Pinkett used to be my Foster Parent before me and my roommates got out of the system. She was one of the “Good Ones” I guess you can say. The Foster System sent us to a Group Home for us “Problem Kids.” It actually turned out to be a good thing though. She really helped out a lot. But we just . . . couldn’t stay. She understood and even helped us get out.”

Tommy went quiet as memories came back. Ms. Pinkett was literally one of the “Good Ones” in the Foster System. Years of going from home to home, so many rules broken and too many lies being told to him time and time again. It got to the point that Tommy literally thought that there was something wrong with him for why no one wanted him. So many different homes, schools, and a Social Worker who literally just seemed like they were too tired to care. Yeah, Tommy couldn’t have been more grateful for Ms. Pinkett!

But when the “Incident” as Tommy refers to it happened. It was when Tommy was younger and was very naïve of the world. Seeing someone slumped over bleeding in an alleyway on his way from school one day. Tommy, not even thinking about it, went over to the stranger and healed him. Some time later, Tommy nearly got kidnapped because of his healing powers.

Tommy couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if Ms. Pinkett hadn’t come barreling down the street and got them to her brother’s house! She was so furious with the Police when they just wrote it off as a “Prank.” It was at that point that Ms. Pinkett had helped teach Tommy about his powers and the dangers of having said powers.

Tommy looked over at Wilbur when he came back to reality from Memory Lane. He was expecting the “Pity Looks” and the “Sympathetic Frown” because that’s what Tommy mostly got from people when they learned that he was a Foster Child. Every now and then you come across the “Good Samaritans” that literally only saw you as a gig for their blog or a “Charity Case” Opportunity to get brownie points from their viewers.

Tommy, already mentally preparing himself for the “I’m sorry to hear that Toms.” But when Tommy looked over at Wilbur, he was surprised. None of that came, as a matter of fact, Wilbur, himself looked so deep in thought, like he went down Memory Lane as well.

“Kinda sounds like me and Tech before Phil adopted us.” Wilbur said after a few minutes of silence. Tommy’s jaw hit the floor. Wilbur? Wilbur and Techno were in the Foster System?

“Phil was a Foster Parent for a while before his wife died. Techno was placed with Phil because, well, he was a “Problem Child” and no one wanted to deal with a Piglin Brute Hybrid. I came along a little later. Phil found me on the streets after I ran away from home.”

“Why did you run away from home? Was it that bad?” Tommy asked. Tommy just couldn’t fathom why you would run away from having parents, a home, people who cared about you?

“Yeah it was. My parents only really cared about their reputation, what others might think of them. It was all about money and their perfect image and if you didn’t fit into that perfect image. Then they just tried to sweep it under the rug or tried to fix it. When I came into my Hybrid features, they literally tried to get me to hide it or suppress it. They couldn’t stand having a *cough* Mer Hybrid as a son. I ran away when I was about ten? Eleven? I think? Phil found me six months later and took me in. A few years later Phil officially adopted us.”

Tommy couldn’t help the stab of jealousy that shot through his chest. That was every Foster Kids’ dream. To finally find a family that will love you because of all of your flaws and not expect a perfect child to be molded into. But he also felt a bit of sympathy for Wilbur. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like to have parents that cared more about money and what people thought about them than their own child?

“I had to officially and legally disown my own parents. One so Phil could adopt me and two because the last thing I wanted was to have my parents see that I ‘made it’ and then decide they want their son back.” Wilbur explained.

Tommy nodded in understanding. He heard and read countless stories of families neglecting and/or abandoning family members. Only to come back in their lives full of empty promises and praises all because their kid had “made it big.”

“I work for Phil and he owns a Studio Company. I’m in charge of the Music Department. Techno’s the Social Media Manager. Phil’s in charge of looking over everything. We have other people that help out as well. I’m also trying to get my own music out there.”

“Wait, do you sing, Wilbur?”

Wilbur started to flush at that. “I tinker around. I play guitar and I sing. I write my own songs as well.”

“You’re going to have to show me sometime.” Tommy smiled imagining what Wilbur’s singing voice would sound like.

“Sure, you can stop by my place sometime and I’ll sing for you! Also, I think we’re near where you live.” Wilbur gestured to Tommy’s apartment complex.

“Yep, we’re here.” Tommy turned to the rundown, and crumbling building in front of them.

Wilbur made a face at the state of Tommy’s apartment complex and the cracking concrete steps. But didn’t say anything about it. Tommy was truly grateful for that. Tommy knew that their living conditions weren’t ideal and it would be nice to live in a place where the carpets weren’t stained with something that suspiciously looks like mold or blood. Or to have vents that didn’t have a strange smell to it. Or to have a building that didn’t have a fresh coat of paint to cover up some kind of “Crime Scene.”

But unfortunately, they can’t. At least not yet. Ranboo should be getting a raise here soon and he is without a doubt one the best and youngest Assistant Managers the Pet Store ever has! And if Tubbo got accepted into one of L’Manburg’s Tech Schools. Then there was a sure chance that Tubbo could get a really decent paying job. Tommy’s content at working at Bad’s. Tommy really didn’t have any future plans for himself other than getting the hell out of the Foster System and try to forget about that day.

“I’ll see you later Tommy?” Wilbur asked, bringing Tommy out of his tumbling thoughts.

“Yeah, Wil. I’ll see you tomorrow at the Café!” Tommy called after his friend and headed up the steps and towards the elevator to his and his friends apartment.

(Ms. Pinkett’s House)

One bus ride and a five block walk later, Tommy, Ranboo and Tubbo arrive at the party a little bit late but not by much.

“Tommy! Ranboo! Tubbo! It’s so good to see you guys!” Ms. Pinkett gives each of them a side hug and beaming smile. “Thanks for coming guys! Michael’s been super excited to see you!”

“We’re doing good Ms. Pinkett and thanks for inviting us!” Tommy said.

“Tommy for the last time, it’s Scarlet! I might not be your Foster Parent anymore but you still babysit -”

“I’m not a baby, Mom! I don’t need a sitter!”

“But you still ‘supervise’ Michael and his friends from time to time.” Ms. Pinkett - Scarlet said.

Tommy used to babysit Michael when the three of them lived together. When Tommy, Ranboo and Tubbo managed to get out of the Foster System and get their own place. Tommy still “Supervised” Michael and his friends from time to time for Scarlet. After what almost happened to Tommy and Scarlet nearly getting mugged herself. Scarlet literally has been asking Tommy when she was unable to get home in time to watch her son for her. It’s usually only a few hours. And it never really interfered with Tommy’s schedule at Bad’s. Scarlet couldn’t have been more grateful for Tommy’s help and offered to pay him for when he “Supervised.”

The trio walked into Scarlet’s one story house and placed the presents on the dining table and headed into the living room. Tommy instantly recognized Ant (Antonio), an Ant Hybrid and Shroud, a Spider Hybrid, two of Michael’s best friends that he had known since Kindergarten. Tommy also recognized a few other people that Scarlet works with at the Starlight Plaza and their kids. And Tommy of course recognized Karen and her two trouble-making kids. Luckily, for everyone else, there were plenty of adult chaperons to make sure that Karen’s entitled kids don’t cause a scene.

The party was in full swing, with plenty of games, food, cutting the cake and serving ice cream. Michael sat down on the couch opening up his presents and thanking everyone. Michael got a few new board games that Tommy had feeling would be played by Michael and his two friends the minute the party was done. A couple of stuffed animals that he really enjoyed (Michael loved the chicken plushy that Tommy made him). He also enjoyed the Heroes vs Villains video game that Tubbo got him. Ranboo got him a gold plated hair clip for when he wants to braid his hair.

Unfortunately, the trio couldn’t stay for long because they had to make sure that they made it to the bus stop in time. After giving Michael a final hug and promise to stop by some time, the trio headed. That early evening, Tommy, Ranboo and Tubbo, rode the bus home with laughter in their ears and smiles on their faces.

Little did they know their world would come crashing down around them.

******

Characters:

Siren -Wilbur

Erinyes - Techno

Orcus -Phil

Theseus - Tommy

Nuke - Tubbo

Ender - Ranboo

Michael the Piglin - Is a Hybrid in this story might actually be a little more in the story. IDK yet!

Tagging: @weirdmixofweirdness, @tracobuttons, @nightfuryobsessed, @iamliteraltrash1, @luna-moonblood, @ashedflower, @a-humble-narcissus

Previous Chapters:

Chapter One: Head Injury Link Here

Chapter Two: Nuke and Ender Link Here

Chapter Three: Some New Faces Link Here

Chapter Four: New Places Link Here

Chapter Five: Unexpected Visitors Link Here

Chapter Six: Getting Help Link Here

Chapter Seven: Group Home Link Here

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necro-hamster · 5 months

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🦌

i've noticed in the past few years that my parents have this weird habit of recounting stories about my childhood to me that are obvious examples of abuse/neglect or just traumatic instances in general -- but they try to frame it as if it's a funny story.

and they only do it to me.

as far as i know, they never tell anyone else these stories. and, y'know, if they really thought it was a funny story, you'd think they would, right? why not? i tell my friends funny stories about my life all the time. everyone does. so why do they just tell these 'funny' stories to the person at the center of them? it's definitely not to spare me embarrassment; they do that on purpose all the time.

i can only think that it's because they know the stories aren't really funny. they know that people would look at them funny if they told them the story about how their kid was so scared of upsetting them that he didn't tell them when he broke his wrist on the way home from school until mom came to make sure he was doing his homework hours later, or that one time they ignored his complaints about intense pain (assuming it to be an excuse to not do chores) until he started bleeding from his ears, or the story about how he one time got so scared of his dad (who was screaming and throwing things around for hours) that he tried to secretly call mom to come home from work, or the time they 'jokingly' threatened to beat his ass for accidentally saying a cuss word and he hid in his room for hours, or how he once had a breakdown as a very young child and begged them to believe him that his older siblings were constantly treating him like shit every time they turned around.

because those stories aren't funny. nobody would think they are. it's not like they embellish the details; they don't try to lie and say i hid my injury because i hurt myself doing something i shouldn't, or that i cried for hours over them making a joke about tickling me. they say it exactly how it went. and then they laugh and expect me to laugh too, like we're fondly remembering a family bonding experience together.

it's like they expect me to smile and chuckle to myself, nodding along when they tell me about what a stupid kid i was. and for a while, i did. because that's what they wanted. but these days, i don't give them that, and they always get upset with me.

isn't that something? to get mad at someone when they don't laugh at a tale of their own mistreatment being told by the perpetrator? but, hell, why am i supposed to laugh when they clearly know that nobody else will?

why am i expected to make my own suffering into a joke, but they can't even laugh about an incident where they made a silly mistake? why am i expected to be the comic relief of the house?

why the fuck does my life have to be one big sitcom joke, when their lives are supposed to be regarded with the seriousness of documentary? they can't stand when anyone even cracks a smile at anything they do unless it's a carefully calculated joke or bigoted comment.

it's like i'm the stupid side character to their main story. and they know that this is a fucked up way to view their own kid, so they reel it in when they're in public! they act like we're just a regular family, and they hold back the awful stories and shitty comments and screaming and broken glass and threats.

i think the idea that they're self aware is worse than the idea that they don't realize the way they're acting is a problem. because that means they just don't give a shit.

#kris.txt #just. venting i guess #been really feeling sad tonight about my family #i just wish i didn't feel so isolated and trapped all the time #cw for child abuse #mentioned non graphic apart from vaguely summarizing some events

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wri0thesley · 3 years

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A Well Rounded Education (1): Suspension (Fem!Reader x Toji Fushiguro, 5k)

series synopsis: You are a teacher’s aid to teacher Gojo Satoru, training to be able to take over your own class next year by shadowing and helping him out. Gojo does not make things easy for anybody.

chapter synopsis: One of your favourite students has been suspended for fighting, and Gojo has palmed off the meeting with his guardian to go through all of the paperwork and facts and conditions on you. “Don’t worry,” Gojo says. “It’ll be Megumi’s sister, she always takes care of this kind of stuff!”. Gojo is wrong.

NSFW. AFAB reader, fem pronouns. dom/sub dynamics, light fearplay and predator/prey elements. piv sex.

(a well rounded education m.list and navigation)

“I’ve got all these other parents to deal with,” Gojo whines at you, pushing the papers into your hands. “And I hate paperwork, and I don’t have time to meet with Megumi’s family today – hell, if it were up to me, the kid wouldn’t even be suspended! Those guys had it coming!”

Gojo is not a very good teacher. Both of you know that – no matter how justified – violence never solves violence. Gojo, you think, would let these kids fight it out in an arena instead of solving things like an adult. You heave a large sigh as you look down at the papers detailing Megumi Fushiguro’s three-day suspension for fighting during school hours.

You’d seen Megumi before he’d gone home. He hadn’t had so much as a scratch on him; his face set in a frown, his arms crossed, his eyes downcast. You’d sighed at him and asked him if he was alright, and he’d shrugged.

He’s not a very talkative boy at the best of times, and you suppose that the suspension and the fight and the mini uproar it had caused in the school aren’t helping be any more verbose. You’d said goodbye to him and said that you hoped he thought about what had transpired today, your heart aching a little bit that you couldn’t be any more help to him.

You’d seen the three boys Megumi had got into a fight with, too. They had not gotten off so scot-free – they were bleeding noses, scraped cheeks, bruised eyes. At the very least, you don’t think any of them will get on Megumi’s wrong side again.

Gojo has to meet with all three of their parents tonight to give them the full story of why their children are so roughed up and what’s being done about it; a position that’s been doled out to him, you’re sure, because Principal Masamichi blames him for the incident and is punishing him. You can’t deny that seeing Gojo actually get punished for something is nice, but--

“Won’t they be mad to see me instead of you?” You ask him, biting your lip. “I mean . . . you’re his teacher. I’m just your aid.”

“Oh,” Gojo’s eyebrows rise behind his glasses. “No, it’ll be Megumi’s sister who’ll come, she’s a sweetheart! She’ll nod at you and say mournfully that she’ll talk to him and you’ll give her the paperwork, and that’s all – job done! Honestly, if I could palm this off on you and talk to Tsumiki instead, I’d do it in a heartbeat--”

“This is your job,” you tell him, exasperated, and he laughs wide and open. You’re not really supposed to get like this with him – if he were any other teacher, you’re sure that the exasperation and sighing and half-snapping you do would have had you thrown out of their class – but Gojo treats your irritation with him as if it’s the funniest thing that has ever happened. “You’re supposed to be good at dealing with this kind of thing!”

He shrugs.

“You’ll be fine!” He tells you, again. “Honestly, this isn’t the first time this has happened with Megumi and it won’t be the last. That kid’s got a right hook that could knock out an elephant!”

You do not ask him how he knows this. Asking too many questions of Gojo is always flirting with danger; you never know when his mouth will flash into a grin and you’ll suddenly be barraged with a flood of words and stories that don’t quite make sense and never seem to have a concrete end. But you can’t resist one last question – just in case it comes up. After all, it seems that Gojo has spoken to Tsumiki enough times for him to at least kind of know her--

“His sister?”

Gojo looks at you, and for a moment the shroud of capricious energy lifts from him, and he seems entirely serious. You’ve noticed this particular change in him only a few times – and often, those times have been about the more difficult backstories of students.

“His father isn’t around very often,” he says, eventually. “He’s some kind of something or other, Megumi never really says, but whatever he does, there’s a lot of travelling involved. Tsumiki’s his older sister – she’s twenty one, and she’s been more of a parent to him than it seems like his dad has.”

No wonder Megumi always seems suspicious and tired of Gojo. Something about his flighty nature probably strokes the back of Megumi’s psyche, where annoyances about an absent father are kept. You sigh, turning away and shaking your head to rid yourself of the idea of psychoanalysing the students.

“Alright,” you say wearily. “I’ll talk to Tsumiki.”

You’re nervous as you set up for the meeting. You know Gojo had said that this would be easy, that Tsumiki was very sweet and would probably apologise to you for Megumi being a problem – but still! This is the first time you’ve ever met any of your students’ guardian figures in any capacity. You feel kind of bad that it had to be for this kind of news, actually – ordinarily, you like Megumi a lot. He’s very intense and serious and clever, and you think that he has a bright future ahead of him when the trials of being a twelve year old boy finally are over – but this meeting isn’t for saying things like that. This meeting is for giving details of the three day suspension that Megumi has gotten for – you check the paperwork again – fighting three boys by himself on one of the sports courts, making them bleed and . . . breaking one of their arms? No wonder Gojo had seemed so miserable at the thought of meeting with the victims’ parents.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair, making sure that it still sits as neatly as you’d arranged it that morning. You check the clock to see you still have two minutes before anyone is due – you discreetly check your lipstick in a compact mirror (yesterday you’d had it on your teeth and you hadn’t realised until Mai had pointed it out with a laugh in her voice), smooth out your pencil skirt, tug at your stockings to make sure they’re pulled up and not wrinkling about your ankles . . .

And then, you wait.

The clock is straight across from you, so you’re able to see as Tsumiki is five minutes late, and then ten minutes late, and then fifteen. The tick-tock echoes in the room as your leg bounces against the floor, anxiety making you want to gnaw all of the carefully applied lipstick off of your mouth. From what Gojo had said, this doesn’t sound like Tsumiki at all – you’re just about to give up and pack all of your things away, figuring maybe she’d called into the office to say she couldn’t make it and telling you had been neglected, when the door slams open.

You rush to your feet, your sensible heels clacking on the ground.

“Miss Fushi--”

Your voice peters away.

The person stood in the doorway is, you’re certain, absolutely not Tsumiki Fushiguro.

For one thing, it’s a man. For another thing . . . well. You’re not entirely sure that a man with that expression on his face would ever be described to anyone as a ‘sweetheart’. Your frightened eyes linger on him for another moment, really taking in the broad shoulders and the muscles and the hair falling over his face, the dark, green eyes that are glaring at you like you’ve interrupted something very important. There’s a scar by his mouth that you also do your best not to stare at, just in the same way you avoid staring at how the form-fitting t-shirt he’s wearing clings to a muscled abdomen.

“It’s Mr, actually,” he says, which seems absurd in the face of him, standing there. He raises one eyebrow at you. “You were expecting my daughter, right?”

(You don’t know it, but Toji Fushiguro has gotten a read on you in less than a moment. He’s seen the wide eyes and the pretty mouth and the neatly appointed outfit, the pencil tucked behind your ear, the slightest tremble faced with his imposing presence – the fear as you’d seen the scar and the smoulder and the body. You’re adorable.)

“I . . . uuh--” Your cheeks are hot. You nod, weakly, and he walks into the room proper, the door swinging shut behind him with a deafening click. There’s danger in every one of this man’s movements, like a wolf who has finally cornered a little rabbit. You are feeling inexorably like prey, at this moment in time.

“I was expecting a man,” he says, shrugging. He sits at the chair in front of Gojo’s desk, pulled up just for him. He looks huge in the classroom; his shoulders too wide, his biceps bulging from the sleeve of the shirt. You don’t think this man was intending to be in a school classroom right now. “I guess you’re not Mr Gojo, huh? Gotta say,” he shoots you a grin that’s dangerous, everything about him is threatening. “I much prefer this development.”

“Oh,” you’re blustering, and it’s so cute. You sit back down in the chair with a quiet displacement of air, agitation in your fingers as you rake through the papers on the desk. Said desk is incredibly messy; Toji doesn’t think it’s yours. He ought to feel mad that they’ve palmed him off on some little assistant who’s probably not even fully qualified yet – instead, he’s watching your hands trembling and your teeth nibbling on your pretty mouth. “Y-yes, G-Gojo’s dealing with the parents of the other party--”

“My kid got into a fight, yeah?” He asks. “Decked ‘em pretty good, from what I heard.” You wince at his words, and that’s cute too.

“Megumi’s a good boy,” you say. “He’s just . . . got his own sense of justice, I think.” You look down at the papers, and your eyes seem to focus, back in a more comforting zone. “He’s been suspended for three days, and when he comes back, he’s on probation.”

“What’s that mean for him?” Toji asks, promptly, though something about the way he says it suggests to you he doesn’t really care. There’s a lightness, an airiness in his tone that sets you all off-kilter.

“It just means we’ll probably keep an especial eye on him. He’ll get a report that’ll need signing off on at the end of every period, someone will check up on it--” You see one of Gojo’s scrawled notes in the margin of the paperwork. You wince. “I’ll be in charge of it, actually. Making sure everyone’s happy with his behaviour for a few weeks--”

“How old are you, sweetheart?”

The question makes you jump. You’re like a doe in headlights, looking up at him. You blink slowly.

“I—I don’t think that’s an appropriate question, Mr Fushiguro,” you say, prim. That’s cute, too. He likes breaking prim and proper things like you. “I’m—I’m doing my training. I’m working as an aid here for a year, and then I’ll be qualified to be in charge of my own class.” There’s a hint of pride in your words, there.

“Toji,” he says. “That’s my name. You haven’t gotta call me ‘Mr Fushiguro’. I’m not tryna’ be pushy,” but he’s inched forward. His elbows are resting on Gojo’s desk, in front of you – he rests his chin on his folded hands, sharp eyes regarding you as if you’re something he wants to devour. “Y’just look tense.”

“This is the first time I’ve met a student’s parent,” you admit, though the minute it’s left your mouth you’re regretting it. Like you’re admitting to some kind of weakness. This close to him, you can see there’s a dark red stain on one of his wrists, like dried blood. Your stomach is tying itself in knots. It’s not helping that his forearms are so big, ridged with muscle.

“That so?” His eyes gleam. “What d’ya think of me?”

You don’t actually need to answer him. He can see it in the way your eyes keep nervously skimming over him. The way your lips are shining in the light. The bob of your throat as you swallow.

“Mr Fushiguro--”

“I told you to call me Toji,” his voice is almost mocking. You watch him lean over the table like you’re somewhere far away from the action – watch his hand reach out and cup your face, calloused thumb brushing your cheek, like you’re a ghost in the corner of the room. His palms feel like they’re burning hot. “You’re tremblin’, little lamb.”

You had thought you’d felt like a rabbit – shy, ready to run at any moment. But the moment his hand is on you, you’re docile – too scared to scamper away. You suppose you are like a lamb, staring a wolf straight on in the face, too stupid or too pliant to use your common sense and run.

“I . . . I shouldn’t,” you say, voice trembling just as much as the rest of you. Toji’s smirk hasn’t left his face. You’re saying you shouldn’t, but he just bets if he reached further down and unbuttoned your blouse, your nipples would pebble for him – he just bets there’s a wet stain on your underwear, right now. He can always tell when someone’s turned on by the idea of playing with fire.

“I wouldn’t mind spendin’ a few weeks with you in charge of me,” he muses, and then chuckles humourlessly, correcting himself. “Sorry. Lemme rephrase that. I’d rather be in charge of you, but--”

Oh, he sees that. The little flash in your eyes, an imperceptible contract of your shoulders. If you weren’t behind the desk, he bets he’d have seen your thighs press together too. Girls like you are just so fucking predictable, and he loves it every single time. There’s just something that’s so much fun about breaking them – making them submit, admit that him being so close with the scent of something-that-might-be-death clinging to him turns them on like nothing else. Your attempts at being haughty and polite and proud have just made the stirring between his thighs harder to ignore. You’re such a cute, neat, demure little thing – by the end of this meeting, he’s going to have his way with you, you bet.

“M-Mr Fushiguro,” you say, trying to wrest back control of yourself – honestly, he’s pissed you aren’t listening to him, but the title’s kind of endearing. You’re trying so hard! Pity you’re going to lose all of your manners when you’re bent over this desk with his cock inside you. You haven’t even moved your face away from his hand. “I-I have to give you these papers.”

He stands up, pulling his own touch away from your cheek. Stretches. Your eyes are drawn to the brief expanse of his stomach, just above his trousers – the dark line of hair leading down to . . . Oh, God. You shouldn’t have thought about that. The grin on his face is cocky, and you know that he knows you were looking.

“I’m just gonna throw ‘em in the trash, sweetheart,” he says to you. “Now. Let’s talk about the elephant in the room, yeah?” He steps closer to you. You totter to your feet, half-unsure, half driven by the low ache between your legs and the thrum of desire that’s been reverberating through you since the moment he’d carelessly thrown out how much happier he was to see you than Gojo. You have to tilt your head up a little when he comes closer. You’d thought you realised how massive he was when he’d walked through the door, but that’s nothing compared to how his size seems to dwarf you. Every unkind thought you’ve ever had about your body or your face seems to have gone out of the window as his heated green gaze hungrily drinks you in. You know it’s the stare of some predator who’s going to devour you, and you still feel transformed. Your breath catches in your throat as his hand idly comes to the top of your blouse buttons, a finger brushing the place in your throat where your pulse is beating its unsteady rhythm.

“Whaddya say, little lamb?” He grins down at you. “Gonna let yourself be caught by the big bad wolf?”

You’re supposed to be telling this man about his son’s misbehaviour, giving him all of the paperwork that Gojo had thrust at you, getting him to say he’ll talk to his kid and try and make sure that it won’t happen again. You shouldn’t be tipping your head back further, letting his fingertips lodge dangerously in the hollow of your throat, flirting with the place where your windpipe is. You shouldn’t be breathing out, all of your pretty prissiness and good morals and pride disappearing where you stand in the face of one of your students’ really hot dad.

“Yes,” you breathe.

And Toji wastes no time.

He doesn’t even bother unbuttoning your blouse; just drags his hand down, and the buttons pop off, scattering on the floor. You gasp at the show of strength, and Toji is still grinning, clearly enjoying that you’re admiring him. His hand pulls at the fabric, until your breasts are fair falling out of it, the blouse wrestles off your skin.

“You’re wearin’ something like this at work?” He asks you, giving a tug to the gore of your bra. You hadn’t done enough washing this week, and the one you’re wearing is all filmy white lace. “Almost like you knew I was comin’ huh?” His grin is crooked. You tremble as you reach behind you, undoing the clasp – and for that, you get a murmur of ‘good girl’ that has your knees turning to jelly.

He whistles as the bra drops from you, his gaze admiring. He takes in the spill of your breasts, the little peaks of your nipples. He takes handfuls of them, squeezing them in his big hands, his fingertips digging in so painfully you can imagine that you’ll have bruises in the shape of his fingers tomorrow. The idea doesn’t disgust you.

He lowers his head to kiss you. He’s not gentle with you for a moment – his teeth immediately nip at your bottom lip, kissing you hungrily like you’re the first taste of sugar for a man who’s lived on nothing but bread for months. His tongue licks at your lips, begging entrance – dancing against your own when you helplessly open those same lips, demanding in the exact same way Toji is.

He pinches your nipple between thumb and forefinger, delighting in how quickly the bud hardens. He rolls it between them, toying with it, enjoying the soft noises you make that get caught in his mouth. If he wasn’t kissing you, he thinks, you’d be bleating like a lamb right now. Huffing and whimpering. When he finally gets his cock in you, he’ll have to remember to clap a hand over your mouth so you don’t attract too much attention.

Your other nipple is given the same treatment, hot lightning bolts of pleasure ricocheting from the touch of Toji’s calloused fingers to the spot between your legs. You’re grateful for how solid Toji is – if he were any less so, you’re sure you’d be buckling over where you stand.

He pulls back with a final, marking nip to your lower lip, almost hard enough to make you bleed. You whine, and a dark chuckle spills out of his lips in response.

“Toji,” you whimper as he pulls away. You miss the feel of his body pressed against yours like a physical ache. His hands encircle your thighs, pushing you up onto the edge of Gojo’s desk, clever fingers already pushing your tight pencil skirt up so it’s bunched around your waist.

He kind of misses ‘Mr Fushiguro’ now it’s gone, but the sight of your stockings digging into your thighs soon chases the thought from his mind. He guesses your skirt is more than long and tight enough to make sure nobody gets a glimpse, but oh . . . that you’d be walking around all day, like that, with nobody to fuck you silly--

He can’t help but let his hands knead the soft skin, the flesh, his thumbs imprinting so hard in the plush that you squirm. He’s pressing your thighs apart, now – revealing the modest underwear, the soaking wet patch where he can see the outline of your plump labia lips.

With your legs spread, he can smell how turned on you are. Oh, yeah – he knows your type, alright.

“Ain’t you cute?” He says, chuckling. “You really want me to do you over this desk?”

“You can’t leave me like this--” Your voice is reedy, breathy, almost petulant – at another time, he’d make you beg for it. He’d take his time over you. But although the idea of being caught fucking the cute little teacher’s aid is briefly appealing, he doesn’t really want to make a whole load of trouble for himself when his cock is practically begging to be sheathed inside your wet holes. “Please--”

It’s the please that does it. It’s always the ‘please’ that does it for Toji. He chuckles, smirks, crooked grin – all of it feels like it’s mixing together in your mind, your throat very dry as nothing seems to matter right now except the fact that your sex is practically pulsing with how empty it is, and you think that the hot hard stiffness pressing against your thighs would really help alleviate some of that.

“Aww,” he says, fiddling with his zip and underwear, grabbing his cock and giving it a cursory pump just so you can admire the sheer size of him. “Don’t worry, little lamb. I’ll give ya what you need.”

He gets what he wants. Your eyes, as big and dark as the eyes of a doe – the soft choke of breath as you get to see the size of it, so big his own fingertips don’t quite meet. It’s the kind of cock that could ruin you for somebody else – and you’ve had sex before, of course, but you’ve never taken anything quite like that--

“That’s cute,” Toji murmurs, pressing forward, nestling his slick cock-head between your soaking wet thighs. “Wish you could have seen what a picture your face made just then. Afraid I’m gonna tear you in two?”

He might – he might, you think. But you pout at him and Toji’s cock throbs, as he glides the slick glans through the mess of your arousal, wetting himself even further. Your breath hitches, your hips doing a cute little jerk as it brushes your swollen clit. He can’t help himself but swirl the head over it some more, making your breath catch and whine, bleating like a little lamb--

He sinks his hips forward, and your fingers flex on the edge of the desk, knuckles white, at the relentless sear of his cock driving you open. You feel so stretched out, and he’s barely a third of the way in – he can’t help but watch your expression. He always likes to see someone the first time they’re impaled on his cock – the glassy eyes, slack jaw, the pleasure-cum-pain in their faces. He wants to take a picture of you and keep it in his wallet so he can pump one out to the sight of you when he’s on business trips and too busy to go out and find himself a hole to fuck.

“How’s that feel?” He asks you, so soft and low that you barely catch it. Another slow inch. He lets you feel every ridge, every vein, every bump of his shaft. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears.

“F-full—” you gasp.

“I bet,” Toji replies – and then, he bottoms out inside you. His eyes look down to where the two of you are joined; the slick fluid leaking out of you, all heat and needy. “You fit me like a glove.”

Your cheeks heat at the compliment, at the lewd way he’s looking at your spread open cunt – the way your hole is fluttering around him, the peeking pearl of your clit. He’s studying you like he wants to learn you by heart.

“Head’s up,” he says. “I’m gonna fuck you now.”

You’re about to open your mouth, and ask him what he’s doing right at that moment if he hasn’t started fucking you yet – but then, he’s dragged almost the entire length of his cock out of you in one savage thrust and is immediately spearing it back into you, his pace brutal. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, your back hitting the solid, flat surface of Gojo’s desk so that you’re flat out with your thighs wrapped around Toji’s hips.

If he weren’t so entranced by the feel of your walls fluttering around him, trying to suck him in further and deeper, so tight that you’re basically a vice, he’d grab you by your hair and force you to stay seated whilst he fucked you. But right now, you feel so good that all he can think about is his own release. The wet sounds of his cock gliding in and out of you, the squelch of your arousal and slick making every pump easier and easier. You feel so good. You’re tighter than he even imagined you could be, so good that he kind of wants to take you home and have you take up permanent residence in his bed.

You’re moaning, your back arching with every one of his thrusts – taking it admirably. There’s pain in your moans, yes – he supposes he could have prepared you better, had you come on his fingers a couple of times, if time were not of the essence – but they’re the pained moans of someone who likes to be hurt a little bit.

With every rock of his cock inside of you, he hits some new spot that you’ve never had stoked before, makes the heat and need inside of you swim just a little bit closer to the forefront. You don’t even notice you’re moaning and whining until a big hand slaps over your mouth, rough, hot palm against your lips, smearing your lipstick.

“You’re gonna be a good girl and stay quiet,” Toji says to you, through those savage thrusts of his cock inside of you. “You don’t want your . . . your fuckin’ . . . anyone walkin’ in on you being railed by your student’s dad, do you?” You shake your head, but he feels the throb of your cunt around his cock, the way your walls contract, and he adds it to the store of things he’s learning about you. Always the quiet ones, right? Always the proper ones who look as though they’ve never even seen a cock--

The feel of him inside you is absolutely dizzying, so much and so full that you can no longer think. His cock batters against a certain place in your channel, a textured wall – and before you know it, everything is going dizzy and black and white like exploding fireworks, your chest bursting into heat, your inner walls getting so tight around Toji as you come that he thinks you’ll be the one to fucking break him.

Oh, you’re adorable, creaming on his cock – the slick gush of your arousal around him, the dreamy cast in your eye, the fact he can feel you drooling against his palm. He increases the speed of his own thrusts, chasing his release through the weak aftershocks and smaller pulses of you around him, through the over-sensitive squirming of your cute little cunt, the fact that tears are pooling in your eyes at how much everything is suddenly feeling--

He groans and the hand still clinging to your thigh is suddenly pressing so hard you think he’ll snap your bone, ragged breath;

“Fu—fuuuck, sweetheart, you’re gonna take it all, that’s right, good girl--” in between belaboured, ragged pumps, his cock twitching as he manages to pull out at the last moment and his release spills all over your thighs, luridly glistening wet in the overhead fluorescent lights.

That’s another moment he’d take a picture of, if he could.

He’s not the kind of man who waits around. He gives himself ten seconds, to catch his breath, to admire your plush thighs painted with his come, before he’s tucking himself back into his trousers and zipping zippers and doing buttons. He shoves his hands into his pockets, bouncing on the balls of his feet for a second – double checking he’s left nothing of his in the classroom.

Yep. All clear.

He turns to leave, air of cocky confidence back – you only just see the shifting muscles in his back as he turns to go, leaving you where you are. You’re lucky he’s so tall, or you’d probably barely have seen him in front of the door frame (you didn’t even lock the door, anyone could have walked in at any time! You don’t even want to know what Gojo would say if he’d walked in to his aid being fucked like a slut across his desk).

“W-wait,” you say, weakly, still sprawled over the desk with his come cooling on your thighs. You manage to prop yourself up on your elbows, but your entire body feels like it’s just taken a battering. He takes a look back at you from the door, dragging a big hand through his hair, his crooked grin still on his face. You look so pretty like that – all fucked out and messy, the shine taken off of you. “T-the paperwork--”

You’re not sure where said paperwork is. Underneath you, maybe? You hope it didn’t get soaked.

“Told ya’,” he says, dismissively. “I’m just gonna throw it in the trash. Thanks for the fun, sweetheart. See y’around, huh? I should do stuff for the kid’s academic career more often.”

The door slams shut behind him.

#toji x reader #toji fushiguro x reader #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #toji x you #not sfw #writing #jjk teacher aid au #jjk posting #afab reader #fem pronouns #jjk writing tag

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skellebonez · 3 years

Note

Can you one about Cursed AU with father(kind of overprotective) Macaque and Mk with prompt 79 please?

This is set after they get back because you know... some scars are kind of hard to see under fur. (I may or may not have used one of my headcanons for Mac here just because this is a fill and not a specific scene meant to be in the AU.) The Cursed AU is by @winterpower98 !

Warning: mentioned child neglect, description of bad childhood injury, mentioned life threatening injury (but not to the same character). No graphic description.

How did you get that scar?

Macaque wasn’t entirely surprised he had never noticed the scar before. Sure, he had naturally seen the back of MK’s neck before, especially when he’d have to treat wounds on their now completed journey, but he never made it a point to really look at it in detail. Why would he before now? Now he had a reason, given the nasty gash along the lower back of his neck and upper back he’d gotten from a recent battle with other demons, and it was a lot more noticeable without mussed up fur and loose hair let down from his headband blocking the scar tissue from being seen.

A growl sounded from the back of his throw, low and soft as he tried to not let the other hear it. He attempted to keep his voice level, not let anything show through it just yet. “How did you get that scar?”

“Huh?” MK sounded off in confusion, barely turning around to glance at Macaque before recognition lit in his eyes. “OH! You mean this one?” He raised his hand, finger brushing against the mark. It wasn’t particularly big and it was actually partly hidden by some of the loose hair on the back of his head, but as MK parted the hair a bit Macaque could see it was bigger than he had originally thought. “I, uh, I got that when I was little.”

“How little?” Macaque asked, and there was no hiding the small amount of venom that seeped into his words. He didn’t allow his anger at the memory of how he was told MK’s parents treated him move far enough to affect his work, however, as he meticulously held pressure to the cut he had finally cleaned and applied medicine to. It should be fine, once he applied proper dressing, with no need for stitches if the second round of medicine worked as intended.

"Like... 6ish?" MK answered after a moment of thought, nodding his head slightly as he put his hand down. "Yeah, I think I just turned 6 cause I'm pretty sure it was after my birthday."

"And what happened?" Macaque lifted the pressure gauze just a bit to see if the bleeding had stopped, not enough to remove it from the wound, and when he was happy with the result he grabbed tape and bandages and more gauze to finish dressing it. "If you don't mind answering."

"I don't... really remember," MK said softly, squirming a bit as Macaque accidentally pulled the gauze. "I remember what the doctors told me. I'd been home alone, I heard my dad yelling something when he got home... and then I woke up in the hospital. Apparently I'd fallen down the stairs and hit a lamp and some of it got... stuck. I passed out when I saw the blood and had a panic attack."

At the mention of his father Macaque couldn't help but growl again, unable to hide its volume. He wasn't particularly fond of his parents at the best of times, but it seemed the more he learned about them the more there was to dislike them for than original thought. "At least you were treated." His tone gave away his frustration he felt.

"Yeah," MK agreed, tensing suddenly in confusion as Macaque's hands moved from the back of his neck to his hair. His confusion seemed to disappear as soon as his fingers started moving in a familiar motion, grooming through his hair for dirt and bugs and anything else that might be in there. Macaque was hardly aware he was doing this. "Yeah, I ended up being ok, obviously. But now I've got that scar and a knowledge that I have panic attacks and I make sure to look before I accidentally fall down stairs!”

Macaque did it before he realized what he was doing, and he would never admit it if asked and would deny it until the day he died, but he wrapped his arms around MK and growled again before those growls became something else. Something softer. A purr.

“Listen, Kid, it’s a good thing you’re ok and all,” Macaque said, tail thumping away beside them. “But maybe it’s not a good idea to talk about grievous bodily injury so casually.”

“Didn’t you show me one of the scars on your back and tell me ‘and this is where I was impaled 356 years ago’ when Monkey King almost threw me into a tree yesterday?” MK asked with a chuckle.

“That’s different and you know it,” Macaque defended haughtily, tail thumping harder and purr loudening as MK laughed at him. “I can come back from impalement, you can’t, I needed to demonstrate.”

“Sure you did,” MK acquiesced with a smile, reaching up and patting one of Macaque’s arms around him softly. “Thanks for... you know, patching me up. And listening to me. I appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it, Kid. Literally.” Macaque removed his arms from MK, scowl evident on his face as he helped the younger to his feet. He handed him back his jacket and scarf and crossed his arms as he watched him put them on with only slight difficulty. “I’ll come find you when it’s time to change the bandage and then you’ll be able to just leave it for another day. You should be fine in a couple days. And one last thing,” Macaque said, closing his eyes with a softer half a scowl now on his face. “Don’t die.”

“No promises, Pops!” MK said before rushing off, and he completely missed the caught off guard and comically wide eyed expression on Macaque’s face.

The Kid called him “Pops”... he needed to talk to Wukong immediately.

END AUTHOR’S NOTE: I may or may not have lost an hour of time looking for this specific set of art just because I wanted to know what MK called Mac...

#monkie kid #lego monkie kid #gen fic #cursed au #prompt fill #six eared macaque #mk #qi xiaotian #demon purr

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rumblelibrary · 3 years

Text

The Diary of Doctor Laszlo Kreizler

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2

Synopsis: Alienist’s notes are private, sometimes gruesome, secrets of others and of himself.Those pages belongs to secrecy and decadence, have a glimpse to this world made of drafts, notes, accidents and reflections. Or maybe it is you the only person that should ever reach for it.

While you read this imagine Laszlo mostly at the end of his day, scraping the ideas and the thoughts, adjusting previous notes with additions, closing the day behind himself with a couple of sentences while sitting in his evening robe, a good glass of whiskey and his glasses bridged almost at the tip of his nose. Or maybe imagine yourself, you sneaky thing, reach for it from a far shelf.

Word count: 3.5k

Warnings: listen, this is the set of ideas and confessions of a man living in the 1890’s. Most of them will be outdated, rough, even deprecating in some analysis of the roles of men, women and social status, religion, etc.So be prepared, my point is to make Laszlo reflect upon those topics, but to be as faithful as I can to his time. Mention of death, mutilation, self harm and sex. Psychologically troubled young children ahead! Author’s note: The story is placed between season 1 and season 2. Thank you for everyone that encouraged me to keep going. I have to wait for my local drop of serotonin to get fully Laszloed to go through this.

Lyra’s Contellation, Illustration taken from Uranographia by Johann Bode

Routine. Routine is comfort. Habit stabilises the character.

If you follow a routine, you won’t ever be victim of imprudence, of evil jokes of fate. The stability earned through calculated and repeated actions brings a sense of fulfilment that forbids other thoughts to come bashing in, breaking rules, breaking hopes that a solid scheduled routine forbids to have. I take my time to begin this week, I planned the things to do, the next steps for the case, the people to meet, the resources I am allowed to contemplate. I feel good, I feel back to myself and the events of the weekend seem far from me and my own perception. I probably got ahead of myself, carried by some instinctual though and random rush of emotion, to be always in contact with the same people and mostly kids probably doesn’t help my stance in the presence of other adults. I feel silly now reading back the last page, I felt tempted to tear it off, but to keep it there should be a small memento of not losing my temper so easily. I read it over and over and I know I am not as charmed as I thought I was. I am just lonely. I have always been and it is normal to face ups and downs even for a man of my age who is more accustomed to it. To desire a partner is a natural instinct, to find somebody attractive is meant by nature, it is the body calling for the natural fulfilment of the reason we are put on this very Earth. But even in a state of nature my own condition would be forbidding me to be part of the natural process of growing my own kind. I am the type of male that would be excluded because of his impossibility to give the protection to the pack, therefore it is just more reasonable to me to adapt to my condition. No matter what my Potentia generandi might be (the ability to procreate).

With all the smugness that characterises him, Niki showed off that he passed my challenge. But to be really of an help to his antics I didn’t show any kind of surprise. I treated him like he did the bare minimum, like he didn’t prove me any kind of superiority. He has a natural attitude toward challenging the figure of power, he is trying to overpower me, but I won’t satisfy his need. I have noticed he has a very technical brain, he finds ways to solve problems in ingenious way and not by throwing himself into the task. I proceeded giving him to work on a clock, an old broken one we had in the institute, one of the kids hit it with a ball years ago and nobody ever worked on repairing it. I gave him the clock, a couple of screwdrivers and a book. He called me a number of German names I won’t transcribe, but it gave me a certain amount of satisfaction. If my intuitions are right, I am sure the clock will be repaired by next week.

Analysis of the victim’s body through John’s eyes. The drawings and sketches are as detailed as I requested, all of this thanks to you joining him. I deal with art critic section, I am used to notice these things. You assure me, you play yourself low and I wonder why, nevertheless you did notice things neither John or I did, which pleased me. It fooled me, distracted me from my purpose to not give in to your witchery, as I leaned closer watching your pale hand move across the pages tracing this or that line, showing how this must be done with the killer on this side and not that side, with words so deliciously elaborate, your way of composing your speech is compelling, you could sell the drawing of a kid like it was a Botticelli. I noticed the shape of your hands, the way you move them, I wonder if you play an instrument, or played, some habits just stick with you through life. I focused on taking notes, your ideas and instructions giving me a new point of view, a new stimulus. What if that is the only way the killer can communicate? Or what if this is the communication that works for him? Could our killer be mute or deaf? Or that’s how society made him feel? This man, or woman, needs a listener and I am afraid that now, since he got our attention and the public’s, he won’t stop. Another killing could be just as close.

Scheduled: meeting with the parents of Alex Garel for new admission, Monday next week at 11 am. Love at first is a fetish and like all fetishes it is based onto an object that hides a deeper meaning, like gloves mean hands, to love at first sight means to see somebody that you think, and think only, to have the chance to share not only a sensual kind of bond, but an intellectual. Love at first sight is based onto not knowing someone well enough, but having the time to idealise most of that someone. I can see why I feel this attraction, using a particular phrase that Sara often mutters when investigating: you tick all the boxes. I know you do, your beauty is everything but conventional, you’re the kind of face that painters would paint and musicians would write hymns about, but any animal on the street would never be allowed to see. You have the grace of the body and the fire in the eyes, and then you speak. When you speak, I realise, you could bring the world to its knees. Also, you never speak out of context, and if you do it is to ease somebody’s position. You do it often with John or with Stevie, you say something really silly in order to put them back to a place of comfort. Some women would call it self deprecating, but I see that you only pick wisely your fights and your wins. You don’t need to earn your peace and quiet by neglecting, but by lifting up the others. I wonder if you do it with me too, if your silences are just you allowing me to be in a better place while instead your judgment is tearing me apart. I shouldn’t care, but I keep wondering, sometimes I take my time to answer you, I analyse every shade, every peculiarity of your question, I am looking for sarcasm, for a condescending voice, for something to hang on and bare you open. To prove myself you’re not perfect. But deep down I know that you do, you judge me and you do well.

Mother never said so. That’s what one of the girls in my care said today. Ursula. She is tough. Skin as thick as an alligator and the tendency to pull her own hair at night or when under a massive amount of stress, enuresis alongside erratic episodes of mutism. I tried the soft approach, it didn’t work. She is too accustomed to be indulged. Therefore today I pushed her a bit overboard, I teased her over opinions on the female body, the female role, she is only 12, but she is soon to bleed, she knows, I can tell from the way she clenches to her skirts, from the way she looks at me as a threatening figure. I am the incarnation of danger to her. Under her steady silence, I pushed a bit more, asking how her mother taught her to be nice and submissive. Does her mother tells her she is going to be a good wife? The phrase, which I reported at the top of the page, surprised me. What is her mother teaching to her then? What closed her so much, locked her soul away, making a small bird like this choose the silence and the retirement of self inflicted pain over, what? Mankind? Or just Men? Is that even a curse? Should I cure her from a truth that her own mother whispered to her ear one night before bed and made a child decide that the world wasn’t a place to share her time with? Am I the man supposed to teach her that men are worth of trust? In the eyes of modern society, who measures its own value over the modesty of the women, she would be a champion, but at what price? I can’t in any way let her parents bring her back home after our recent meetings. Nevertheless, I have to make up my own mind on how to give her troubled soul ease without making her believe in fables. I, as a man, regard myself not worth of any of the trust they expect me to teach her.

In all of my years practicing with people’s feelings and traumas, I challenged myself to find those same traumas within my own mind. It is a tricky game, terrible, anguishing at times. But it straightens me, the pain of others, the pain of kids mostly, so unadulterated and pure, breaks the curtain between me and the lies that I often surround myself with. Pain is made of method, you can open it up, you can scrutinise it, part it piece by piece dividing it in sectors and, partitions, centre part, side part, heart of the problem. Pain is reliable. Happiness is not. It is random, cruelly sudden, unexpected, it washes over you in such deflecting way only to leave you alone a moment after ashamed and alone. I saw you again today. You were in a table full of what I could only guess as your former university colleagues, I saw pain in you, not heavy but constant. Annoyance, a bit of sadness. Your head titling on side and your eyes drifting on the left, you’re imagining something away from them. A place? An object? Or maybe someone? Your hands play circles at the bottom of the flute of your drink like kids do, your smile only one sided. I don’t see you speak at all, only listen. What could keep your voice down? I almost gulped down my own breath as you looked up and I realised how I must have looked. I was having lunch on my own, in a very private table and even entertaining myself with a newspaper on the side. I wish you didn’t, but you came over, your eyes shining. Did I save you? Or maybe I was just a good excuse to leave that painful meeting behind. Don’t be so nice to me, it is not healthy. Don’t look at me like you expect anything more from me than me listening. I won’t smile back at you, I won’t give you care, attentions or thought. I won’t lean for your perfume, I won’t obsess over that dress you wore, that pin that adorned your neckline keeping your undershirt in place, a silver robin, I remember. I won’t remember the number of the buttons on the side of your glove, three. I won’t observe the little moles just under your ear. A small constellation, I later realised, hidden between your ear and the beginning of your neck. I don’t need to check in my books. It is a constellation. It is Lyra. Why? Why you must be like this? Are you the Lyra? Are you the instrument of Orpheus come to me to drag me out of Hell? The Tartarus holds my soul and you should know already, I am not worth the quarter part of Eurydice to be saved and she never came back anyway. I won’t be now recollecting the way your teeth sunk in the inner side of your cheek when you apologised for the annoyance. You apologised twice, I ignored you both times with a raised hand to request peace and silence. I am not letting you in.

Reserved: Tickets for Wednesday’s evening Traviata by Giuseppe Verdi. The guest female lead promises a beautiful show.

Leonardo, as I am learning through Paul Valery essay, is who I would define as a figure of projective identification of the Subject or, to better explain it, of the knowledge of the Subject that formed and grew through the use of sketches in the experience of the Artist. I have always thought that the finest form of art was the representation of knowledge duly undressed by any personal identification. Leonardo, instead, proceeded to represent the figure through the essence of the artist, a representation technically unlimited on objects and symbols and that keep expressing the transformation and development of Leonardo’s own being.Some artists are testimony of the destruction of the world, of the loss of eternal beauty over decadence. And then you have Leonardo, who creates an art that is the gravity of the world’s system, of the nature, of thoughts and abstractions. I wonder if our killer does the same, if the way they presents the victim through their own personal view, if what we can read there it is their stories, their pains, their needs. Their happiness and troubles. What are they trying to tell me? I need to know, I need to know to save a life, of course, but I also need to know to be able to sleep at night. Hair, hair are the epitome of femininity in any era. I keep studying Ursula and her habit to pull the. I took notes on it: she picks them by the bottom, slowly separates them until she gains an amount her mind defines satisfactory and then she rolls her finger and pulls, she does it until her finger is empty and there are no hair left. I find her process incredibly interesting. In men’s case the display of physical attributes is not as vital, a beard can be appreciated but does not modify the power of seduction of a grown man. On the contrary, for women hair are a vital part of their attractiveness toward the opposite sex, society sees the hair of a woman as part of their vital characteristics, also in ancient times for a woman to cut her hair or have her hair cut was a sign of deep separation from the society. Only heroines or whores wore that mark and the association of the two is so rooted into the way society always parted the role of a woman in two that it is nauseating to think of. I am still fearing to let Ursula go away, the repulsion that she is showing toward her own body makes it difficult even for me to crack her shell open as a man, but my deepest worry is when that hate will take a scarier and deeper tool on her. How a girl with such a fear of what her body can do, like sex or pregnancy, can endure in the future to have an husband? Or even to be courted by anyone?

John is helpless and I admire him for that. He doesn’t hide it, he just is. He is vulnerable and exposed, he is an open well bursting with doubts and feelings and troubled waters. He is genuine in a way I could never be. Maybe that’s why I despise even more him talking about you, how he sees you every morning, how you greet everybody, how you behave even with interns, how you like your coffee. Your talents, your wits, how you said this and acted like that and reasoned through him. How you forbid him to drink even when he felt tempted. How you stayed late over to help him collect all the informations I requested him to get. To him. Not to you. The evil demon of envy scratching in the back of my head screaming like a siren out in the sea, he demands to be heard, he demands to be allowed a part in this game. I won’t allow him that. I won’t allow myself any of that. This is a pure game of chess, if I give in a pawn now, I will lose my knight, and I know it. I advice him to not be so closed minded when he praises you, only to get surprised by the charms of a natural logical mind. I find a way to hurt him, he is an easy target, I look at him as his eyebrows twitch and he summons his patience on me. He lost the plot about you already, his bruised pride taking over. You won’t come into my life.

“Un dì, felice, eterea, mi balenaste innante, e da quel dì tremante vissi d'ignoto amor.” (“On a day, happy and ethereal, you appeared in front of me and from that day, trembling, I lived on an unknown love”)

The words of Alfredo in the first act of the Traviata keep running through me, a chant that won’t let me go, almost painful. The Opera House, that was my hiding place, a place where in plain sight I could let out myself, unleash. The catharsis of the characters involved running through me, I didn’t need anything but their voices and those musical instruments to let out my fears, doubts and anger. When Alfredo came to the scene tonight, the lights were strong and slightly pinkish, the performer bursting out of the seams with passion. My eyes diverted only to see you there. Alone. Those blinding lights gave you the the radiance of a vision singing the notes of greek myths and heroes, that dark blue evening clothing rang through my eyes like it was a bright yellow, the little shiny details that adorned you so clear against the heavy lighting to look like transparent pieces of water collected to adorn your beauty. I wasn’t me, but Alfredo, and I was helpless against you sitting so far and yet too close from me. I was naked in front of thousands. I am aware of the effect you have on me and our last conversation was barely regarded as one. This is infatuation, this is the pure work of a lonely mind and not something worth of any of all the words that I am dissipating here. Yet. I saw you cry at the climax of the opera, Violetta, the protagonist, heartbroken falling on stage consumed by pain and regret for her lost love and ultimate sacrifice. Your eyes shone as you tried to hide the tears and collect yourself. Through my binoculars, I saw your throat tremble and gulp down something more than just a sigh of pain. Your jaw clenched, your gloved hand moves to hide your shaking lips. I reckon, I have never seen such sad lips look more inviting. You look at the wall on your side breathing through your nose and not even that can save you by the strength of the voice of the soprano. You’re defeated and so you brought a fine silk handkerchief to your eyes, your shoulders bent inward in self defence. The Opera won. It won you like it always wins me. I wonder if you felt like this because of a past lover, somebody that broke your heart and made you feel wrong in any way. And because of that little wonder it is even more clear to me why I am a man worth of no trust. Because for a moment, I know, I wished to be the one that broke your heart. That gave you just the pain you’re inflicting on me so mercilessly by offering intoxicating kindness and beauty. To own your thoughts, tears and shame. To be the one man you have to look away from. I want to own all of that and, maybe, I will be freed of you the day you’ll be just another human being that hates Dr Laszlo Kreizler.

Tagged @cazzyimagines @lieutenantn @handmaiden-of-mischief @thesunflowersutra @zemomybeloved @fictionlandslanddreams @charistory @greeneyedblondie44 @apparrio @hb8301 @whatawildone

Let me know if you want to get tagged too <3

#the diary of doctor laszlo kreizler #dr laszlo kreizler #laszlo kreizler #dr laszlo kreizler x reader #dr laszlo kreizler imagine #dr laszlo kreizler x you #laszlo kreizler x reader #laszlo kreizler headcanons #thealienist #the alienist fanfic #the alienist fanfiction

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standbi-ghost · 3 years

Text

Hand in Mine, Into Your Icy Blues

Words: 2872

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Child neglect, implied abuse

Hey hey, you you, prefer reading fics on ao3? https://archiveofourown.org/works/27850118

AU where ghost hunting is a respected profession and captured ghosts are used as tools in order to find other ghosts, *insert Danny angst because I love seeing the boy suffer*

The Fentons are America's top ghost researchers, famous for their work, infamous for their neglectful habits. Jazz finds their newest research subject down in the lab.

It was weird to live with the fact that your parents are “big shots” in their profession when you have to come home to them every day. Especially when you didn’t seem to know your parents at all when all you saw of them were the shadows behind their studies.

Growing up as an only child was, in the nicest way possible, lonely. Which is why Jasmine Fenton found herself raised by the books on her shelf and the curiosity in her heart. Sure, her parents were there at the start, it would be cruel to leave a newborn baby to fend for herself, but the moment she showed signs of independence.

It was fine. Everything she could ever need she could find on her own. She taught herself to cook, to clean, to spell the extra difficult words in her 3rd grade English class, to solve the laborious equations in her honors Pre-Cal class. She earned the food she made, she reveled in the clean citrus smell of her room, she earned the praise from her teachers. And when she found she couldn’t connect to the other students, she just reminded herself that she didn’t need the warm embrace of a mother, the thunderous laugh of a father, nor did she need friends. She could take care of herself.

Which is why she found herself sat in front of the only thing her parents ever shielded her from.

It was a sad sight to say the least. It seemed like it was more bruises and taunt broken bones, if it even had bones, than skin. She had always been known for her soft heart, always giving others second chances even when they were undeserving. Which is why she found herself in front of the very thing that shouldn’t ever be shown that kind of weakness.

Apart from the obvious signs of abuse, it was all teeth and claws, snarling at her even now. She was sure that if she were to let it out, it wouldn’t hesitate in killing her and her parents.

The growl that erupted from its chest broke her away from her thoughts. The cold basement floor seemed to get colder as she stared into its eyes. There was a flash of something before his gaze was consumed by guarded anger.

“Hey, it’s okay,” the closer she got the more aggressive it seemed to get, “it’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you. Look!”

She opened her palm to reveal a cookie she had snuck down with her. If Pavlov taught her anything, it’s that the favors of any being, be it a dog or undead monstrosity, can be won over through positive stimuli.

“Here see, I’ll have some too! It’s really good, I’m sure you’ll like it!”

At this point in her life, she wasn’t really sure of anything anymore. Life had been so much easier when her parents were just some far to reach superheroes she barely saw. She used to think like them, that ghosts, if you could even call them that, were just balls of left-over emotion from when a person died. That ghosts were some kind of monster in the closet that her parents could just scare away with their presence. That they were less than the dust bunnies under her bed. But there were skeletons in that closet too. Awful, immoral experiments, living dissections, and the screams. She doesn’t hate her parents, far from it, she loves them with all her heart, but the studies they were a part of? The less empathic members in their field? Hunters? Those were fair game to hate.

She split the cookie into two messy halves, popping one in her mouth as she nudged the other closer to the teeth in front of her. The teeth glared back.

“Okay, I get it, I’ll be on my way, but this isn’t the last you’ll see of me.”

With that, she got up, dusted her jeans off, and with her took the only light present in the basement lab.

She didn’t catch the small ‘thank you’ that followed.

Once in her room, Jazz let the tears slip. Whatever was in her parents’ basement was really pulling at her heartstrings. The thing looked to be no older than 15 years old, it was a child. But looks can be deceiving. She couldn’t begin to count how many of these child ghosts had attempted a massacre, how many of them seemed innocent enough to fool someone out of their own free will. Child or not, whatever was in the basement was dangerous. She was playing with fire here. But the look of hurt in his eyes seemed real; felt real. And, if anything, he seemed more at risk of being hurt by her rather than the other way around. He was as thin as a twig and too exhausted to do much of anything. If she could only-

Jazz shook the thoughts out of her head, plopping herself on her bed. Since when had ‘it’ become a ‘he’? And more importantly, why was there fear in his eyes?

“Jazzy pants, we’re home! We’ll be in the lab if you need us. “We left 20 bucks on the dinner table, go ahead and order some take-out for yourself!”

She sighed as she pushed herself off and out of her room. As she dialed the number to the first restraint that came to mind, she couldn’t help her thoughts wandering to the bag of bones locked in the lab just beneath her feet.

“Hi, thank you for calling Shanghai Inn what can I get started for yah?”

“Yeah, can I get some Vegetable Chow Mein and two Egg Rolls please?”

By the time her parents had finally stepped out of the lab, the food had long since gone cold. She tiptoed down into the basement and cracked open the door into darkness. There was a green glow and something of a soft hum emanating from something shoved in the corner of the lab. Taking a deep breath, she mustered up the courage to fully plunge into the shadows and crept towards the covered cage. One hand holding a plate of Chinese take-out, she fumbled with her phone until it pierced the darkness.

Almost instantly the hum ceased, again plunging her into a deafening silence.

“Hey, um, I’m back and I brought more goodies!”

There was a sudden sound of rustling before a quiet sniffle was heard. At that, she closed the distance between her and the cage in front of her and she peeled back the sheet over it.

She almost threw up there and then.

It- he was barely holding himself together, literally. He was tightly hugging his bleeding torso. A less perceptive person would’ve pegged it as the remnants of whatever was the creature’s last meal, but Jazz saw the jagged cuts he was trying but failing, to conceal. He’d been vivisected. He’d been vivisected by her own parents.

She dropped to her knees, the meal in her hands forgotten. That seemed to startle him back to reality because he began his growling again. This time a lot more defensive and a lot less forgiving.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, it’s just me see? It’s just me.” She said as she put her hands up in what she hoped was a universal surrender.

He seemed to study her as his head tilted, growl dissipating. In another life, she would’ve called it cute, adorable even, but right now she was trying her hardest not to scream out of instinctual fear. After he seemed to deem her safe enough to his standards, he went back to picking at his chest, the quiet hum returning to the room.

“I don’t know if you can understand me, like, at all, but I can help you with that,” she pointed to his exposed chest. She hadn’t noticed it when she first walked in, but it seemed to be the source of the soft glow in the room. He was sluggishly bleeding what she guessed was the ectoplasm her parents studied.

Again, he responded with empty eyes and a head tilt.

Were her parents right? Was this an unfeeling killer she was kneeled in front of? Of course they were right, how could she, someone who’s never even thought of looking into ghosts before, compete with the two most respected researchers in the field. Hell, they’ve got to have their PhDs mounted somewhere in this lab. She should’ve known better. She should’ve-

A whine echoed through the lab. She looked up from her lap to find the dead’s eyes locked on her. Once he seemed sure that her attention was on him, he gave a slight nod of his head, gesturing to his shredded torso.

“You want me to help?”

Another nod.

“Okay, alright, that’s good- I mean, not good, but, okay”

She scattered away from the injured boy, mentally making a list of materials she would need to stitch him back up. She would need a first aid kit, naturally, she would also need some kind of suture that would actually hold, the Fenton net might. Her mind was racing, trying to figure out how to do the task at hand. The poor kid wasn’t in any shape to move, so how could she tend to him from outside the cage? Unless-

“Okay, for this to work we’re going to have to trust each other okay?” she paused, was she really going through with this? “I’m going to have to be able to trust that you won’t just randomly decide to kill me and make me your next meal,”

At that, he made an adorably disgusted face. Ancients he was definitely growing on her.

“and you’re going to have to trust me to not cut you open or something, deal?” she pressed her pinkie into the cage. She didn’t know why she did it, it was a childish gesture she grew out of ages ago, she was 18 making a deal for her life for crying out loud, not some child promising friendship, to a dead who probably didn’t even understand the gesture nonetheless.

The boy gave a small smile a wrapped his own pinkie around hers.

“Deal”

It was small, if she hadn’t been overanalyzing his every move, every sound, in fear of her life, she would’ve missed it. But she didn’t.

“You can speak?”

Everything in her parents’ research pointed to the fact that ghosts were incapable of complex thinking, they were just echoes of a former person after all. Yet here this boy was, spitting in the face of her parents’ years of research.

A small nod was all she got in return.

“Okay,” she was starting to think her vocabulary was slowly diminishing to just the word ‘okay’.

“Alright, I’m going to go upstairs and look for what I need to fix, that,” she gestured to him, “I brought this up here,” she said as she picked up the overlooked food, “It’s not much, and not very healthy, but it’s all I have at the moment and It’ll do. Feel free to munch on it all you want, I should be back in a minute, my parents went out with some old college friends and shouldn’t be back till tomorrow afternoon.”

He simply watched her ramble on in fascination. She didn’t know where these mother-hen instincts were coming from, but she wasn’t complaining. The kid was nothing short of adorable.

“uh- anyways, you probably want this,” she said as she pushed the plate into the cage.

She watched in mirrored fascination as he sniffed the food and began eating it. That didn’t faze her though, what caught her by surprise was that he very clearly knew how to use the chopsticks provided with the meal, especially with one hand fighting to keep himself from spilling onto the basement floor.

Leaving him to finish the meal, she set to finding the supplies in her mental checklist. Once she had what she needed, she made her way down into the lab, making sure to swipe the keys hanging by the entrance to the lab.

She unceremoniously dropped everything in front of the ghost boy, startling him into a flinch. She winced.

“Sorry.” She sent a sheepish smile to the kid who sent his very own.

This is the moment she’d been dreading. There was no way she would be able to stitch him back up and keep him locked in the cage. She would have to defy her parents’ one rule. Never trust a ghost. But her parents had been wrong before. They said ghosts can’t feel pain, yet the ghost boy wined every time he placed accidental pressure on his wounds. They said ghosts can’t form complex thought, and yet he could, enough to speak to her at least. They said ghosts don’t need to eat, that they sustained themselves through ectoplasmic energy, yet here he was eating, using chopsticks.

“Okay, I’m going to let you out, but remember our deal,” she could still go back, she could still take all evidence of tonight, lock herself in her room and pretend this never happened. But as she looked into his green eyes, she couldn’t help but noticed the pale freckles splashed over his cheeks, noticed the way his hair frizzed from the dampness in the air, noticed the way her parents had left her with this supposed monster. The monster that was now attempting to balance one chopstick over the other.

“I trust you, and you trust me.”

With that, she unlocked the cage and instinctively stepped back.

She was expecting teeth and claws like when she first came across him, or maybe a slow crawl towards her, what she hadn’t expected was a pair of pinprick green eyes latched onto her in fear. He was scared of her.

She slowly made her way towards him, exaggerating her movements as to not startle him.

“You think I can carry you out of there? It’ll be easier for me to work out here rather than in there.”

There was a stiff nod before she carefully picked him up bridal style. He couldn’t weigh more than 50 pounds which she had no idea whether or not that was in a healthy range for him. Careful to not further aggravate his injuries, she put him down gently onto a clear area on the floor.

“Alright, I’m not going to lie, this is going to hurt, a lot, do you want me to talk to you while I do this?”

A nod.

“Okay, is there anything you like, or do you just want me to talk random?”

There was a hesitant look on his face before speaking for the second time that night,

“I like space.”

“Oh, well, I don’t know too much about space, but I do know some neat stories I can tell you!”

That’s how she found herself telling story after story of the few constellations she knew while stitching up a ghost kid she met not even 24 hours ago. A couple of stitches in and her hands began shaking, but the boy didn’t seem to mind. He was lost in her words and the worlds she was building for him. She hadn’t even noticed she was done until she went for the next stitch only to find an unmarred surface.

“and in his anger, Poseidon created Scylla to wreak havoc on seas and the seacoast!” she waved her fingers at him.

“Cetus”

“huh?”

“He created Cetus, not Scylla, she’s a six headed monster.” he cheekily pointed out, sticking his tongue out for good measure.

“Okay mister know-it-all,” she cheekily grinned, “I think it’s time to head to bed.”

She quickly checked her phone to confirm it was half-past 4 in the morning and way too late (early?) to be discussing sea monsters.

Pocketing her phone, she looked up to see a terrified look yet again plastered on the ghost’s face.

“Please don’t put me back in there!” he wheezed, “I promise I won’t cause any trouble and you won’t have to see or hear from me ever again!”

“Hey, breathe, remember what I said about trust?”

He seemed to make a point of nodding at a neck-snapping speed.

“Well, right now, I can’t trust my parents, so come one, you’re staying in my room until further notice!”

“...really?”

It would be hard. Sneaking in extra food for him, keeping him quiet, hell, just explaining to her parents how the ghost in their lab escaped from right under her nose, was going to be tough. And her parents weren’t stupid. Neglectful? Yes. Valued their work over their own daughter? Understatement of the year. But it was worth a try for him.

And sure, she had always said she was fine being on her own, she had even declined her parents’ attempts to get her a kitten when she was 12, arguing that she was better off on her own, a lone wolf of sorts. But now, looking into the eyes of a kid, ancients he really was just a kid, who’s seen much more pain than she could ever imagine, having a little brother didn’t seem half bad.

“Yeah little bro, let’s go”

#Danny Phantom #danny fenton #danny is a bit feral #not too feral tho #the fentons arent the best parents #Danny loves space #You can pry that trope out of my cold dead hands #fanfiction #phanfic #danny phantom au #guess I'll just keep making Danny phantom aus #someone stop me #scratch that someone please help me #if you get my title reference just know my messages are open #danny phantom fic

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cartoonfangirl1218 · 3 years

Text

Winner’s Curse Ch. 22

“Please please come in quickly,” the honorable wizard Yen Sid urged Uma, barely muffling his own coughs from the dusty air of Judge Frollo’s “house.” Quite ironically or perhaps more telling, Judge Frollo’s abode was the basement of a brothel. A cruel twist of temptation or perhaps a house of convenience since it was no secret that Frollo indulged in his hypocritical desires while preaching at his imaginary pulpit during the day.

But Uma wasn’t here to hear how she was destined for hell. It was night, the perfect time to meet the rest of the Anti-Villain Club while Frollo was away.

It felt like the situation was getting more dire the more time past. Amplified by the restlessness Uma felt because they weren’t getting anything done!

Sometimes Uma wanted to give in to her temptation to just dump the Auradonians for themselves. They didn’t really offer her any information or skills that she needed. Plus, they were slow at best. Uncaring and disobedient at worse, far more concerned with their own problems and feelings. They didn’t know how to work with a team or for a cause other than themselves.

Such royal behavior. Must be nice to put your moods first when your need for food, shelter and safety were never in question.

So it was a breath of fresh air to meet with the Anti Villains. Though they did not give her the assuring efficiency of her pirate crew, they were still Vks, her people. And she would need all the allies she could get if they were to stop the Coven.

Yen Sid gestured to the faded rug with, of course, an image of a man bleeding and crucified while a red devilish monster stabbed at his torso with a pitchfork.

Frollo’s erstwhile, rebellious daughter, Claudine took the head of the rug with Diego De’Vil and Yzla on both sides of her. Harold, Jason, Hadie, Big Murph, Hermie Bing, Eddie Balthazar, Celia and a blonde girl that Uma didn’t recognize rounded out the rest of the circle. Uma took place across from Claudine and Yen Sid stood by, pacing around.

“What news can you give us?” Yen Sid asked, starting the meeting abruptly.

Uma hadn’t noticed when Yen Sid signalled to her from the alleyways but the elder wizard looked even older. He was hunched over, not from age but like there was an invisible yoke on his shoulders. His face was riddled with new lines of wrinkles, stress and fatigue. And he was pale. So pale.

Uma had seen that sort of sickly paleness before. The sheen of sweat from a non-existent flu. He looked like death. The Isle after 20 years was starting to take its toll.

Though Uma had no personal attachment to the wizard nor did she care for his method of teaching goodness so Vks would be accepted in Auradon, when they should be accepted because they like any other person should have a home without abuse or poverty, she respected what he was trying to do. He didn’t see them all as one mass of worthless deviants to be scorned and ignored. He could have stayed in Auradon, doing nothing like all the rest of the so-called good guys, but he didn’t.

And this place was slowly killing him.

This place was going to be the death of all them if Uma’s revolution didn’t work.

Uma cracked her neck, inhaled and began to brief them, even though her report didn’t offer much encouragement that their plans were going to be successful.

“Our communications link with King Ben no longer works thanks to the Isle’s crappy service. However, we were able to inform him that the invasion is taking place in less than a week before we were cut off.” “Circe is officially on our side and will assist Yen Sid on more complex, powerful spells against Nerissa and the others.”

“The rest of the Coven-” “Believes.. Well actually tolerates the idea that you and Calix are still loyal. Lala still is on their side but Jade thinks she can convince her to switch again. Zevon and Ginny are lost causes. But you are going to round up your crew, and Harriet’s crew for extra manpower.” Yzla interrupted, and shrugged at Uma’s glare, “Jade told me.” “Ah yes.” Uma pursed her lips, shaking it off to not act too ruffled. She had been aware that Yzla and Jade were close but she didn’t particularly like that they were discussing things without her. That’s how plans got overturned. And people were overthrown.

Uma pushed that thought away as too paranoid. After all, they were all here for the same thing. Escape, not power.

“Yes, so you already know that. I do believe we will be able to persuade the rest of the Isle on our side.” “Wait the rest of the Isle. Like you mean some other kids right? Or the Hun gang. Not not the whole Isle?” Eddie asked. “I meant the rest of the Isle. The adult henchmen. The orphaned kids. The Huns, the mercenaries, the prostitutes. Anyone and everyone who has no power or big villain names.” The rest of the club looked at turns confused, intrigued and disbelieving at her.

“They are like us. They gain nothing from the Coven gaining more power. They get everything if they helped the revolution. No more oppressors. And a promise from King Ben to take all of us off the Isle to better housing, new jobs and actual food. A better life.”

“Whether Mal likes it or not.” Uma added internally. That had been the one thing she managed to speak to King Ben about, and surprisingluy he agreed wholeheartedly. He had seemed horrified when she described the living conditions that children dealt with. The way teens had turned to violence among other things to survive their abusive parents. He didn’t think he’d be able to convince Auradon should be abolished completely. Big villains would probably stay indefinitely. But he was welcome to her suggestions for programs to hep Vks.

“That’s why I need your input. King Ben is putting me in charge of VK Integration Programs and I want to know what we need.” “Uh, that’s nice. A truly Christian thing to do,” Claudine sneered saracastically, she had always been the most doubting of anyone having good intentions what with who she had for a father, “But shouldn’t we get out of here before we plan any VK Integration Programs?”

“This is part of how we are going to persuade the rest of the Isle to help us,” Uma smoothly bridged the two disparting ideas, “We need solid plans with how, what, when. Something solid and real that people can imagine and believe in. When the other Vks and adults hear of these programs, these programs that are as real as when King Ben invited the Core Four, they will be willing to fight for their chance to get in. They will rise up against the Coven so that they could be free.”

Claudine and Diego still looked suspicious, but Jason, Harold, and Big Murph practically had stars in their eyes. Hermie was smiling shyly and Hadie was tapping his chin thoughtfully. He was the first to pitch in.

“I think there should be something for the victims of Hans and Lars.” Everyone turned to look at him which caused the spiky-blue haired teen to flush and clam up. , Uma nodded empathetically, “Continue.” “Well, I mean-uh.Well we all had it bad. But Prince Hans is another level of bad. I went there once with dad for one of Staylan’s parties and I lurked around and man, that dude is nuts. He has photos of his “harem” all “sexy bruised” and stuff. And Lars…”

Uma narrowed her eyes. She didn’t need Hadie to elaborate on Lars. Gil had already told her everything she needed to know about the icy sadist. It was a term that was generally thrown around for an island full of villains with bloodlust, but Gil described the sickeningly calm way Lars acted. How Lars almost described it in seductive terms the way a whip would constrict a person’s throat until the breath left them. The calculating gaze he’d watch the ones he picked as “lovers.” Apparently a sadism that he picked up from his dad.

“Yeah, everyone knows Drizella is his favorite. Poor Dizzy.” Eddie shook his head.

Dizzy had always been left alone with her grandmother, Lady Tremine, but Uma had always assumed that Drizella, like almost all the parents on the Isle, was neglectful and uncaring. She hadn’t thought that Drizella may have been dealing with her own things.

And why wouldn’t she? That was Gil’s mother had to go through everyday with being Gaston’s unfavorite. While Uma was more concerned with the kids on the Isle, she could see now that some adults may need help too.

“Great. Center for sadist victims. What else have we got?”

“Do we have to go to school if we go to Auradon? I just don’t think I need it. My band is doing pretty well and I bet those royal dorks never heard music like mine.” Diego mock-shredded on his guitar

Uma cocked her head. She got his point. She didn’t think there was anything Auradon Prep had that could teach her anything useful. Like smizing as she heard from Celia Faciliar’s letters from Freddie. Plus there were some teens near adulthood like Harriet who probably wouldn’t want to be forced into classes when they could get jobs. Same with adults who never learned to read in their lives and still didnt want to.

“I’ll talk about it with King Ben. What else?” Uma said.

“Food that isn’t covered with flies. Fresh food, not trash.” Hermie said.

“Uh that’s just a given. None of their food is rotten.” Celia told the lithe brunette before Uma could clarify that good food comes with the territory.

Several ideas were thrown around, but the main ones came down to food, homes away from the possible revenge of their parents and others, and none of the Goodness 101 that Celia heard Freddie taking.

“Great. Now the important thing is that you spread the word of these programs to the other. You have to make people want this badly enough that they will fight. Act like its their only chance because it is. From there, I will send my crew to organize them to key points and learn some better and dirtier fight tactics.” Uma announced.

The rest of the Club nodded somberly at the announcement. There was not much emotion from Uma’s command. No relief, excitement or even nervousness. Just a numb sort of nod that they understood. But the words, “This is your only chance,” clearly rang in their heads.

It was now or never.

Everyone slowly got up to leave, thinking their own thoughts except the blonde who slipped to walk next to Uma, expertly slinking through the alleyways.

“Hi, um, I know we haven’t met before but um.. I’m Cosette.” The literally dirty blonde introduced in a fake high voice, clearly highlighting her nervousness, “I’m Gaston’s daughter. Gil’s half sister? You know Gil right? I mean, of course you do. I’ve seen him and everyone knows he hangs with you. I’m sorry I’m babbling. It’s just this is all so new-”

Uma stopped walking so she could give her her full attention. Yes, now that she stopped to actually look at Cosette, she could see a bit of the resemblance. The blonde hair, the high forehead and cheekbones. She looked older, maybe Harriet’s age, though her ample chest peeking from her corset gave the impression of a woman in her 20s. Unlike Gil, she didn’t have the usually confused look in her eyes. Just scared.

That look heightened Uma’s protective instincts. The helpless usually did that, as unvillainous as that was, plus the Gil resemblance.

“Why haven’t I heard of you before?” Uma asked skeptically even though she was pretty sure Cosette was honest.

“Um I’m a girl. Dad wouldn’t acknowledge me. Actually he tried to throw me away and try again which is why Mom left and… it seemed safer to avoid him. But- but I heard from Celia about this Anti-Villain Club when I went in for a reading, and Celia said you’d come so I thought I’d ask you. You know, for permission.” Uma thought. The story was realistic enough. But there was too much to do right now to focus on a family reunion. Unless…

“I will. You have my word. But first, how good would you say your fighting and/or spying skills?”

#uma #celia facilier #hermie bing #eddie balathazar #winner’s curse #yen sid #cosette legume #hadie #claudine frollo #big murph #diego de’vil #yzla #jason #harold #anti villain club #my fanfic #my fanfiction #disney descendants #chapter twenty two

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cherry-moonlight · 4 years

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Life Could Be A Dream - Chapter Five

{NOS4A2 - Charlie Manx x Reader}

{A/N} Sorry this one took a little longer, mid-chapter my wrists started acting up. Carpal tunnel is a monster. D: Anyways, I hope you enjoy and that I’m doing our beloved Charlie some justice at least so far. <3 Warnings: None.

Chapter Five - This Isn’t Real

My voice had returned and my mind was racing even more than I expected it could’ve when Vic stopped talking. She picked up a pen from the table we sat at in the kitchen and fidgeted with it, clicking the top a few times as she looked me in the eye. It was clear she was waiting for any kind of response to the boatload of information she’d dumped on me.

“So I’m a… strong creative,” I made air quotes around the words that sounded more like a question than a statement.

She looked at me and nodded. “You don’t need to lose your voice every time you use it, though. I have a friend who’s just like us. Her name’s Maggie.. She figured out how to keep herself from dealing with the cost of using her gift.”

“What’s her gift?” I interrupted, curious.

“Her tiles,” she rasped. “She has a purple bag with scrabble tiles in them. They’ll tell you anything you want or need to know as long as you ask them. But, we have gotten the tiles mixed up before.”

All of this sounded like some magical bologna that I could’ve found in a novel somewhere, and had I not used my gift myself and seen the outcome with my own eyes, I would’ve laughed and told her she was losing her mind.

“Anyway, Maggie told me you either have to hurt yourself… or someone else.”

It sounded as though she was reluctant to tell me the latter of the two options.

“What’s the cost of your gift?” I asked again.

She hesitated, setting the pen down and looking me in the eye. “My eye,” was all she said, and I put it together.

I had seen her come back countless times that week with a bloodied eye, but the last time it seemed to have gotten worse. When we left Christmasland, it was bleeding. It all clicked then.

“But Maggie burns herself with a cigarette every time she uses her tiles,” she continued. “I’m sure you can find something to keep you from losing your voice. You have to focus on the pain in order to make it work. But don’t hurt people, {Y/N}.”

I nodded, taking mental notes of her advice. I’d never been told to hurt myself for any reason before but I guessed there were a lot of things that were new to me when it came to this seemingly supernatural situation. My lungs filled with air as I absentmindedly sighed. It felt as though I was thrust into a film and forced to figure out the plot. I was more thankful for Vic than I could’ve ever expressed.

The clock on the wall felt as though it ticked slower than usual as I realized how late it was. Time had gotten away from all of us once we’d started looking for Wayne together. After Vic extracted me from Christmasland on her dirt bike through the tunnel I saw in the forest, she instructed me not to say a word to anyone about what had happened. Wanting to gain her trust enough to figure out what all of this meant, I complied. Once we arrived back at their place and Lou went to bed, she stayed up to elucidate what was going on. But before she got into my gift, she explained that hers was not what I thought was a tunnel, but the bridge.

She called it an inscape. Her “shorter way.”

But after all of our efforts, it came to be that Wayne hadn’t actually been missing. He’d simply run off to play and threw Vic and Lou -and me- into a spiral of worry. Or at least, that was his story and he was sticking to it.

“Your knife is your voice,” she began again. “And your inscape…” Her brow furrowed as she looked around, picking up the pen again. “Well, I’m not sure. What were you doing when you found Christmasland?”

“Singing,” I said immediately. “I was looking for Wayne and singing.”

She clicked the pen on the table a few times, looking as though she were completely uneasy.

“Maybe you have a shorter way, too,” she swallowed hard, as though that wasn’t the first thing to come to mind.

“But Wayne was never at Christmasland,” I added.

“No.. No he wasn’t. But that bastard Charlie Manx is trying to change that.”

Ah. Charlie Manx.

The man of the evening that I wanted desperately to know so much more about. Vic had abruptly taken me from Christmasland without so much as an explanation, and at least now I knew why she was there. Still, curiosity had gotten the better of me to say the least. He was all I could think about during our search for Wayne and I was slightly bitter that I didn’t get to figure out what I was doing at the winter wonderland in the past through questioning him. He seemed to know far more about me than I knew about myself.

“What about him, anyway?” I questioned, trying not to sound as though I were too excited to get into the subject. “Who is he? What is Christmasland? Where is Christmasland?”

She leaned back in the chair, slipping out of her motorcycle jacket and hanging it on the backrest as her eyes seemed to grow dark.

“Christmasland is Charlie Manx’s inscape. It’s just a big, intricate figment of his sick imagination. His knife is a classic Rolls Royce Wraith, and he picks up innocent kids and he kidnaps them with it, and then brings them to Christmasland.”

Her voice became rushed and shaky.

“Once they’re there.. Well, I don’t know if they ever get out. They turn into something else.. Something inhuman. They attack people and they think he’s their father.”

She spit the words out like venom on the tongue. I wasn’t sure why, but I almost felt offended that she was speaking of him that way. My thoughts drifted back to when he called me by his last name.

“He thinks he’s doing them a service, these kids, by taking them from what he calls “neglectful parents” and giving them the home they never had,” her expression twisted into a cringe. “It’s somethin’ out of a horror movie. Probably why the plate on the Wraith says Nosferatu…” she finished, the statement sounding like a solemn attempt at a joke.

I had a voice now but I still sat in silence, mulling over everything she’d said. It was easy to remain quiet, especially when I had no idea how to handle what was going on when none of it seemed real. It was a lot to grasp, but the more information I had, the better. I must’ve looked as though I were deep in thoughts I shouldn’t have been having, because she reached over and grabbed my wrist then, her slender fingers squeezing it tightly.

“You can’t go back to Christmasland, {Y/N}. No matter what you do or what you think you need. It’s not safe. He’ll kill you. He’s tried to kill me, and Maggie, and..” she trailed off, clearly remembering something else. “Just don’t go, okay? Promise me.”

Somewhere deep in my chest, I felt a pang of hurt again. That kind of sensation where your heart breaks and you know the tears are next. Holding it in, I looked her in the eye, and against what I knew I wanted, I nodded.

“I promise.”

-x-x-x-

This was all more information than I could process in a day. My eyes were heavy as I layed on the couch and pulled the fuzzy blanket they’d given me over my shoulders. The house creaked and groaned occasionally as it settled for the night and it was warm and cozy inside despite the chill outside.

My day had been long and confusing, from the funeral, to visiting my house to grab my things, to finding myself at Christmasland. While I knew I promised Vic I’d never go back, I couldn’t shake the thought of it. The way the snow glistened under the lights; the way the maze of ice seemed to go for miles; the way the houses looked like gingerbread creations and— the way he smiled. His dark, deep set eyes narrowing at the corners just a bit as his lips pulled upwards with them. As though he had a million secrets and he was about to let you in on every single one of them.

I rolled over on the couch, and tried to think of something else as I dozed off, but I couldn’t help that my thoughts were too adamant for my own good. I didn’t understand how I could’ve been so captivated by him, especially after Vic’s rendition of Charlie as she knew him. Something deep inside told me I knew another version, and I just had to figure out which. But I’d made a promise to her, and learning about him personally was no longer an option. No matter how hard I tried to think of anything else, the last fragments of imagination that materialized behind my eyelids were of him.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the road to what I thought before was nowhere. The snow topped trees lined either side, but the moon in the sky was brighter than usual— in fact, so were the stars and everything else that surrounded me. The entire Milky Way could be seen above me, and everything I set eyes on was awe inspiring. Studying myself, I noticed I wore a deep crimson rockabilly halter dress with a big black bow tied in the back. I felt like a present wrapped under a tree, and while dresses weren’t my norm, I felt just as pretty as the atmosphere around me.

Oh, it was my usual dream, but it seemed every time I dreamt it, the more it changed. This time, it was gorgeous.

Snowflakes fell like glitter as I made my way forward, admiring the beauty of the surreal world that surrounded me. It was as though everything was suddenly clearer; as though my place in this icy dreamscape was solidified. My ears caught vague hints of the song that brought me to Christmasland, and I quickly realized that I was facing the wrong way. The twinkling lights weren’t ahead of me anymore, but a spectrum of colorful lights caught my attention as they reflected against the snow from behind me. With a deep breath I tried to conceal my smile. If I couldn’t visit it in real life anymore, my dreams did me the honor.

Upon turning around, I was met with the sight of Christmasland’s gates just up ahead. I’d finally reached my destination, and I knew exactly what my dream was all about. The entire time my subconscious was trying to remind me of a memory; a memory I’d soon revisit.

Seemed a little dramatic to me to have the dream so often, especially after how short my time there was, but at least I knew. I knew that there was more to me than just being the girl with a rough past and an unstable future.

When I took a step forward, I heard his voice.

“It is wonderful, isn’t it?” He said somewhat wistfully.

Charlie had appeared next to me at some point and I hadn’t even noticed in my mystified state. Still, just as he had in person, he stood a small distance away from me. I hoped my voice worked this time as I opened my mouth to speak.

“It’s beautiful,” I smiled.

Thank goodness I still had my voice. However, I had to remind myself this was only a dream. Even if it was lucid, it mattered not what I said or how I said it. But it was still the only chance I’d get to immerse myself in whatever fantasy this was anymore. It was the only place I could let my desires run freely without the repercussions of losing my only friend, and really, my only hope as survival. I rolled with my audience of Charlie Manx. Maybe my subconscious could answer a few of my burning questions about the situation, but he spoke before I could again.

“I must say, I was surprised to see you so quickly after your mother’s passing. My condolences..” He ended his sentence with a hint of joy, as though he were glad the death of my mother brought me to Christmasland, accident or not.

“It wasn’t my intention, but I guess it was meant to happen.”

I held my hands in front of me, letting our eyes meet. The electricity I felt buzzed through the air. I didn’t know what to make of it, but I didn’t want to lose myself so soon in the illusion. Fidgeting with the ends of my hair, I stood taller and began my small line of questioning.

“What is this place? Why do you know me?”

There was a glint in his eye as I spoke to him, as though he were absorbing my voice, some kind of odd pride becoming him. With a wave of his hand to gesture me to follow, he began a stroll towards the gates. I did as he suggested, wanting to hear what he was going to say.

“What do you remember?” He countered instead.

Damn it.

I tried my best to pull any memory I could from the darkest parts of my mind, sighing with a faint shrug.

“Not much.. I remember riding the carousel.. And playing the carnival games. Running between the flashing lights and laughing with other children,” I tried to rattle off, hoping a new memory would suddenly appear. “I remember how to get out of the maze, but I can’t remember ever being there..”

I peeked over at him.

“You did love the carousel,” was all he said, like he was waiting for me to make a breakthrough on my own. Until he spoke again.

“You were a model child at Christmasland, my dear. You played well with the others, made sure no one was left out. In fact, you enjoyed Millie’s company very much.”

Millie…

The name rang a bell, but before I had time to ask, he continued.

“You came to us one day quite on your own, which hadn’t happened before, and hasn’t happened again. I’m sure you’ve realized by now that that voice of yours brings you to Christmasland. Of course, you didn’t know that the night your father laid hands on your mother. But you left your cruel home to soothe yourself with song. The next thing we all knew, there you were. Tearful, and quite pitiful-looking outside of the Candy Cane Gates.”

“I came here on my own..” I reworded out loud, attempting to piece together any thoughts from that night.

It happened in my house more often than not, more often than anyone should’ve endured or any child should’ve seen. I remembered the night I left, the only night I left. For the life of me, I could not remember singing my way to Christmasland. At the same time, it was nice to hear that my scrambled memories weren’t just things I’d made up or imagined. They were real. I was there. Then again, no matter how vivid the entire dream was, I had to remind myself it was just that. A dream. This was all coming from my own mind.

“From then on we took you in,” he finished. “I knew there was something special about you.. That you were a strong creative, just as myself. That, and you wouldn’t have dreamed of putting yourself in a predicament that would place you on the naughty list.”

He offered a charming smirk at his quirky bit of information about me and I looked away, fighting the pull towards him I felt when he did. I assumed that my need to be good was out of fear after what Vic told me about him. But what he said next surprised me.

“You must bring Bruce Wayne McQueen to me, {Y/N}.”

My brows pinched together almost immediately. Victoria was right.. Or was this just my subconscious making Victoria right?

“Why?” was all I said.

“Because he wants to be here, with me, my dear. He’s told me so himself. I was well on my way to helping him, and then you made an appearance at Christmasland.. I’m man enough to admit that your surprise arrival distracted me enough to let the boy slip away. You must help me get him back now. Do not listen to Victoria. She doesn’t understand how unhappy her son is. He longs to join me and the other children. To finally be safe from her derelict ways of alcoholism and neglect.”

For being my dream, the request was odd.

“I— I would never bring Wayne here.. Vic told me all about you. All about how you think you’re doing right by these children but you’re not. I would never betray her like that. She’s given me a home when she didn’t...“ I cut myself off and regrouped, not wanting to get personal, whether it was real or not.

Despite my rattling off, he didn’t make a sound. He simply let me, as though he knew something I didn’t. As though it didn’t matter what I said, because he would find his way anyway.

“This isn’t even real.” I continued, stopping in my tracks, not moving any further towards the gates. “You’re not here. I don’t know why my thoughts are panning out this way, but I’m not bringing Wayne to Christmasland. I don’t know why I chose to stay here when I was a kid but I have a feeling I didn’t have a choice.”

He stopped several ahead and turned to face me. Shaking my head, I ran my hand back through my hair and dared to let my eyes rest on his again. There was a hint of sorrow in his eyes, like I’d disappointed him— but only for a second. I immediately began to speak again.

“This isn’t real,” I repeated, though I wasn’t sure who I was trying to convince anymore.

“Not real?” The expression on his handsome features changed into something near mischievousness as he arched a single thick brow and approached me. It was the closest he’d gotten to me since we’d met again.

My heart pounded in my chest as I wondered what was going to happen. Each step he took was slow and calculated. It felt as though he didn’t want to get so close, but had a point to prove in doing so. My dress began to feel tight around my chest as I tried to steady my breathing.

Can you die from a dream?

He towered over me once we were opposite each other, and I allowed myself to look up, holding his gaze. Swallowing hard, I inhaled deeply and waited for whatever fate was to become me, mustering the strength to endure whatever was going to happen should I not wake up. It crossed my mind to pinch myself; to wake up before anything traumatic happened. But something within me wanted to stay. It was a strange sensation to stare what might’ve been my brightest dream or darkest nightmare in the face and not know which way the chips were going to fall.

Confusion was all I could sift through when his large hand reached for my neck, placing his thumb and index finger on either side of it as his palm rested lightly against my clavicle. I watched his features, noticing his jaw clench just enough for me to wonder if I had imagined it.

My {E/C} eyes were full of fear that I knew he had to see, but I stood still, waiting for his grip to tighten or his careful movements to turn into some kind of gruesome act. But as the seconds passed, I instead felt how cold his hand was despite not feeling the chill in the air around us; how gentle his touch was against my warm flesh. He treated me as though I were a porcelain doll, set to break at any moment if he made the wrong move. The faintest of smiles placed itself on his lips then, and my heart kicked up for a different reason that I hoped he couldn’t detect in my pulse.

“Wake up,” he instructed, showing off the velvet in his voice.

I gasped awake. Blinking my eyes rapidly through the blackness that was the dark room to gain any kind of clarity about my surroundings. I haphazardly reached over to the coffee table in front of the couch, tapping my phone’s screen for the time before looking around the room through the small amount of light. It was the middle of the night and I was still at Vic’s. Of course the dream wasn’t real. A quiet laugh passed through my nose as I shook my head and settled back into the couch, listening to the quietness around me. Almost hoping deep down that I would hear his voice again. But it all was silent.

What a strange dream it had been this time.

Charlie Manx had certainly made an impression on me, and I wasn’t sure yet in what kind of way. I didn’t want to think I was infatuated by his charm and devilish good looks, but it seemed more and more that I couldn’t deny the feeling. At least the only place I’d ever see him anymore was in my dreams. I couldn’t break my promise to Vic.

As I laid back down and stared up into the darkness of the ceiling, I let my hand linger up to my neck where his hand had been in my dream.

I bolted upright again when I felt a necklace that wasn’t there before.

My fingers swiftly felt around for a pendant or any sort of indication of what the piece of jewelry contained, and when I found it, I lost my breath altogether. Remaining deathly still, I held it.

It was the locket I’d hidden in my little cedar chest for years.

#nos4a2 #charlie manx #zachary quinto #charlie manx x reader #charlie manx fanfiction #nos4a2 fanfiction #fanfic #vic mcqueen #reader insert

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maria-scribbles · 4 years

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glitter + crimson (let’s start a riot)//part four

summary: carmen actually steps foot inside her own house after discovering her daughter isn’t the only teenager living there. the hurricane hurtling toward the island matches the tempest in sailor’s heart as she finally gets some long-overdue words off her chest that her mom isn’t very happy to hear and two friends inch closer and closer to crossing that metaphorical line.

word count: 6.6k+ (oops, i did it again 😅)

ship: jj maybank x oc (sailor flynn)

warnings n stuff: mentions of abuse/neglect, gambling addiction, child abandonment, being kicked out of home, fluff, swearing, underage drinking, flirting, having shitty dads, mentions of weed, star wars, and sailor’s unhealthy addiction to nutella, mention and direct quote of the percy jackson and the olympians series (again), subtle nod to new girl (i love seeing how many references i can make lmao)

a/n: first off, i just want to thank each and every one of you for your likes, reblogs, and especially your wonderful comments! they mean to world to me, seriously ❤ now, here comes the dramaaaaa! we get to dive into sailor’s complicated, turbulent relationship with her mother (sailor, like john b, has a very big, very real fear of being abandoned by people she loves because of her dad) before heading toward the canon timeline of the show. the quote about the sea near the beginning is from jaques cousteau, legendary french naval officer, marine explorer and filmmaker who co-created the aqua-lung and paved the way for modern scuba diving. he also pioneered marine conservation and discovered the wreck of the hmhs britannic, sister ship of the rms titanic! so overall, he was a pretty cool dude and i feel that he’d be a personal hero to ocean-loving sailor (maybe even kiara as well, considering her love of the environment/conservation).

unbetaed as usual so all mistakes are my b.

gif credit to @toesure (who has the most beautiful gifs, ngl)

~Masterlist~

part four: high tide

The sun’s just peeking its rays over the horizon, painting the deep blue sky the softest shades of pink and orange. Calm, steady waves lap against the shore and over Sailor’s bare feet as she stands alone on an empty and desolate beach, the only signs of life coming from the seagulls squawking overhead. The air is thick and sticky with early morning humidity, the type that makes it hard to breathe and frizzes the hell out of her wavy hair, and she can already feel moisture starting to collect on her skin.

Why’s she here again? She can’t remember a reason and come to think of it, she can’t remember exactly how she got here, either. Did she drive? She turns her back to the ocean and its entrancing pull to look for her truck but finds the surf shop is the only thing she can see clearly, the world surrounding it blurred in an incomprehensible mess of color; the sight should’ve caused anxiety to take root in her chest but somehow she finds herself unbothered, relaxed. Somehow, she feels at home.

“The sea, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever.”

Sailor’s head snaps to the left at the sound of a painfully familiar voice. A tall, redheaded man now stands in what was only a few seconds ago an empty space, smiling out over the water with the brilliant colors of the sky reflecting in his green eyes.

“Dad?”

Ryan doesn’t seem to hear the incredulous tone in her voice or even the fact that she spoke at all as he turns to face her and asks a question of his own, “It’s true, don’t you think?”

Of course she does. The sea has had her under its captivating, magnetic spell ever since she first laid eyes on it when she was a toddler, a baby, even. Her parents always said she wanted to spend every waking moment at the beach, combing the sand for shells and staring out at the water, imagining what new discoveries were waiting for her in its depths. Her mouth moves on it’s own as she replies, “You know I do.”

It’s not what she wants to say at all. She wants so badly to yell at him, let out her frustrations and hurt and pain ‘how dare you leave us’ ‘what did I do wrong’ ‘why haven’t you come back yet’ but finds that she can’t form the words. It’s like she’s watching a video, or maybe reliving a memory -oh. It feels like a memory because it is one, she recognizes with a start, of the week before he took off and abandoned them for the very first time, leaving behind a gaping, bleeding wound that neither Sailor nor her mother ever managed to properly stitch back together.

Ryan’s smile widens. “Always got your eyes on the horizon, Starfish. Just like your old man.”

Her heart clenches at the old, familiar nickname that she hasn’t heard in years, like she’s looking at a favorite pair of childhood shoes or an old t-shirt from a family vacation long past and realizing she doesn’t fit in them anymore, that she’s moved on, and surprisingly, it doesn’t sting as much as she thought it would.

“Come on,” Her father says and when he reaches out to her, Sailor finds herself reaching back with a much smaller, eight-year old sized hand that’s swallowed by Ryan’s larger, calloused palm. “Think you can go fifteen feet today?”

“Fifteen? I’m gonna go twenty!” She declares confidently in her most grown-up voice, giggling when her dad beams and hoists her little body up into his arms, the stubble on his face tickling her skin as he plants a kiss on her cheek.

“That’s my girl.”

He runs into the surf, tossing a laughing Sailor into the ocean when it’s waist deep before they wade out, further and further until the sandy floor drops away from their feet and they’re left treading water.

“Ready, Starfish?”

“Ready!”

The sun breaks over the horizon and casts its golden light on the pair, turning their hair an identical shade of fiery red just as they dive below. She has to work harder to keep up with her father’s longer strokes but she does it and reaches the bottom the same time he does; he smiles widely and reaches out to quickly cup her cheek, pride shining clearly in his eyes and she beams back before turning away to scan the floor for any worthy shells. Finding a knobbed whelk a few feet away, she swims over to grab it before pushing off toward the surface, Ryan following close behind. The sun becomes brighter and brighter the closer she gets and just when her head breaks through the waves-

Sailor wakes.

The early morning sun shines across her eyes through the curtains as she stares up at the surfboard above her bed, the very shelf were the whelk from that day still sits, proudly displayed with her other finds. Yawning, she runs her hands over her face and blinks away the last threads of sleep still clinging to her lashes, along with the memory of her dream. Moments like that with her father were rare. Ryan was a blast to be around when he was happy doing something he wanted to do, like diving for shells, hitting up the bowling alley for a few games, or taking his old, beat up boat out into the marsh to fish for hours on end (never something mundane as doing the dishes or folding the laundry, no, those were children’s jobs and being an only kid, those responsibilities fell to Sailor.). Moments like that were when she felt that -naively, foolishly- her dad was actually proud of her, that he wasn’t horribly inconvenienced by her having the audacity to be his daughter, to be born, that maybe he loved her as much as she loved him.

Cold from a sudden shiver that runs through her body, she rolls onto her side to seek out the best human space heater she knows but her arm only finds empty sheets lacking warmth, her hand reaching for someone who’s no longer there. She frowns and sits up, fingers automatically running through her sleep mussed waves in a semi-futile attempt to fix them into something less resembling a bird’s nest. A quick check of the phone she doesn’t remember plugging in to charge reveals its just before 7 in the morning and her confusion over her missing bedmate only grows; JJ’s rarely ever conscious before 9 AM at the absolute earliest and almost never by his own volition unless surfing’s involved. Even Binx is gone from his usual spot at the end of the bed, leaving her truly alone in the tiny room.

On the floor alongside his boots, the backpack she never noticed him having yesterday is still where he dropped it with its zipper open wide, while his phone rests next to hers on the bedside table and Sailor feels an almost embarrassing wave of relief wash over her knowing he’s still here, that he didn’t just up and disappear in the middle of the night, that he stayed (of all the times he’s come to her before, only once did he leave before dawn and, after she’d frantically tracked him down at John B’s place, tears in her eyes and streaming down her face at the thought of him returning to the lion’s den that he called home, he held her close and promised to never do it again.). She pulls herself out of bed and crosses the room to pull on a random hoodie from the closet before pocketing her phone and padding into the hall, the wooden floor cool under her bare feet.

A demanding meow comes from the kitchen followed immediately by a vexed, “Binx, my dude. For the last time, you can’t have this.” JJ’s bright laugh echoes throughout the room when Binx meows again, this one more insistent than the last and the redhead smiles, quietly shuffling forward to lean against the wall. He doesn’t notice, instead holding a finger to his lips as he shushes the cat sitting on the counter beside him, then turns back to whatever he’s doing. “Be quiet, dumbass! You don’t wanna wake your mom up, do you?”

“I don’t know, sounds to me like he might need my help.”

He startles at her teasing voice, nearly dropping the butter knife in his hand as she steps forward and scoops Binx into her arms, pressing a kiss to his fuzzy cheek. “Is mean old J not feeding you, Binxy? That just won’t do!”

He rolls his eyes but the grin tugging the corners of his mouth upward betrays his amusement as he says sarcastically, “Yeah, I’m the bad guy for not giving the brat Nutella. Great.”

With a laugh, Sailor gives the cat another loving scratch behind the ears before gently setting him on the floor and hoisting herself onto the counter beside JJ, her legs swinging back and forth and lightly brushing against his side. “So...you’re up early.” She says, watching him scrape the last bit of Nutella out of the jar and smear it on some toast, another piece already made on the plate at his elbow.

“Yeah, I woke up and couldn’t go back to bed.” He shrugs, tossing the knife in the sink and the empty container into the trash; her stomach does a little flip when he brings his hand to his mouth and licks away the chocolate left behind on his thumb, then continues, “Sorry if I woke you up. I tried to be quiet but that shithead over there wouldn’t shut up.”

He nods his chin in the direction of a lounging Binx, stretched out on the back of the couch in the sun and she shakes her head. “Don’t worry, you didn’t. I-” She shrugs, too, and meets his blue-eyed gaze. “I guess I couldn’t sleep, either.”

“Bad dream?” JJ asks, holding the plate of toast out to her and she takes a piece with a grateful smile as she replies, “I’d call it more of a bittersweet memory.”

They both fall into a comfortable silence while they eat until he suddenly asks another question around a mouthful of breakfast, “About your dad?”

Sailor freezes mid-chew, her father’s green eyes flicking away from her best friend’s face toward the floor as she swallows thickly, her free hand anxiously clenching the fabric of her shorts. After a long, pregnant pause in which they finish their food and he puts the dirty plate in the sink, she finally says softly, “I’m sorry.”

“Huh?”

She apologizes again, staring down at the floor and swinging her legs back and forth, her bare feet hitting the cabinet with dull thuds.

“For what?” His brow furrows in confusion while he takes a step forward to stand between her legs, one hand reaching to hook a finger under her chin and lift her head so he can look her in the eye, the other resting on her knee. “Seriously, help me out here ‘cause I’m confused as fuck.”

“Because I feel guilty, okay?” She starts, eyelids briefly closing as she takes a deep breath before snapping open again and continuing before he can interrupt, “Here I am, getting upset over a stupid dream I had about my gambling addict dad that ditched me when your dad does that,” -she points to his bruised ribs- “and this,” -her palm rests on his cheek, thumb skimming over his scabbed lip- “and God, I just-”

“Whoa, hold up there, Sail.” JJ cuts her off, his free hand joining the other in cupping her face, “Just because your dad never hit you doesn’t mean you don’t have something to be pissed about. He abandoned you, stole your mom’s money, and made you feel like shit! You have a right to be mad as fuck about it.”

“But-”

“But nothing! We’re not having a fucking competition about who has the shittiest dad,” -He smirks devilishly, brushing a wayward red curl off her forehead- “because they both suck major dick. End of story.”

In spite of herself, Sailor snickers as she winds her arms around his neck and pulls him close, resting her head in the crook of his shoulder while his own arms slide around her waist. “We should start a club.” She jokes lightly and feels his snort of laughter against her ear in response.

“‘Shitty Dad Society,’” He declares proudly, “I call being president.”

“Well, I’m your VP! Binx’s our secretary- shit, I’ll be treasurer, too ‘cause I don’t trust you with any type of financial situation at all.”

He laughs again, hand tightening its grip on her waist and she smiles into his neck as he says, “That’s fair. We should make shirts.”

They settle into another comfortable silence after that, both more than happy to relax in the other’s arms and just be. It’s one of her favorite things about..whatever they are, the ease, the contentment, the familiarity felt when they’re together are sentiments she never, ever wants to lose and a thought, an exciting, dangerous thought pops into her head: what if he never has to leave?

“Come live with me.”

“...what?”

Oh, fuck, she just said that out loud, didn’t she? Brain, enter panic mode. The redhead abruptly pulls out of his embrace and buries her already blushing face into shaking hands, closing her eyes tight for good measure, stammering between her fingers, “Nothing, nothing! I said nothing!”

“Pretty sure you said something,” His hands encircle her wrists and gently pull them down to her lap. “And it wasn’t ‘nothing.’”

She stares down at their entwined fingers resting on her thighs, the backs of his hands deliriously warm against her exposed skin and grounding her to this (scary, exciting, vulnerable) moment, and blurts out in a rush, “I said, come live here. With me.”

JJ doesn’t speak, but the way his hands almost imperceptibly tighten their hold on hers -she would’ve missed it if she hadn’t already been looking- compels her to raise her head and meet his eyes; the indescribable depth of the ocean is behind his gaze, as well as the barest hint of pure, brazen hope, and it says everything his mouth won’t.

“Remember yesterday, when you said you don’t know how much more you can take?” She asks. At his tight nod, she weaves her fingers even more intricately with his and admits softly, “Well, I’m not sure how much more I can take, either.”

Sailor’s eyes sweep over the cuts on his face with all the gentleness of a lover, his lip first, followed by the one on his cheekbone before meeting his again. “I can’t...I can’t see you hurt like this anymore.”

Blue stares into green for an insurmountable stretch of time, long enough that she starts to think that she should’ve just kept her big mouth shut, until he finally whispers, “Seriously?”

“J, I’ve never been more serious about something in my entire life. I can’t let him do this to you anymore.” She finishes with a shrug, “My mom’s never here, anyway. It’d be, uh, really nice to not be alone all the time ‘cause as much as I love him, Binx doesn’t count.”

His eyes become stormy at that casual admission of loneliness for just a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment before brightening into their natural blue, the same color of the sky on a clear day as he says simply, “Okay.”

“Seriously?” It’s her turn to ask it now and the smile that breaks over her face when he nods is one of unabashed relief; without thinking, she leans closer and presses her forehead to his. “Good.”

He smiles, too, and briefly lets his eyes fall shut at the contact as he jokes, “Just so you know, Flynn, I’m probably not gonna be the best roommate.”

“Please,” She giggles, freeing one of her hands to playfully push at his shoulder, “I live with the most spoiled, demanding cat in the world. I think I can handle you, Maybank.”

The teasing smirk on his face makes her heart beat a little faster. “We’ll see about that.”

Sailor decides to pretend she didn’t hear his loaded comment (she’s not quite ready to open up that particular can of worms just yet), instead pulling her phone from her hoodie pocket to check the time. “Alright, here’s the deal: in one,” -she glances at the time again because holy shit does she have the short-term memory of a fucking chimp- “two hours, we’re going shopping and, hey, don’t give me that look!” She laughs at the pained expression that crosses his face, “If you’re gonna live here, get ready to put in the work.”

JJ offers her a lazy salute with his free hand and she rolls her eyes, trying her best to ignore the butterflies in her stomach as he says coyly (again, damn him!), “Yes, ma’am.”

“Until then, though,” The redhead continues, hopping off the counter to grab his hand and starts pulling him toward the hall to her room, “We have a book to read and you have some Greek to mispronounce.”

“Fuck, you’re bossy.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it.”

It goes like this: for nearly three weeks, life for the pair is pretty damn good. The summer days pass the same as they had been, either spent lazing around with the rest of the pogues or working their variety of jobs -Sailor at the ice cream parlor, along with her weekly shell dives and the beginner surf classes she teaches for The Sandbar, JJ at the country club and doing whatever odd jobs he can find around the island- as June slowly bleeds into July. They find themselves doing everything together: shopping, cooking dinner, sharing her tiny room, and it’s so painfully domestic, so natural and so right that it hurts to wrap her head around it.

If their friends notice, none of them comment on it, even though she sees the looks sent their way whenever they both hop out of Sailor’s truck together (most are curtesy of eagle-eyed Kiara, but Pope and even the ever oblivious John B raise their eyebrows a few times). At night they continue to read through the Percy Jackson series, taking turns reading aloud each evening and for a short, blissful time, they let go of the burdens weighing heavy on their shoulders. For a while, everything is close to perfect.

Typically, predictably, it doesn’t last and when shit finally hits the fan, it happens in epic fashion because nothing is ever easy when they’re involved.

It happens a few days after the Fourth of July. It’s late-afternoon, Hurricane Agatha brewing off the coast causing the clouds to streak faster through the sky and, with the rest of their friends working or otherwise occupied, the two teenagers decide to spend a day lounging at home, getting in a few more chapters of The Battle of the Labyrinth and drinking the beer left over from a night of partying at John B’s house.

“’Jumping out a window five hundred feet above ground is not usually my idea of fun,’“ Sailor reads as she relaxes on the couch, book in one hand and can of PBR in the other, the wind blowing in through the open window ruffling her hair, “‘Especially when I’m wearing bronze wings and flapping my arms like a duck.’“

“I’ll drink to that,” JJ says, briefly lifting his head from her lap to chug the rest of his beer before settling back down, feet propped up on the couch’s arm. They’re both a little buzzed, having lost count of how many drinks they’ve downed but she’s had enough to make her start giggling at his comment as she struggles to keep reading while Binx, fed up with the noise, jumps down from his spot behind her and slinks down the hall to find some peace and quiet.

“Damn you, stop it!” She laughs harder as he pulls a ridiculous face at her pronunciation of Daedalus, then shoots her an impish grin and she responds by ‘accidentally’ dropping the paperback on his face. Both are so caught up in hysterics that they don’t notice the sound of a car pulling into the driveway or a key unlocking the front door.

“Sailor!”

The girl freezes at her name, green eyes widening at the sharp tone of her mother’s voice. Slowly, she turns her head to look over her shoulder where she stands, arms crossed, and she’s so shocked Carmen’s actually looking her in the eye that nothing comes out of her open mouth but an oh so eloquent “huh?”

“What the hell is going on here?” The older woman demands, moving around the couch before either teenager can react, and her eyes narrow when she catches sight of JJ’s head on her daughter’s thigh and the empty beer cans on the end table. “Are you two drunk? Get up, now.”

He hastily does as she asks, eyes downcast to the floor and shaking hands clenched at his sides; ignoring her mother’s glare, Sailor deliberately reaches over and rests one palm on top of his as she says tightly, “Nice to see you home for once, I’m surprised you remembered where it is.”

It’s a low blow and she knows it but she can’t find it in her fuzzy, alcohol-numbed brain to care when Carmen reels back like she’s been slapped before she seems to compose herself, mouth pressing into a thin line. “Sailor Giselle, don’t you dare talk to your mother like that!”

The redhead feels something inside her snap and she glares up at the only parent she has left, all but spitting her next words, “Then start acting like my mother! This is the first time I’ve seen you here in four months!”

“I had to come home after Rachel told me you were shacking up with some boy! Do you have any idea-”

“Rachel?!” Sailor explodes at the mention of their obnoxiously invasive old biddy of a neighbor whose sole mission in life is knowing everyone’s business, “God, that hag just can’t keep her nose out of anything can she?”

Carmen crosses her arms once again and glowers at her daughter. “You know how hard it is for me to be in here, Sailor. I asked her to keep an eye on you for me and I’m glad I did.”

The teenager stares at her in disbelief before barking a loud, humorless laugh. “Let me get this straight: you asked our neighbor to spy on me so you didn’t have to come home...so you didn’t have to actually put in some effort?” Carmen opens her mouth to defend herself but before any words can come out, Sailor continues, throwing her free hand in the air, “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

“This is my house!” Her mother thunders, not noticing the way the silent blond boy flinches at her yell and how her daughter tightens her grip on his hand. “This is my house and I can do whatever I damn well please, including having someone look out for you when I can’t.”

“When you won’t, you mean.” She scoffs, shaking her head in thinly-veiled disgust, “I’m doing just fine on my own, no thanks to you, Mom.”

“Does ‘doing just fine’ mean living alone with this kid?” Carmen spits and when she glances at JJ like he’s gum on the bottom of her shoe, Sailor’s finally had enough and takes a step toward the older woman with a furious glare.

“Will you just let that go? God! He’s my best friend and he needed somewhere to stay, that’s it!”

“I don’t care.” Turning to JJ, she demands coldly, “Go pack your shit and get out.”

“No.” Green eyes hardening into chips of emerald, the redhead grabs his other hand as he goes to leave the room and steps in front of him protectively. “He’s not going anywhere.”

Carmen pinches the bridge of her nose, her voice low as she threatens, “I swear to God, Sailor, either he leaves or I’ll make him leave.”

When she feels his whole body go rigid behind her, she knows her mom’s won this particular battle and before she can even turn to face him he’s disappeared down the hall to her room without a word. Sailor whirls to face her like the wind outside, red hair flying over her shoulder like a whip as she seethes, “How dare you.”

The older woman sighs like she’s the one hurting and crosses to the window before closing it with a firm hand. “Drop it, I’m done arguing.”

“I care about him, Mom, you can’t just kick him out!”

“I said drop it! I don’t give a shit how you feel about him, I’m not having your homeless boyfriend mooching-”

“Jesus Christ -his dad beats the shit out of him!”

The words ring out like a bell, loud and clear and impossible to ignore. Carmen freezes in the middle of picking up a discarded can, tan skin turning pale as she stares, mouth slightly agape, at her daughter; the girl stares back unflinching, and despite her heart’s rapid staccato in her chest, her next words cut like a knife.

“He’s not homeless, okay? But his dad hits him, all the damn time. You’re not gonna stand by and let that happen, are you?”

Her mother’s eyes soften -for a fleeting moment, she looks like her old, caring self again- before they harden to steel, the open expression on her face slamming closed with all the force of a screen door in a hurricane.

“I’m sorry -really, I am- but that’s not my problem.”

Sailor flinches at the icy edge in her voice and looks down at the floor, jaw clenched tight as she tries to blink away the sudden burning behind her eyes. “I...I don’t know you anymore. My mother would never say that.”

She hears Carmen heave another deep sigh as her footsteps slowly head toward the front entry, “You and I have a lot to talk about when I get back from work, Sailor.” She says, followed by the snatching of keys and the door handle turning. “And that boy had better be gone when I do.”

The redhead looks up from her feet, watching the door slam behind her mother’s retreating form before hastily making her way down the hall to her room and like that morning, the wave of relief that she feels when she sees JJ still sitting on her bed, realizing he’s still here, is downright embarrassing but she’s well past the point of caring. In a flash, Sailor’s in his arms, face pressed against his neck as she cries, “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.”

“Sail, you’ve gotta stop apologizing for things you can’t control.” He whispers when she eventually falls silent and she can’t stop the rough laughter bubbling in her chest, even as her whole world feels like it’s falling apart around her.

“Sorry.”

His own laugh is short and low in her ear, and then he’s pulling her closer as his hand draws soothing circles on her back. She lets herself relax for a brief moment, eyelids fluttering closed at his touch, before she takes a deep breath and pulls back to look him in the eye, hands carelessly wiping away the tears on her cheeks, “Help me pack.”

“...what?”

“When she kicked you out, she kicked me out, too.” She says matter-of-factly at JJ’s confused look while she abruptly kneels, pulling her old suitcase from under the bed and heaving it up onto the mattress.

“Okay, so she didn’t actually kick me out but she might as well have!” The redhead strides to her closet and starts picking out her favorite clothes, tossing them haphazardly onto the bed as she fumes, “God, I even told her about your dad -I’m sorry, shit I did it again- and she said she didn’t care! Not to mention she had our neighbor spy-”

“Sail!” She’s so caught up in her rant that she doesn’t notice when JJ moves to stand beside her, and only when he puts his hands on her shoulders does she stop short, a Kildare County High School sweatshirt dangling from her fingers; she can feel him watching her and when she flicks her gaze up to meet his, she’s not at all prepared for the tempest of emotions -admiration, pride, empathy, something else she can’t name- all crashing like the surf behind his eyes.

Blue. Oh so blue. It’s been her favorite color ever since she knew what colors were and she thinks her favorite shade has to be the one she finds in his eyes: bright, clear, and ever easy to drown in if she’s not careful.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” He says it in such a casual way that it’s impossible to think it’s not as intentional as the fingers that slowly tuck a stray curl behind her ear and the thumb that brushes along her flushed cheek.

She just shakes her head with a tiny, bashful smile and her words are an echo of a quiet, rainy night all those weeks ago, “I’m just doing what feels right.”

They fall into an easy rhythm after that, one that helps them both sober up as they fill her suitcase to the brim with everything Sailor thinks she’ll need for a long stay, wherever she ends up. The Chateau makes the most sense of course, but with the DCS breathing down John B’s neck recently, she’s not sure how viable of an option that is but there’s one thing she knows for sure: there’s no way in hell she’s coming back here any time soon. It hurts to leave her shell collection behind -for a brief, dark moment she toys with the idea of tearing the shelf down and smashing them all until they’re turned to dust but she pushes that thought away- so she takes her favorite, the lightning whelk that reminds her of JJ and that day on the beach, and gently tucks it away in her backpack to ease the sting, as a promise to one day return for the rest.

“Jackpot!” JJ exclaims and she looks up to find him on the floor by her chair, pulling up the loose wood board that hides her secret stash of booze and money and reaching in to snag a nearly full bottle of Jack Daniels, holding it above his head with a triumphant smile.

“Shit, I forgot that was even in there,” She replies as she kneels beside him and snatches the whiskey from his hand before he can take a swig, slipping it into her backpack, “Not yet.”

“Oh, come on,” He laughs when she rolls her eyes at his pout and reaches into the dark space to pull out an old plastic lunchbox, along with a small flask that gets thrown in her bag without a second glance. “Boooo.”

“Patience,” She teases, opening the cracked lid to take all of the cash inside and stuffs it into the ziploc bag that doubles as a purse (“it’s cheap and waterproof, what more do I need?” was her argument when Kiara asked her why she didn’t have an actual handbag), which she then stuffs in her backpack. “We can get drunk after we get out of here.”

“You had me at ‘drunk,’“ He slides the floorboard back into place after Sailor tosses the empty lunchbox inside and then stands, pulling her up alongside him with his hand in hers, the other reaching out to grab the handle of her suitcase. “Ready when you are.”

The redhead takes one last look around her room, from the assortment of shells and pictures on one wall to her poster of Bethany Hamilton on the other and everything in between -her sanctuary for the longest time- before turning away from the familiar comfort of the old to face the enticing uncertainty of the new. “Let’s go.”

After a quick stop in the bathroom to grab her shampoo, conditioner, and toothbrush -no way in hell is she gonna share any of those with the boys- then the kitchen to grab some food for Binx and the cat himself from the back of the couch (surprisingly, he doesn’t put up much of a fight), they head outside and throw her suitcase and their backpacks in the bed of the truck along with her surfboard.

“John B’s probably gonna be pissed about the cat,” JJ says, leaning against the passenger door with his arms crossed, smirking as she gives him a flat look and unceremoniously dumps Binx onto the bench seat through the driver’s side window.

“Well, John B’s just gonna -stay, Binxy!- have to get used to it. I’m not leaving him behind.”

Across the street, Rachel perches on her porch as she watches the two teenagers with her beady little eyes and Sailor, feeling particularly defiant, grins wickedly. “J, watch this.” Waving to the woman to catch her attention she calls over the wind, “Hey, Rachel!” before slowly extending both middle fingers toward her, one at a time. “That one’s for my mom and this one’s for you, you nosy bitch!”

He instantly joins in and both hold their hands high, cackling with laughter, until the old crone scowls and slithers back into her house like the snake she is. “Good riddance,” the redhead says, opening the truck’s door and sliding behind the wheel, “Let’s blow this joint.”

“Joint?” JJ asks, climbing into the passenger seat and slamming the door behind him, Binx instantly curling up on his lap, “Did you say joint?”

“You and weed, I swear...” She laughs and goes to start the engine before she realizes she’s grasping at an empty ignition and lets her head fall against the steering wheel with a thunk, “Son of a bitch, I forgot my keys. I’ll be right back.”

Going back inside isn’t as hard as Sailor thought it would be, but leaving is a whole other ball game. She snatches her keys from the bathroom sink where she left them and heads back toward the front door; she’s just passing by their family portrait when it hits her: this is it, the last time in who knows how long she’ll be here. It’s now or never. She thinks of it as a weight on her shoulders, one that’s been dragging her down for far too long, like Atlas holding up the sky, but unlike him, she’s going to break the chains and set herself free.

In one final, sudden burst of years of anger and hurt and frustration, she rips the picture from the hook and smashes it to the floor, sending pieces of glass and wood skittering down the hall before striding from the house and all its memories without a backwards glance, slamming the door behind her with a resolute bang.

Surprisingly, John B doesn’t give a shit about the cat when they show up at the Chateau but he does give a shit about Sailor and her well-being after they give him a quick rundown of the afternoon’s happenings.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Sail?” He asks as he and JJ carry her bags into the house and deposit them in the spare room, the redhead trailing behind with Binx in her arms.

“That’s the age old question, bro,” She deflects with a shrug, taking a seat on the bed and setting the cat down beside her; he instantly takes off to explore his new home as she continues, “Who actually knows if they’re okay? What’s okay to one person can be completely different to another-”

“Sailor, seriously.”

She glances back and forth between the two boys -two sweet, caring boys- watching her with twin looks of understanding and relents. “Look, I’m still kind of...processing everything, alright? I’m not exactly sure what I’m feeling and I don’t know how long it’s gonna take for me to find out but I promise you,” She says softly, looking them both in the eye, “I’ll let you know if I’m not okay. Deal?”

JJ shoots her an enthusiastic thumbs up while John B opts for a simple nod and she grins before pulling the bottle of Jack Daniels from her backpack with a flourish. “Good. Now, I think we could all use a drink.”

The trio (and Binx, house thoroughly explored) bums around the living room while the afternoon slowly turns to evening, the wind outside getting worse with each passing hour the storm moves closer, passing the bottle back and forth until none of them are anywhere close to sober. What started as a game of truth or dare quickly dissolves into straight up truth as they get remarkably philosophical about what animal they’d want to be (an eagle for John B, a wolf for JJ, and to absolutely no one’s surprise, a dolphin for Sailor) and then have a deep, animated discussion about the best Star Wars movie and why it’s The Empire Strikes Back. Later, when the whiskey’s down to a few sips left and their collective demons have retreated to the very back of their minds, JJ drunkenly suggests playing strip poker and both Sailor and John B have to remind him that none of them a.) know how to play poker or b.) even own a deck of cards.

“Damn it!” The sly grin falls from his face when he realizes they’re right and he dejectedly sinks back into the couch, head coming to rest on the redhead’s shoulder. “I wanna see you take your clothes off, Flynn.”

She laughs loudly and grabs the bottle from his hand before taking a big sip and passing it to John B. “You’re gonna have to try harder than that, Maybank.” Whiskey, she found out few months ago, hits her hard: her filter? Gone. Blushing? Aside from the flush in her cheeks from the alcohol, gone. Self-consciousness? As long gone as her father. She’ll flirt her heart out without giving a single shit and it’s both a blessing and a curse, as well as an endless source of secondhand embarrassment in the morning.

“That’s okay, you know I like a challenge.” He declares with a wink, cracking up when she plants her hand directly on his face and pushes him off her shoulder as John B snorts and downs the last of the liquor without either of them noticing.

“Jesus, get a room,” He uses the empty bottle to point down the hall, then sets it on the side table with a hollow thunk as he leans back and stretches his arms above his head. “There’s one right there.”

Sailor gives him a swift kick in the shin with her bare foot for that, plus the shit-eating grin on his face. The trio lounges around for a little while longer, relaxing in a whiskey-induced haze; the redhead finds herself nodding off every so often, slipping back further and further until her head finds a place to rest on JJ’s lap and her legs end up on John B’s. The feel of fingers running through her hair is so feather light that she can barely keep her eyes open and before she knows it, she’s down for the count.

When she wakes some indefinite amount of time later the room is dark, the only light coming from the moon shining through the windows and John B’s gone from his spot by her feet, Binx curled up in a ball on the cushion instead. JJ’s dead asleep, hand stalled in her curls and the sight of his head tipped back against the couch with his mouth slightly open is so damn endearing that she can’t help but smile, even as she reaches a hand up to gently shake his shoulder.

“J, wake up.”

“Five more minutes.” He groans, free hand sluggishly pushing her arm away. Sailor sits up and swivels to face him before shaking him again, giggling quietly at the way his head lolls from side to side.

“Come on, the bed’s way comfier than this.”

Sleepy blue eyes open to give her a heavy look that screams both gratification and longing and so much hope as he quips, “You just want me in your bed again, don’t you?”

She reverently rolls her eyes but reaches to grab his hands anyway and pulls him to his feet, both swaying in place before they find their balance. “And if I do?”

The corner of his mouth rises in a small, adorable smile as his fingers entwine with hers. “I’d say that’s right where I want to be.”

“Well, you’re in luck ‘cause that’s where I want you to be, too.” Still a little bit tipsy, her words are honest, sincere, and as she leads him down the hall, she realizes that old saying is true: drunk words are sober thoughts. After three weeks sharing a home, a room, a bed, she just doesn’t think she can sleep without him anymore and that belief doesn’t quite scare her as much as she thought it would.

Lying wrapped up in his arms in the dark, Sailor finds herself dreaming of a future -as much of a future an impoverished, quasi-homeless, not-quite alright, not-quite-seventeen year old can dream of- with the damaged boy that holds oceans in his eyes.

A few miles away, Carmen Flynn sits on her daughter’s bed with a broken picture frame in her hands as she cries, all alone in an empty house with no idea how to make things okay again.

let me know what you think! also, fun fact: sailor compares her short-term memory to a chimp because studies have shown that chimpanzees are the absolute worst at remembering things, not goldfish as we previously thought (they can remember things for at least five months, compared to chimps who, despite their similarities to humans, forget things in about twenty seconds). sailor, being a zoology nerd, would definitely find that fascinating and make it her mission to educate the masses that goldfish aren’t that stupid jj finds it both adorable and kind of hot

taglist ❤: @sinkbeneathwaves @jiaraendgame @hmsjiara @obxsummer @maysbanks @alexa-playafricabytoto @sunflowerbecca @obxlife @obx-adventures @sexualparkour @coltonparayyko @miawantsapuppy @jjmaybanky @ethereallust

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random-musroom · 3 years

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Betrayal of opera

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Basically this small fic is about one of the panels after iruma and opera has a moment Oprea kinda as a evil smirk on his face.So what if they end up betraying iruma last minuet?

This will also have a bunch of other small somewhat popular theory included

Warnings: Death,Mild blood and gore

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It was a warm day within the netherworld Iruma as graduated from Babyls with many others. Lord Sullivan was spoiling Iruma again by now the young boy as gotten use to his grandpa and the red head neko Opera.He rememberd when he first came here when his parents sold him to Sullivan for money they where always lazy and neglectful he remembers when Oprea told him that if he wanted to go home he could move up the ranks opening a portal to the human world.When he was rank Teth a portal opened and just like Oprea said it was to the human world.

There was a moment it seemed like time stoped He could go back to the human world but is there anyone there that would want him? His parents would probably sell him again his classmates there probably in new classes.He made his choice to stay in the netherworld.That’s when he saw Oprea look slightly annoyed angry even.But that was over fast because Sullivan was hugging iruma tightly pulling Oprea in for a group hug.

But that was all in the past soon he will be king the first human demon king.He doesn’t even need his ring anymore to use magic Speaking of the ring it went missing Oprea looked head to toe in every corner and even he couldn’t find it.With the help of Sullivan he was able to use magic without the ring but it did leave his grandpa weakened not like most would noticed.

Iruma was getting ready for dinner none of his friends could come over as everyone was busy it made sense as parents would want to celebrate there kids graduation.Oprea made a meal this time with much more appealing looking food and more sweets this time Only because it’s a special day.

They where in the middle of eating when Lord Sullivan was having a coughing fit at first he thought maybe he ate to fast but it it got worse he looked like he couldn’t breathe.Oprea ran to his side and took him to the hospital.There was a lot of waiting afterwards no one knew what to do then the hospital called Lord Sullivan fateful friend and loyal servant to the king died.It looked like he had a allergic reaction.

Iruma couldn’t believe this he never even knew demons could be allergic to things.Oprea was there to they just broke Iruma never saw Oprea like this crying heavily there hands to there face there cat ears where drooped.Iruma stayed with the cat demon Iruma was sad but in his heart he knew Oprea couldn’t believe what they heard Iruma heard about how close the two where.

Days passed Oprea never left there room They stoped eating for the most part.Iruma had to convince Oprea just to eat anything.During this time lady Levy was deathly sick,Belial died due to unknown reasons it seemed like someone took the time to do this someone who was close to them all.

A week passed Oprea went back to working it was clear to most that he was very upset with what was happening.He didn’t allow Iruma to go out without knowing where he was going and with who.Iruma didn’t think much of it he to missed Sullivan.

They where running investigations Oprea was called in a few times but just to give Info on what happened they found out that Sullivan died from poison and not a allergic reaction.Oprea wasn’t a suspect as when they where told there was a look of shock on there face followed with tears.To find out you accidentally poison someone is much worse then accidentally giveing someone an allergic reaction.

Oprea showed the investigators the food they preped the spice they used it was a common spice used in most food and it was one of Sullivan’s favorites.Oprea got it from the place they usually get it from.They tested the spice and found out that it was poisoned they ran a Investigation on the shop.

Over the week investigation Iruma was looking for Oprea he looked in Opreas room the table he use to hide under when hiding forks.His favorite spots to take breaks.Iruma found small door that someone of flexibility or short could go though it was covered by many things box’s.a table next to it with a painting over head.

He went though the door and there he sees Oprea.The room was small made to be a Shelter if anyone intruders came The walls was lined with papers in the demonic language.Pictures of the three hero’s,Small bottles with red corks.Oprea turned to him told him that they should go prep dinner it clicked in his head Oprea was the one to kill the three hero’s they poisoned lady levy, Sullivan, killed Belial.

Iruma didn’t want to fight Opera but he didn’t have a choice if Oprea could do that what else would they do?.The fight was a long out but Iruma was lucky and shot Oprea in the stomach with demon king levels of magic.Luck was all Iruma had in that fight,Luck is also the reasons Oprea lays on the floor bleeding out.Iruma remembers the last thing Oprea said to him.

“You where always destined for great things”

Iruma didn’t know what to do but the with the rest of the 13 crowns order came back

——

Hope this was good

#welcome to demon school opera #welcome to demon school iruma kun #welcome to demon school #send me asks #demon #betrayal

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supermiraculousladybug · 3 years

Text

The Disturbing Dark Truth about Cat Noir.

Cat Noir is the loveable dorky flirtatious jokester from Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug and Cat Noir who loves to flirt with Ladybug and making her laugh by using jokes and puns but is he really a jokester or is he using jokes and puns as a coping mechanism to escape the abuse , neglect , cruel and harsh world he's born in? But whatever it is it's obvious that everything in Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug and Cat Noir is nothing but a figment of Cat Noir's imagination and is actually an abused mentally unstable boy with special needs who sees the world differently than others due to having a childish-like personality and sorta kinda behavior.

Family Life Income.

Born to a prostitute with an unknown father, Cat Noir comes from a lesser fortune poor family who are struggling to make ends meet and making money. He's an complete opposite Adrien Agreste who lives a life of luxury and wealth while Cat Noir lives a life of slums and poverty but growing up in a ghetto-like town side of Paris wasn't easy it's full nothing but violence , rape , robbery , burglary , aggravated assault , total violent crimes , motor vehicle theft , total property crimes , battery , prostitution , street gang , kidnapping , sex trafficking , child trafficking , street gang violence , bribery , fraud , racketeering , drug trafficking and vandalism but it's sad to see Cat Noir grew up in a horrible neighborhood side of Paris where this "village" is one of the worse shanty town neighborhoods that evolved ghetto crimes which it gave Cat Noir paranoid trauma for life.

Clothing , home life and house.

Clothing.

Since Cat Noir grew up in the slums of Paris, his mother barely could afford clothes so she made his clothing from a left over fabric from a trash can and gave him her old clothes which surprisingly it fits him. So technically he shares clothes with his mother but it's sometimes he wears his dad's old clothes. His mother is a seamstress so it makes sense she made Cat Noir's clothes.

Home life.

Cat Noir comes from an abusive household where it's just him and his younger half brother, Connor get punished by their mother because they're both born male and look like their fathers but it's just their mother but sometimes their stepfather would beat them because he dislike their fathers and both Cat Noir and Connor look like their dads thus their stepfather abused them physically.

House.

Cat Noir lives in a small shack house that is a mixture between a cabin and a cottage that is located in a Western Shanty town, one of the worst ghetto neighborhood in Paris , France. In the Western Shanty town, they have cheaper old wireless TVs from either the 90s or 70s and have old TV show programs from 1920s-late 1990s but for cartoons from 1910s-late 1990s as well. Cat Noir and his family slept on an old abandoned dirty mattresses that are so uncomfortable to lay on and often the children (mainly Cat Noir) gets bed bug bites at night. Cat Noir and his family sat on old abandoned couch but mainly his mother get stoned and drunk on that couch.

Forced child labor.

From age 9-12, Cat Noir was forced to be a sex slave stripper against his will but he was taken out of school by forcedly "dropping out" during the 4th grade and ever since then the principle of Françoise Dupont Elementary School was and still wondering why Cat Noir wasn't at school like he's suppose to be. Then he was sold to Copycat, a pedophile neighbor who has sexual fantasies of Cat Noir and sexually abusing him but Copycat a lot of horrible things and stuff to Cat Noir

Molesting Cat Noir.

Raping Cat Noir.

Giving Cat Noir bruises , scars , chafing or bite marks and bleeding in/on his genital area.

Masturbating Cat Noir's teeny weeny peeny.

Smacking Cat Noir's bottom in sexual way.

Forcing Cat Noir to dress up as a french maid for sexual purposes.

Forcing Cat Noir to be in bed with him.

Removing Cat Noir's clothes so he can just have "fun" with him.

Turning Cat Noir from a sex slave to a house slave.

Raping Cat Noir in his sleep causing his insomnia to be worsen up badly.

Touching Cat Noir inappropriately from his whole body to his teeny weeny peeny.

Using sexual punishments on Cat Noir.

Using erotic spanking on Cat Noir's bottom for sexual purposes.

And Smacking Cat Noir's bottom as a form of sexual harassment.

Due to this harassment it causes Cat Noir to be extremely afraid of adult men because of the fear that they could sexually abused and harassed him even tho they're not gonna do it but Cat Noir was and is traumatized by this experiences it made him think they would do it without excepting it but he didn't want to be around grown men and not even his male aids he can't trust but everytime a grown men sit next to Cat Noir, he would cry because he amused they would molest him.

"Operation saving Cat Noir from a child molester"

In October of 2013, 12-year-old Marinette Dupain-Cheng was looking for the 10th and last child to be sold to a pedophile but it was no luck, until a random guy shows up to Marinette and tell her where that kid is but once she found him passed out on the floor, it turns out he's the boy that Ladybug was talking about and he was wearing a black tank crop top-like shirt and a blacker granny panties-like undergarments although he was underweight and severely malnourished. After Marinette notice the poor living conditions Cat Noir was in, she decide to take Cat Noir to the hospital immediately to get medical attention, once she and Cat Noir got to the hospital everyone knew Cat Noir was one of 10 children who were sold to pedophiles by their parents for money and were sexually abused. When Cat Noir woke up in a hospital bed, he sees Marinette and went speechless because he didn't know how to interact with people very well and Cat Noir mistaken Marinette for Ladybug because she and Ladybug looked like and because Cat Noir is insane-like crazy, he's unable to know the difference so it went like this

Cat Noir after he woke up: *seeing Marinette* Ladybug?

Marinette: no i'm not Ladybug🤔.

Cat Noir: *confused* then who are you?

Marinette: my name is Marinette Dupain-Cheng, what's your name?

Cat Noir: *realizing* wait Marinette as in Marinette Dupain-Cheng, daughter of the best baker in Paris?

Marinette: yes

Cat Noir: nice to meet you Marinette🙂😄😊.

Marinette: same here😁.

Cat Noir: well then i'm Cat Noir Athanase Blake-Kyle.

Marinette: *realizing* wait your Cat Noir? As in Cat Noir Athanase Blake-Kyle, son of a seamstress prostitute?

Cat Noir: *sigh* yes I'm the son of a hooker who steals your man for no reason😓.

Marinette: so what's with the outfit you were wearing?

Cat Noir: I work as a stripper and a sex slave😣😖😟😫.

Marinette: why?

Cat Noir: to help my mom make ends meet.

Marinette: I get it but why as a stripper or sex slave?

Cat Noir: I had no choice but to be a sex slave stripper and because my mom wanted me to work in the sex industry due to me having a material of being someone's object or toy.

Marinette: so what you're basically someone's property or something?

Cat Noir: yes i'm nothing but everyone's "favorite" little toy to "play" and have "fun" with.

Marinette: were you uncomfortable with it?

Cat Noir: honestly yes because I don't wanna hook up with someone I don't know for money.

Marinette: so you were forced to do this against your will?

Cat Noir: yes exactly that's what it is.

Cat Noir: *bursting into tears* then 3 years ago, I was 9 years old when my mom sold me to an artist for money😭.

Marinette: wait how old are you now?

Cat Noir: *stops crying and sniff* I just turn 12 not so long ago.

Marinette: i'm 12 too.

Cat Noir: wait so we're the same age then?

Marinette: yeah

Cat Noir: What a coincidence.

Marinette: We're born in the same year but just 2 months apart.

Cat Noir: What do you mean by "we're born in the same year but just 2 months apart"?

Cat Noir: When is your birthday?

Marinette: My birthday is on July 22, 2001 and yours?

Cat Noir: interesting my is on September 25, 2001.

Cat Noir: *realizing* you're right we're born 2 months apart.

Marinette: that's right

Cat Noir: What does it mean?

Marinette: it means i'm 2 months older than you and you're 2 months younger than me.

Cat Noir: make sense

Cat Noir: But I was born 2 months premature.

Marinette: What do you mean "2 months premature"?

Cat Noir: I was originally suppose to be born on November 25, 2001 but I came out 2 months premature.

Marinette: Oh so you're a preemie?

Cat Noir: yes

Cat Noir: *arms and legs starting to shake uncontrollably*

Marinette: are you okay?

Cat Noir: *arms and legs still shaking uncontrollably* yeah why?

Marinette: because why are your arms and legs shaking-like crazy?

Cat Noir: *arms and legs still shaking uncontrollably-like crazy hard* sorry I have tremors.

Marinette: Tremors?

Cat Noir: Yeah I still have tremors since birth but sometimes i'll get seizures.

Marinette: Oh that it explains while we were on our way to the hospital, your whole body and head was shaking for 3 minutes.

Marinette: *realizes while reading facts on the article called "Crack babies" on the internet* are you a crack baby or something?

Cat Noir: Crack baby?

Marinette: Yeah are you?

Cat Noir: What's a crack baby?

Marinette: A crack baby is a baby born to a crack addict mother who used crack cocaine during pregnancy.

Marinette but you're a 12-year-old boy who still have seizures and tremors.

Marinette: so I guess you're a crack kid.

Cat Noir: What's a crack kid?

Marinette: A crack kid is when a mother who smokes crack while having a kid, when the kid is born it will be a crack baby/retarded or have problems.

Marinette: So that's what you are, a crack kid because your mother smoke crack cocaine while she was carrying you in the womb.

Cat Noir: it's not the only thing have because of my mommy's neglection action.

Marinette: What do you mean?

Cat Noir: mommy is not just a drug addict but she's also an alcoholic and smoker too.

Marinette: I look at a picture of your brain and I realize your brain is small , malformed , severely damaged and is permanent damage in your brain.

Then after that Marinette took care of Cat Noir in the hospital by being a mother figure towards him with her maternal instincts because it is something Cat Noir's mother never done before since she always ignoring him and Cat Noir needed a good parental figures and guidance in his life due to having bad parents, he doesn't know better but then again Marinette knew Cat Noir has a hard time understanding other people and everything around him in general.

Cat Noir is an autistic individual who can't understand everyone's social cues very well due to lack of interaction he barely had. Cat Noir was diagnosed with Low-functioning Autism , Asperger's Syndrome and Severe Autism or Level 3 Autism since he was 5 weeks old and due to his diagnosis, he has troubles of looking people in the eye , having interacting with others , living up to everyone's expectations of him what he should or shouldn't do including Ladybug's expectation of him how he should or shouldn't act when he's in public or when it comes to Ladybug forcing him , understanding boundaries or personal space , asking people what he wants or permission or where he wants to go , understanding sarcasm , when other people's jokes or when they're joking or when others don't understand his jokes.

Is Ladybug really convinctive , manipulative and abusive towards Cat Noir?

Ladybug and Cat Noir have been friends since 3rd grade but as they got older it was Ladybug who outgrown Cat Noir because she's more mature than Cat Noir due to him being immature , childish and baby-like but one of her other friends told Ladybug she's better off with someone who's more mature not someone who's baby-like person who can't handle "big kids" stuff and she frequently prefers hanging out with mature guys than Cat Noir so she decide to avoid Cat Noir at all cost and she forced him to grow up to act his age so their so called "friendship" isn't ruined in fact she verbally abused him for not maturing and acting his age in which Ladybug would yell at him and insulting his baby-like personality. Ladybug convinced Cat Noir his imaginations are real and she does it so often that the more she convinces him, the more Cat Noir believes it but then it got to the point where Cat Noir thinks everything he believes in his imaginations are a reality. Through every episodes of Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug and Cat Noir, Ladybug gets easily annoyed with Cat Noir's childish-babyish personality even tho he acts like a child or baby at times, he can't help it and be he's pressured to be "normal" , "average" and "perfect" that it's starting to stressed him out. In the New York special, Ladybug is excited to go to New York City with her classmates for French-American Friendship Week but she realizes she needs to tell Cat Noir about her absence and she gave cat plush toy with a ladybug-printed remote bottom on it but Cat Noir presses the remote button several times in excitement, making the toy in Ladybug's hand squeak and he presses the remote button again which it made Ladybug groan in annoyance. But when Cat Noir was in New York City, Ladybug was angry at him because he's suppose to be in Paris and is too insane-like crazy to come due to the risk of being put into a mental asylum or hospital.

Altho this is a big theory, it's obvious Cat Noir has a problem and why it seems unreal so I hope like it.

#marichat #chat noir #cat noir #ladynoir #ChildhoodRuined #MiraculousLadybug

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bobasheebaby · 4 years

Text

200 Harry Potter Prompts

Let me preface with this: I love the Harry Potter series, both the books and the movies and have shared both with my son; HOWEVER I don’t support the things that JK Rowling has been saying recently. I refuse to let her transphobia destroy something I love so I propose we take back these quotes from the characters we love and make as many of them as gay as we possibly can. Fuck you JK

1 “Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!” —Albus Dumbledore

2 “No post on Sundays.” —Vernon Dursley

3 “You’re a little scary sometimes, you know that? Brilliant … but scary.” —Ron Weasley

4 “It does not do well to dwell on dreams and forget to live.” —Albus Dumbledore

5 “Honestly, don’t you two read?” —Hermione Granger

6 “Why couldn’t it be ‘follow the butterflies’?” —Ron Weasley

7 “Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can’t see where it keeps its brain.” —Arthur Weasley

8 “It is our choices, NAME, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.” —Albus Dumbledore

9 “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” —Harry Potter

10 “Happiness can be found even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light.” —Albus Dumbledore

11 “I don’t go looking for trouble, trouble usually finds me.” —Harry Potter

12 “The ones that love us never really leave us.” —Sirius Black

13 “What’s comin’ will come, an’ we’ll meet it when it does.” —Rubeus Hagrid

14 “Soon we must all face the choice between what is right and what is easy.” —Albus Dumbledore

15 “I am what I am, an’ I’m not ashamed.” —Rubeus Hagrid

16 “It matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be.” —Albus Dumbledore

17 “Twitchy little ferret, aren’t you, NAME?” —Hermione Granger

18 “You’re just as sane as I am.” —Luna Lovegood

19 “I mean, it’s sort of exciting, isn’t it, breaking the rules?” —Hermione Granger

20 “Give him/her hell from us, NAME.” —Fred and George Weasley

21 “We’ve all got both light and dark inside us. What matters is the part we choose to act on.” —Sirius Black

22 “Just because you have the emotional range of a teaspoon doesn’t mean we all have.” —Hermione Granger

23 “Things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end, if not always in the way we expect.” —Luna Lovegood

24 “Let us step out into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure.” —Albus Dumbledore

25 “Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure.” —Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem

26 “Every human life is worth the same, and worth saving.” —Kingsley Shacklebolt

27 “It is the quality of one’s convictions that determines success, not the number of followers.” —Remus Lupin

28 “Not my son/daughter, you bitch!” —Molly Weasley

29 “You’ll stay with me?” “Until the very end.” —Harry and James Potter

30 “Of course it’s happening inside your head, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?” —Albus Dumbledore

31 “To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.” —Albus Dumbledore

32 “Time will not slow down when something unpleasant lies ahead." — Harry Potter

33 “If you want to know what a man’s like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals." — Sirius Black

34 “It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends." — Albus Dumbledore

35 “It is the unknown we fear when we look upon death and darkness, nothing more." — Albus Dumbledore

36 “You think the dead we loved ever truly leave us? You think that we don’t recall them more clearly than ever in times of great trouble?" — Albus Dumbledore

37 “Numbing the pain for a while will make it worse when you finally feel it.” — Albus Dumbledore

38 “The truth. It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution.'" — Albus Dumbledore

39 “Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself." — Hermione Granger

40 “I’ll be in my bedroom, making no noise and pretending I’m not there." — Harry Potter

41 “When in doubt, go to the library." — Ron Weasley

42 “Honestly, if you were any slower, you’d be going backward." — Draco Malfoy

43 “Mischief Managed!" — Harry Potter

44 “We are only as strong as we are united, as weak as we are divided." — Albus Dumbledore

45 “Your devotion is nothing more than cowardice. You would not be here if you had anywhere else to go." — Voldemort

46 “Curiosity is not a sin…. But we should exercise caution with our curiosity… yes, indeed." — Albus Dumbledore

47 “Differences of habit and language are nothing at all if our aims are identical and our hearts are open." — Albus Dumbledore

48 “The thing about growing up with NAME (and NAME) is that you sort of start thinking anything's possible if you've got enough nerve.'" — Ginny Weasley

49 “Indifference and neglect often do much more damage than outright dislike." — Albus Dumbledore

50 “NAME says people find it far easier to forgive others for being wrong than being right." — Hermione Granger

51 “Once again, you show all the sensitivity of a blunt axe." — Nearly Headless Nick

52 “Age is foolish and forgetful when it underestimates youth." — Albus Dumbledore

53 “No, NAME, you listen,” (pause) “We're coming with you. That was decided months ago — years, really.'" —Hermione Granger

54 “Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic. Capable of both inflicting injury, and remedying it." ― Albus Dumbledore

55 “Do not pity the dead, NAME. Pity the living, and, above all those who live without love. “-– Albus Dumbledore

56 “Anything’s possible if you’ve got enough nerve.” – Ginny Weasley

57 “For in dreams we enter a world that is entirely our own.” – Albus Dumbledore

58 “We’re all going to keep fighting, NAME. You know that?” – Neville Longbottom

59 “I am not worried, NAME … I am with you.” – Albus Dumbledore

60 “Celebrity is as celebrity does, remember that.” – Gilderoy Lockhart

61 “Parents shouldn’t leave their kids unless —unless they’ve got to.” – Harry Potter

62 “Greatness inspires envy, envy engenders spite, spite spawns lies.” – Lord Voldemort

63 “Killing is not so easy as the innocent believe.” – Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince

64 “What's life without a little risk?" — Sirius Black

65 “There were near misses, many of them. We laughed about them afterwards. We were young, thoughtless — carried away with our own cleverness.” – Remus Lupin

66 “You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it.” – Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

67 “You will also find that help will always be given at PLACE to those who ask for it.” – Albus Dumbledore

68 “I mean, you could claim that anything’s real if the only basis for believing in it is that nobody’s proved it doesn’t exist!” – Hermione Granger

69 “To have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever." — Albus Dumbledore

70 “Though we may come from different places, and speak in different tongues, our hearts beat as one." — Albus Dumbledore

71 “Always.” — Severus Snape

72 “Differences of habit and language are nothing at all if our aims are identical and our hearts are open.” — Albus Dumbledore

73 “It is important to fight and fight again, and keep fighting, for only then can evil be kept at bay though never quite eradicated.” — Albus Dumbledore

74 “Dark times lie ahead of us and there will be a time when we must choose between what is easy and what is right.” — Albus Dumbledore

75 “Time is making us fools again." — Albus Dumbledore

76 “I sometimes find, and I am sure you know the feeling, that I simply have too many thoughts and memories crammed into my mind.” — Albus Dumbledore

77 “The consequences of our actions are always so complicated, so diverse, that predicting the future is a very difficult business indeed.” — Albus Dumbledore

78 “I just feel so ... angry, all the time., and what if after everything I've been through, something's gone wrong inside me. What if I'm becoming bad?" — Harry Potter

79 “Tut, tut — fame clearly isn’t everything.” — Severus Snape

80 “Well, it may have escaped your notice, but life isn’t fair.” — Severus Snape

81 “Ah, yes,” he/she said softly, “NAME. Our new — celebrity.” — Severus Snape

82 ““I wish … I wish I were dead …” “And what use would that be to anyone?” — Severus Snape & Albus Dumbledore

83 “You don’t want me as your enemy, NAME.” — Severus Snape

84 “DON’T . . . CALL ME COWARD!” — Severus Snape

85 “Look . . . at . . . me . . . “ — Severus Snape

86 “Then you should have died! Died, rather than betray your friends, as we would have done for you." — Sirius Black

87 “NAME was a brave, clever, and energetic man/woman, and such men/women are not usually content to sit at home in hiding while they believe others to be in danger." — Albus Dumbledore

88 “Like the fact that the person NAME cared for the most about in the world was you.” — Albus Dumbledore

89 “You don’t understand — there are things worth dying for!” — Sirius Black

90 “Well, [bad] times like that bring out the best in some people and the worst in others.” — Sirius Black

91 “Oh, I’ve interrupted a deep thought, haven’t I? I can see it growing smaller in your eyes.” — Luna Lovegood

92 “I sleepwalk, you see. That’s why I wear shoes to bed.” — Luna Lovegood

93 “He/She doesn’t think you treated him:her very well, because you wouldn’t dance with him/her. I don’t think I’d have minded. I don’t like dancing very much.” — Luna Lovegood

94 “Come, daddy, NAME doesn't want to talk to us right now. He's/She’s just too polite to say it.” ~Luna Lovegood

95 “Being different isn't a bad thing. It means you're brave enough to be yourself.” - Luna Lovegood

96 “NAME, if brains were gold, you'd be poorer than NAME, and that's saying something.” — Draco Malfoy

97 “You foul, lying, evil little cockroach!” — Hermione Granger

98 “Oh, it was NAME, I was thinking about him and I lost track of things.” — Hermione Granger

99 “One person can’t feel all that at once, they’d explode.” — Hermione Granger

100 “It would be quite nice if you stopped jumping down our throats, NAME, because in case you haven’t noticed, NAME and I are on your side.” — Hermione Granger

101 “Next time there’s a ball, ask me before someone else does, and not as a last resort!” — Hermione Granger

102 “Very well spotted.” — Hermione Granger

103 “Always the tone of surprise.” — Hermione Granger

104 “Sometimes friendship means not having to say anything. Thank yous and apologies can sometimes get lost, but that doesn’t mean they’re unexpressed.” — Hermione Granger

105 “You’d think a bit of kissing would cheer him/her up.” — Ron Weasley

106 “And that's the second time we've saved your life tonight, you two-faced bastard!” — Ron Weasley

107 “I knew NAME was lying about that tattoo.” — Ron Weasley

108 “There's a time and a place for getting a smart mouth.” — Ron Weasley

109 “Oh, yeah, I borrowed it for a bit of bedtime reading.” — Ron Weasley

110 “What are you doing with all those books anyway?” — Ron Weasley

111 “Hang on a moment!” (said sharply) “We’ve forgotten someone!” — Ron Weasley

112 “I never really gave up on you. Not really." — Ginny Weasley

113 “It's okay NAME, it's alright. It doesn't matter." — Ginny Weasley

114 “People think they know all there is to know about you, but the best bits of you are ... heroic in really quiet ways." — Ginny Weasley

115 “Excuse me, but I care what happens to NAME as much as you do!” — Ginny Weasley

116 “Yeah, NAME, because you’re so talented ... at posing ...” — Ginny Weasley

117 “Forgot to brake, NAME, sorry.” — Ginny Weasley

118 “It’s for some stupid, noble reason, isn’t it?” — Ginny Weasley

119 “I never really gave up on you. Not really. I always hoped ... NAME told me to get on with life, maybe go out with some other people, relax a bit around you, because I never used to be able to talk if you were in the room, remember? And he/she thought you might take a bit more notice if I was a bit more — myself.” — Ginny Weasley

120 “There’s the silver lining I’ve been looking for.” — Ginny Weasley

121 “A good first impression can work wonders.” — Molly Weasley

122 “Beds empty! No note! Car gone-could have crashed-out of my mind with worry-did you care?” — Molly Weasley

123 “Where's the fun without a bit of risk?” — Fred Weasley

124 “You're joking, NAME! You are actually joking, NAME ... I don't think I've heard you joke since you were-“ — Fred Weasley

125 “What are we doing here? Has something gone wrong?” “Oh no, NAME,” [sarcastically.] “No, this is exactly where we wanted to end up.” — Ron and Fred Weasley

126 “Where is NAME?" "Still in the showers," "We think he’s/she's trying to drown himself.” — Harry Potter and Fred Weasley

127 “We thought we heard your dulcet tones." "You don't want to bottle up your anger like that, NAME, let it all out," “There might be a couple of people fifty miles away who didn't hear you.” — George and Fred Weasley

128 “I don't think you're a waste of space.” — Dudley Dursley

129 “Yeah, but coming from NAME that's like ‘I love you.’” — Harry Potter

130 “The point is, if we find out you’ve been horrible to NAME —” “— and make no mistake, we’ll hear about it.” — Arthur Weasley and Remus Lupin

131 “What you fear most of all is-fear.” —Remus Lupin

132 “There’s a bigger cause out there. It’s bigger than any of us here. But we stick together, all right? We stick together and look out for each other. Because you four are all I’ve got left. And I’m not going to see you die. Forever alive, all right? We’re not going to die." -Sirius Black

133 “Thought we were supposed to be friends? Best friends?” “We are, NAME.” — Severus Snape and Lily Potter

134 “NAME was scowling at him/her, but NAME refused to be judged by a cat.”

135 “I don’t know everything about life and marriage and happiness. But I do know what love is. And I do know that when love is real, and when love is in its strongest form, it is the most powerful thing on this earth. It kills, saves lives, heals wounds, and most of all, brings hope. That is what you have done for me, NAME. You have brought me hope." — James Potter

136 “I'm sorry too, that I will never know him/her ... but he/she will know why I died and I hope he/she will understand. I was trying to make a world in which he/she could live a happier life." — Remus Lupin

137 “I DON'T CARE! I'VE HAD ENOUGH, I'VE SEEN ENOUGH, I WANT OUT, I WANT IT TO END, I DON'T CARE ANYMORE!” — Harry Potter

138 “You do care. You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it.” — Albus Dumbledore

139 “He/She must have known I'd want to leave you." “No, he/she must have known you would always want to come back.” — Ron Weasley and Harry Potter

140 “You think I'm a fool?" “No, I think you're like NAME, who would have regarded it as the height of dishonor to mistrust his/her friends.” — Harry Potter and Remus Lupin

141 “You’re less like your father/mother/etc than I thought. The risk would’ve been what made it fun for NAME.” — Sirius Black

142 “The battle is always the same, just with different chapters.”

143 “I will if you go out with me, NAME.” — James Potter

144 “Understanding is the first step to acceptance, and only with acceptance can there be recovery.” — Albus Dumbledore

145 “We must try not to sink beneath our anguish, NAME, but battle on." — Albus Dumbledore

146 “Eat, you'll feel better." — Remus Lupin

147 “Training for the ballet, NAME?” — Draco Malfoy

148 “You’re a fool, NAME, and you will lose everything.” — Voldemort

149 “There is no good and evil. There is only power, and those too weak to seek it.” — Voldemort

150 “What if I don't care?" “I care. How do you think I'd feel if this was your funeral ...and it was my fault ...” — Ginny Weasley and Harry Potter

151 “Greatness inspires envy, envy engenders spite, spite spawns lies.”

152 “I have seen your heart, and it is mine.” — Voldemort

153 “What is it about my presence in your home that displeases you, NAME?” “Nothing — nothing, my Lord!” “Such lies, NAME . . .” — Voldemort and Lucius Malfoy

154 “Come out, NAME ... come out and play, then it will be quick it might even be painless I would not know I have never died.” — Voldemort

155 “Do nothing! He's/She’s mine to finish! He's /She’s mine!” — Voldemort

156 “They never learn. Pity.” — Voldemort

157 “Invite him inside, NAME. Where are your manners?” — Voldemort

158 “As inspiring as I find your bloodlust, NAME, I must be the one to kill NAME.” — Voldemort

159 “Oh, he/she knows how to play, little bitty baby NAME.” — Bellatrix

160 “I don't like to be kept waiting!” — Bellatrix (Hermione)

161 “Ah, shut up, NAME, yeh great prune.” — Hagrid

162 “You think it - wise - to trust NAME with something as important as this?" “I would trust NAME with my life.” — McGonagall and Albus Dumbledore

163 “It unscrews the other way.” — Professor McGonagall

164 “They’re supposed to be, you blithering idiot.” — Professor McGonagall

165 “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, NAME." — Professor McGonagall

166 “"I – I didn't think –" “That is obvious." — Harry Potter and Professor McGonagall

167 “Why is it when something happens, it is always you three?” — Professor McGonagall

168 “NAME, that was foolish!" "He spat at you.” — Professor McGonagall and Harry Potter

169 “NAME – you're here! What –? How –?" — Professor McGonagall

170 “I didn't want anyone to talk to me.” "Well, that was a bit stupid of you.” — Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley

171 “Are you really giving us permission to do this?” “Yes, NAME.” “Blow it up? Boom?” “BOOM!” Neville Longbottom and Professor McGonagall

172 “That's the spirit, now away you go.” — Professor McGonagall

173 “NAME, take NAME with you. He/She looks far too happy over there.” — Professor McGonagall

174 “Do nothing? Offer him/her up as bait? NAME is a boy/girl/child! Not a piece of meat!” — Professor McGonagall

175 “That was bloody brilliant!” — Ron Weasley

176 “May I offer you a cough drop, NAME?” — Professor McGonagall

177 “Things at NAME are far worse than I feared." — Dolores Umbridge

178 “You know, I really hate children." — Dolores Umbridge

179 “I'm sure we're all going to be very good friends." — Dolores Umbridge

180 “The time has come for answers, whether he/she wants to give them or not." — Dolores Umbridge

181 “Deep down, you know that you deserve to be punished. Don't you, NAME?" — Dolores Umbridge

182 “I WILL have order!" — Dolores Umbridge

183 “What NAME doesn't know won't hurt him/her." — Dolores Umbridge

184 “As I told you NAME, naughty children deserve to be punished.” — Dolores Umbridge

185 “NAME, do something. Tell them I mean no harm.” “I'm sorry, NAME. But I must not tell lies.” — Harry Potter and Dolores Umbridge

186 “And that, boys/girls, is why you should never go on looks alone.”

187 “NAME, listen ...” [quietly] “I can’t be involved with you any more. We’ve got to stop seeing each other. We can’t be together.” “It’s for some stupid, noble reason, isn’t it?” — Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley

188 “It’s been like ... like something out of someone else’s life, these last few weeks with you. But I can’t ... we can’t ... I’ve got things to do alone now.” — Harry Potter

189 “When you have seen as much of life as I have, you will not underestimate the power of obsessive love."

190 “You are protected, in short, by your ability to love!” — Albus Dumbledore

191 “NAME’s man/woman through and through, aren’t you NAME?” “Yeah I am. Glad we straightened that out.”

192 “He/She accused me of being NAME’s man/woman through and through.” “How very rude of him/her.” “I told him/her I was.”

193 “He/She will only be gone from PLACE when none here are loyal to him/her.” — Harry Potter

194 “Working hard is important. But there is something that matters even more, believing in yourself.” — Harry Potter

195 “One can never have enough socks.” — Albus Dumbledore

196 “People find it far easier to forgive others for being wrong than right.” — Albus Dumbledore

197 “Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” — Albus Dumbledore

198 “The best of us sometimes eat our words.” — Albus Dumbledore

199 “Time will not slow down when something unpleasant lies ahead.” — Hermione Granger

200 “Don’t you tell me what to do, NAME!” — Hermione Granger

25 notes · View notes

littleshebear · 4 years

Text

Little Bird

pt 1 | pt 2 | pt 3 | pt 4

AO3 Link

Zavala uncovers the exact circumstances of Amanda's arrival in the City. Amanda makes a visit to the Tower, with permission this time.

Content warning for childhood trauma, parental loss. First half of this is a little heavy.

___________________________

A hunter turned this way and that before shrugging and letting his arms flop to his sides. He shook his head, scanning the landscape. This place used to be an industrial area, it was littered with rusted old machinery and large concrete pipes exposed by years of erosion. There were a few derelict buildings dotted here and there, crumbed into nothing but concrete shells from years of abandonment and neglect. In short, the area was rich with hiding places for this thing that he had been tracking for the last half hour.

“It was right here! Where did it go?”

“Shhhh,” his Ghost hissed. “I still have it on radar. It’s close. Eleven o’clock. About ten feet in front, see that drainage pipe?”

The hunter nodded and drew his side arm. It was only one contact, but whatever it was, it was small but he wouldn’t let this go until he understood what it was. They were too close to the City to be cavalier about this.

“See if this turns out to be a rabbit…” He tailed off, sighing.

“It isn’t. Too big.”

“Dreg?” He asked as he crept forward.

“Too small.”

“Dog?” Whatever this was, it was fast, and almost certainly evading them on purpose. There was purpose in its movements. “Aw, I hope it’s a dog.”

He paused beside the pipe, listening for movement. He sidestepped and dropped down in front of the pipe in one smooth movement, raising his gun at his quarry. When his Ghost’s light fell on his target he gasped and immediately holstered his weapon.

A child cowered at the other end, pressed up against a metal grate choked with vegetation. Her blonde hair was damp and hung limply around her face. She held up one tiny hand to shield her eyes from his Ghost’s light. She was bleeding, the cuts on her fingers suggesting she had been trying, in vain, to shift the metal grid barring her escape.

“It’s just a kid…” He breathed before squatting down to fit into the pipe. He extended a hand toward her. “It’s okay, I won’t hurt you. Come out, niñita , it’s all right. Why are you out here all by yourself?”

She swallowed hard and edged forward, shuffling as she went, not taking her eyes off the hunter.

“That’s it,” he beckoned, “Come on, niñita, it’ll be alright.”

She got just within touching distance and dashed forward, ducking under his arm and shoving him to the side with all the force she could muster.

“Hey!” The hunter cried out. He tried to straighten up only to dunt his helmet on the roof of the pipe. “Ow.” He shuffled out awkwardly to see the child running as fast as she could away from him. It was then that he noticed she was missing one shoe, giving her an awkward, loping gait that would have been amusing if the circumstances were different. He ran after her, his longer legs easily closing the distance. He caught her around the waist, only to be met with shrieking and little fists drumming on his arms.

He frantically shooshed her, “ Niñita, niñita, stop! I’m a Guardian, I’m here to help.”

His Ghost swivelled around and dropped down to her eye level. “Please calm down.” She ignored this latest entreaty and tried to wriggle out of the hunter’s arms. “Take off your helmet. She’s afraid, show her your face, let her see you’re human.”

“She’ll make a break for it again.”

His Ghost sighed and dipped his spines. “I’ll transmat it to the ship.” The Hunter’s helmet disappeared with a whooshing sound and he risked loosening his grip enough to turn her around to face him. He hunkered down to her level and smiled.

“There, see? Look, I’m human, I’m not going to hurt you, you’re gonna be okay.” She kept tugging backward and away from him until he said, “I’ll take you home, I’ll take you to The City, it’s not far.”

She stilled, finally looking him in the eye. She didn’t speak, her heavy, uneven breathing being the only sound she made.

The hunter nodded encouragingly, “That’s right, The City. Is your family there?”

She shook her head and managed to wrench one arm free, which she used to wipe her running nose on her sleeve.

“Then where are they? Why are you all by yourself?”

She set her lips into a thin line and swallowed hard before speaking. “How far is it? The City?” The words emerged thin and strangulated, something between a hiss and a squeak.

“Not far,” he shrugged, “few hours by sparrow.”

She took a sharp, deep breath and screwed her eyes tightly shut as tears spilled over and left clean streaks through the dirt on her face. When she exhaled it came out as an ear-splitting scream that seemed to go on forever.

The Ghost shied backwards while the Hunter pulled her into a hug, muffling her next wail against his shoulder.

“Turn it off.” Zavala rises from his seat and turns his back on the Ghost who was projecting the recording of the day he and his Guardian found Amanda in the wilds. He stares out his office window across the City, working a muscle in his jaw as he processes what he’s just seen.

“Did we do something wrong?”

Zavala turns back around to face the Hunter, who’s perched on the edge of a chair on the other side of the desk. Cayde had told him which of his scouts to speak to about the circumstances of Amanda’s arrival in the City.

“Did we handle that badly? Is that why we’re here?” Ramos continues. Zavala can see why this man would struggle with a game of deception. His emotions are writ large in his behaviour. The scout looks up at Zavala with large, brown spaniel eyes, his brows knit together. He had taken off his gloves half way through his Ghost’s recounting of that day’s events and he grips them tightly in his lap, worrying them and turning them this way and that in his hands.

“I checked the records. Ramos, that’s your man. Good guy, great scout, terrible poker player,” Cayde had told him. For once, he’d had the good grace not to pry too deeply about why Zavala was so interested in this particular scout report. Zavala must have looked even more serious than usual.

“No,” Zavala assures him. “No, you’re to be commended, both of you.” He manages to muster a sad smile.

Ramos breathes out but still fidgets with his gloves. “Oh. Thank you Commander.” He manages to muster a lop-sided smile. “When you’re a Hunter and you get summoned to the Titan Vanguard you just assume, you know. Not that I’m saying you’re a hard ass, I mean, it’s just-

“Ramos. It’s fine. Relax, before you strain something.”

“Yes sir,” Ramos mumbles, setting back into his chair.

“What happened next?” Zavala sits down, rests his elbows on his desk and threads his fingers together.

“Nothing I didn’t cover in the report. She quieted down not long after, all cried out, I guess. I took her to a hospital to get her checked out.”

“Did she say anything?”

Ramos shakes his head. “Not really. She said she was sorry a couple times.”

“What was she sorry about?”

“She didn’t say, and honestly, Sir,” Ramos tips his head to the side and shrugs, “I didn’t want to push her.” He takes a deep breath before speaking again. “I went back out and scouted the area. I found a battle site, fairly fresh. Few burned out vehicles, some overturned supply crates. No survivors. No bodies.”

Zavala closes his eyes. “How long do you think she was alone for?”

“Hard to say, she couldn’t have lasted that long, alone. A day, maybe two? She was really good at hiding though, bless her. Gave us the runaround.” A heavy silence falls between them. Ramos picks at a loose thread on his gauntlets. “Her feet were bleeding.”

Zavala opens his eyes again, while the Hunter just stares glumly at his lap. “You did well Ramos. She’s alive because of you. Be proud.”

He mumbles a thank you, then looks worried again. “Why are you asking me about this now? Did something happen to her, is she okay?”

“She will be. She’s doing remarkably well all things considered.”

“Do you think,” he falters, then rallies, “Do you think I could go see her maybe? Just say hi?”

“In time, perhaps. For now, she’s a little fragile, I think.”

“Right, right.” He nods, his understanding not counter-acting his disappointment. “Was there anything else, sir?”

“No, thank you for coming in, you’re dismissed.” Ramos rises to leave. “If,” Zavala interrupts, “If you need to talk to someone about what happened, I can help with that.”

Ramos frowns, “I just talked to you about it.”

Zavala smiles softly, “No, I mean, talk to someone in a professional capacity. Counselling.”

“Oh…” Ramos says, comprehension dawning across his face. “You mean like a Talk -talk. That might be good.”

“I’ll have my Ghost send you some names.” He makes a show of sorting through some paperwork on his desk until Ramos leaves then slumps back in his chair. He sits in silent contemplation, staring at the ceiling, wondering what to do with this information. He almost doesn’t notice when Izanami appears beside him.

“I was relieved when you took a posting in the City,” his Ghost says gently, “I thought it would mean you wouldn’t have to see things like that again.”

“You think I should close my eyes to what happens outside the walls?”

“Of course not, nor do I think you would.” She bumps her shell against his shoulder, the tips of her spines tapping on the metal armour there. “But I reserve the right to worry about you.”

He holds his hand out for her to settle in his palm, almost a reflex after all these years with her by his side. “I needed to know. I knew it wouldn’t be pleasant. No wonder she doesn’t feel safe. They were so close. She went through all that to get to this City,” he sighs deeply before continuing, “And it’s failing her.”

“I keep telling you Zavala. You can’t save all of them.”

“No,” he concedes, “But I can try and save this one.”

While she can accept that a school trip to the Tower is a good deal more exciting than an average school day, Amanda allows herself a degree of smugness. As she trooped in with her schoolmates, all of them clad in garish luminous jackets, accompanied by their teacher and a few more adult minders, she thought back to her hangar misadventure. In comparison to sneaking into the hangar, alone, this is old-hat to her. Positively pedestrian. She must admit though, the man currently speaking to them is fascinating. She wonders where he got that helmet from and where its missing horn went.

“So, in conclusion, adversity breeds strength!” Shaxx exclaims, slamming a huge fist into his open palm as he addresses the group of children from the orphanage. They stare up at him, slack-jawed and necks craned. “Never regret mistakes, it’s how you learn. Follow your dreams! Be bold, take risks! I’ve heard so many Guardians complain about getting exploded from grenades,” He snorts, “The explosion isn’t the thing to focus on, it’s the getting up and carrying on. I get exploded all the time!” He pauses in his speech when he hears their teacher pointedly clear her throat. She subtly shakes her head at him, eyes wide and pleading. A few seconds of awkward silence pass before he points down to the rapt school party in front of him and states, “But stay in school! Listen to your teachers. Any questions? Yes you, blonde girl.”

“Why does your helmet only got one horn?” Asks Amanda.

“I’ll tell you when you’re older. Anyone else? You!” He points to a girl towards the back of the group. “Fierce-looking lass with the pigtails.”

“What are those bones up there?”

“Ahamkara, wish dragon. Dangerous beasts, I killed this one,” he replies, inclining his head in appreciation of the chorus of ‘wows’ and gasps that ripple through the group.

“Can we fight in the Crucible?” Asks one eager lad, not waiting for permission to speak despite sticking his hand in the air.

Shaxx throws his head back and laughs, his shoulders heaving. “Of course not. You’re only children.”

“What about when we’re older?”

He stops laughing abruptly and shakes his head. “No. Seriously, no. Guardians only.”

“But you said-“

“All right children, I think we’ve taken up enough of Lord Shaxx’s valuable time. Let’s all thank him and move on,” their teacher interjects breathlessly. “Commander Zavala very kindly offered us to have a look at the Vanguard Hall, won’t that be exciting? Don’t wander off, do as the tour frame says and don’t touch anything.”

Shaxx places his hands on his hips and nods to each pair of children as they pass by, not noticing the look of relief on the teacher and escort’s faces as they leave.

“How was that Arcite?” Shaxx calls across the corridor to his frame companion. “I thought that went well.”

“Very well my Lord! Inspiring!”

Shaxx gives a self-satisfied nod. “I think so too.”

Ikora glances up from her studies as the children troop in, two by two. She scowls, unable to drown out the excited chatter of children and the droning of the guide Frame explaining the history and purpose of the Vanguard Hall.

“I can’t believe you agreed to this,” she says to Zavala through clenched teeth. “I feel like I’m in a zoo.”

“I didn’t agree to it,” Zavala replies, drawing himself up and placing his hands behind his back. “I suggested it. I want them to feel like they have a stake in the City, so I want them to see how we protect them, that we value them. This makes it less abstract for them. They might feel more secure if they actually see us at work.”

“Guardian/Civilian relations? I thought that’s what Cayde’s sports day nonsense was for.”

“Nonsense? Cayde protests. “Dodgeball is a noble endeavour, I’ll have you know.”

“The purpose of this exercise is two-fold.” Zavala continues, ignoring Cayde’s indignation. “Framing this visit as educational, as school-work also means they might be more inclined to find this place boring and not sneak up here. I want to take away the Tower’s mystique.”

“Playing some three-dimensional chess there,” Says Cayde, “That’s strategy. Two birds, one stone. See Ikora? That’s why he’s Commander, we need to get on his level.”

“Just promise this won’t be a frequent occurrence,” Ikora sighs.

“We’ll see how this turns out then-“

“Psst! Commander!”

Zavala turns to find the source of the hissed interruption; a grinning Amanda Holliday, her chin resting on one of the railings surrounding the upper level of the hall. One of her pants pockets bulges out sideways, with a little scrap of luminous fabric spilling out. If only those high visibility jackets were harder to take off and not so easy to conceal.

“Amanda, what are you doing?” He demands.

“Hi!” She waves, excited and oblivious. “Didja get my letter?”

“I did. Apology accepted, now get back to your classmates before you feel the need to write me another apology. Do you want this to turn into another hangar incident?”

“Hey!” Cayde calls across the table. “You got me in trouble for that, how come I didn’t get an apology?”

“No I didn’t. I didn’t rat you out,” Amanda responds, using the railing to pull herself up onto her tiptoes.

“You told me you were waiting on your mom!”

“I said she was an engineer, and she was. I never actually said she was in the hangar.”

“So, a child has broken away from the group, Cayde is losing an argument to said child…” Ikora shoots a lopsided smile at Zavala, who has taken to pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Has the Tower’s mystique been sufficiently dispelled?”

“Cayde, let this be an object lesson in not making assumptions,” Zavala announces, blocking out Ikora’s teasing. “And Amanda Holliday, please get back to your group.”

“Are those guns?” Amanda drops down to her haunches and cocks her head to the side to get a better look outside the window at the end of the Hall. “They’re huge!”

“Anti-aircraft cannon,” Cayde says, gleefully. “In case any Fallen Ketches get too close. Aren’t they great?”

“Yeah! How do they work? How did you get them up there?” Exclaims Amanda. “You gonna fire ‘em?”

“Obviously not-“ begins Ikora.

Zavala glares at each of them in turn. “Ikora, I will handle this. Cayde, do not encourage her. Amanda, Get back to your classmates and I shall consider it,”

“Yes Sir!” Amanda hops to her feet, waves frantically then makes her way back to the group, expertly weaving her way around frames, furniture and civilian workers to hide herself from her classmates and school staff.

Ikora watches her progress across the hall and smiles softly. “One has to admire her ability to avoid being seen unless she wills it.”

“Indeed. It’s a survival technique,” Zavala mutters, almost to himself. He bunches his fists and leans on the table for a few moments, before pushing himself up by his knuckles. “Mr. Jiang. I believe the defence cannon are due for a test fire?”

The City Forces soldier Zavala had called upon stares at him for a second, glances at the tablet in his hand, then back to Zavala. “I don’t think so, Sir? Not for a couple weeks?”

“We’re due.” Zavala assures him. He raises his voice to address the children at the other end of the Hall. “We are about to conduct an ordinance test. Nothing to be alarmed about. Cover your ears please.”

The Frame escorting the children looks as confused as a humanoid robot can, then reassures the children not to worry. The children for their part, clamp their hands over their ears, snap to attention and train their eyes on the window at the end of the hall.

Jiang sounds out a countdown to fire. When he reaches zero, the floor under their feet vibrates and there’s a muffled boom from outside the room.

Zavala looks up at the children, half expecting fear. They wait for the vibrations to subside before erupting into cheers and applause.

He breaks into a smile, a rare, public indulgence as he looks up and makes eye contact with Amanda. He may not have broken the mystique of the Tower, he can’t say if this made her feel safer but as he watches her clap and jump up and down on the spot, he knows it was worth it.

“You getting broody, Zav?” Cayde asks, following his gaze.

“Nonsense, Cayde.” Zavala looks away from Amanda and turns his attention to Jiang. “Targeting telemetry on my desk by tomorrow, yes?”

“Yes sir,” Jiang replies hesitantly. “So…am I to reschedule the…scheduled test, sir?”

Zavala, nods slowly. “Yes, you’re clear to reschedule, assuming everything is within parameters.” He briefly raises his hand to Amanda, who waves back at him as she and the other children retreat through the doorway.

“Yeah, you’re not fooling anyone,” says Cayde. “That’s it, I’m roping you in to help with the next dodgeball match.”

“I’m busy,” Zavala counters, dropping his gaze to watch a live patrol feed coming through on his tablet.

“I haven’t even decided on a date yet!”

“I’ll think of something.”

____________________

A/N: Full disclosure, "I get exploded all the time," isn't something I came up with, it's in-game dialogue but I love it too much.

Ever since Forsaken dropped, I couldn't stop thinking about Amanda describing how she lost her parents. Losing her dad that close to the city was just too heartbreaking to handwave away. As upsetting as it is, I didn't think I could properly tackle her as a character but ignore that aspect of her past.

#Destiny fanfiction #My writing #Amanda Holliday #Commander Zavala #kidfic #Zavala

12 notes · View notes

acioo · 5 years

Text

( PART THREE HERE ) & ( PART ONE HERE ) here are NINE MORE CHARACTER BASES ( label & background & personality ), all of whom i have played out in the past. they expand beyond ‘ the fuck boy ‘ and ‘ the arrogant rich kid ‘ because i think as a community we’re all tired of the cliche bull, so have some of my most fun & most subversive times. these are for inspiration purposes as well as admin purposes. if you are going to use these in an rph setting, i request credit, but otherwise, it’s not necessary. ( all details viable to change ; pinterest board links available for all of them - if you are interested in my characters, see my muse page ) TW : violence, alc, drugs, ( parental ) emotional neglect, death, blood, homelessness, police

001. THE WITCH — you are in the second generation of witchy women in your family. you’re not meant to misuse, you’re meant to give back, your mother tells you. nature loves you but nature holds grudges, your mother tells you. you are not you but we, your mother tells you. you will not heed her advice. age six, you learn how to make the tea boil in seconds just by whistling, even if you know that it’s not necessary. age ten, you make the kids who say bad words to you trip on their way up the stairs, leaving them with bloody noses and mouthfuls of curses. age sixteen, you fall in love with a girl who loves you like she’s going to lose you, who makes you forget why your parents crossed continents and why your blood sings a song of violence and why you stand unflinching in the eye of loss. you and your friends get into bad things when you start to get old enough for people to notice you. their eyes always go to you first. you and your dark eyes. you and the furrow in your brow. you and your lesson in awakening. you adopt another stray emotionally compromised teenager into your friend group and she tells you breathlessly, reverently that you’re the most beautiful person she’s ever seen. and it makes you mad, but maybe not at her, because you can recognize the good and bad people like a lie detector that’s seen too much and knows in details what a long night is because they’re all you have. you’re powerful in a way that they don’t seem to understand and maybe, you will take a lesson your mother. you’re powerful and you won’t let them see.

002. THE PROM QUEEN — the oldest by eleven minutes, you grow up trying to be everything your little siblings need. your parents are twisted but you learn to see them through rose-colored glasses instead of living in pain. when your siblings fall, you feel it, too, and when they cry, you cry too. it’s too much responsibility. your parents feed and clothe them, but you hold their mental health in your hands and the truth is you’re no better. you just got so good at hiding behind your mask that you can’t seem to tell the difference between you and party favor anymore, and the fact of the matter is that while they’re quiet and just so different in a way that your parents feared they would be, you blend in like a chameleon. you’re class president and prom royal. that’s the way it’s always been. but all the makeup in the world can’t hide the fact that you’re no better. the older you get, the more they can see. your grandmother, first. then your little sister’s best friend. your first love. everything you try to hide sits in your lap and you try to wrestle it into submission and sometimes it wins. they know you but you don’t. your eyes flash golden sometimes when you’re mad enough that you remember that you’re the one who put the burn stains on the wood floors of your family’s old penthouse, but you’re more human than anyone can ever even imagine.

003. THE UNAPOLOGETIC SLOTH — you’re the small-town preacher’s child who comes out with a slam when you turn ten years old. you’re burning your clothes in the basement when your mother comes home from book club. you’re looking for a way out, but all she wants to know is if you want to do it in the expensive fire pit outside instead. they call you their golden child but no one else shares the sentiment. you’re lucky that your group of friends ( they don’t look like you exactly or act like you exactly, but you all know what it’s like to feel like you’re alone in the world, or you did until you met them ) likes the way you bite back even if your grandmother doesn’t and neither does she come over for christmas dinner anymore and it tears you up inside until you bleed an angry and violent storm and trail curses ( against anyone, against god, if there is a god at all, if you even believe in a god at all ) down the creaky wood stairs from your room all the way into you mom’s lexus. you’ll come back but for now, you are a tempest and you are only beautiful when you’re burning. you’re not the type to bend yourself out of shape for people who won’t look back at you. you’re happy with yourself in a way that most people wish they could be, most people who spend nights drinking or turning in bed or smiling. you’re happy because you couldn’t care less.

004. THE PYROMANIAC — the child of two famous superheroes, you’re the picturesque image of your mother. you only have your father’s mutant blue eyes and you think that you’ll curse your mother with unhappiness for it until she gives up on you like you want her to. you hate her for her giving you everything you have. your powers, your hair, your two good hands. you love your father more than you love anything. it starts when you’re still little. lying about your powers, saying you have your fathers. your parents can’t stop it. the therapists certainly can’t stop it. not even your classmates' jeers can. the fires start in your teens around the time you start sneaking out at night. your mother with her kind eyes ( not yours, which are an icy and violent storm that everyone needs to seek cover from ) and tired crinkle in her forehead, who loves you even if the only time she gets your affection is at the request of your father, asks you about it and you don’t answer, look at her with contempt and a scoff. she knows the answer anyway. you’re the angriest kid she knows and they all wonder where you got it from as you project the worst pieces of your parents. your father's arrogance. your mother’s envy. by the time you turn eighteen, you’ve been arrested six times ( your party stories are to die for ; arson & assault & arson & underage drinking & arson & disorderly conduct ). you’re so hilarious, so famous, that they like to forget that you are also lethal.

005. THE PRINCELY POLYMATH — you don’t grow up as a person. the only child of one of the richest men the world may yet see, you come out of nowhere. bright hair and brighter eyes, you look and act nothing like your father. it takes you many years to find out that the only reason you’re surrounded by people is that they want something from you. the anxiety develops around the same time. coils into you and holds you tight. you cover it up poorly with anger and insult. it’s a bad look on you and it makes you bite your tongue hard enough to draw blood but it’s better than the alternative. you’re still going to get followed around. you’re still going to have callers. because you’re attractive and you’re devastating and you’re one of the brightest minds they’ve ever seen. you try not to let your father find out that under that mop of blonde curls lies a brain that can’t be matched, but he does when the maid returns from your room with empty vodka bottles and books on aeronautics and too-tiny baggies and sketches of architecture. your iq test makes the news, but you just wanted something of your own. your new school is just as fancy, but now you don’t have to hide the fact that you’re bored and unchallenged. when you’re fourteen, your starlet mother, who your father never forgave you for resembling, will overdose on pills in a bathroom in ibiza as you take the sats. you’re not allowed to be sad. you haven’t seen her since your fifth birthday. there’s nothing for you here. you wonder when there will be.

006. THE BEST OF THEM ALL — for as long as you can remember, you’ve been the nicest kid anyone has ever known. a candy-sweet smile and you really mean it, too. people marvel at the way you carry yourself and the hpw you can speak to people, but they’re always looking over your shoulder for your brighter, more reckless friends. you’re in the instagram posts but you’re no one’s first choice, and it’s okay because you’re used to it. you’re still going to be there when they fall down and cut themselves on the sharp edges of others that you told them with a wavering voice to watch out for. you keep a shovel in your trunk and your ringer on. because you’re that good. you won’t survive this kind of disregard but you think you’ve known this from the start. you’re not the protagonist in this story, but maybe you should be. people like to hear about warzones and long nights with longer bottles but the fact of the matter is that you’re not the kind of kid. you’re warm hands and a down looked smile. you won’t stand on the edge of the mountain but you’re happy to use your first aid kit to patch up anyone who does.

007. THE ACTIVIST — your mother never wants to be a mother and your father isn’t the kind of man she’d trust with her heart, let alone you with your chubby hands and big eyes. giving you up is the right thing to do. you run away from foster homes left and right. eventually, they stop looking for you, and you move from state to state, a rolling stone of your own. you find a person of your own. you call them your twin, but the facts don’t line up in a way you won’t realize for a very long time. eventually, you find your place with a microphone in hand and a shoebox under your feet. you care about everyone but yourself and you’re pretty okay with that. you’re a survivor, you always have been. when you’re fifteen, the peaceful protest you organized gets interrupted by local police who ask for a permit that’s not there. the noise ruptures your eardrum ; the crowd, the riot guns, the yelling. you never get back all your hearing but it won’t stop you. you’d never let that happen. you keep going, just different and with the help of friends. when you’re sixteen, you’re moving through a crowd, doc martens ahead of you when you stumble into a strong chest. an older man with a kind smile. when he offers to walk you home, asks if you’re parents know where you are this time of day, you laugh, but he’s serious. ( you’ve never met someone kind over the age of twenty. ) he adopts you in the spring and your platform is larger now, but you’re still the same old kid with fire in their heart and no chip on your straight shoulders. that’s the year you track down your biological mother. she’s apologetic and kind, but honest with you and you forgive her. she thought she was doing what was best for you and you think, despite the grim, and the scares, and the bad parts, that she did. you grow up, move from smartphones to tv screens to podcasts. you make a difference.

008. THE PSYCHIC’S DAUGHTER — you’re never going to be your sister, and eventually, you’ll be able to live with this fact. she’ll know of a father, a man who has dark hair and dark eyes and a dark heart, but you left him breathless and unhappy because he, like you, is a fighter. the worst person you know has your last name and your lips. your mother. she is what someone would call a powerful woman. she opens up a business of psychic women, trademarked under your last name, and you know it’s going to haunt you until the day you die. you know they have no power. you know they’re a trick of the light or a flick of a card or a bag of sequins. they teach you one thing. if you say anything with enough confidence, someone will believe you. you don’t know why you never say anything, but you don’t. you won’t. you will never reveal their secret. it’s not yours to tell. when you’re sixteen, following after your sister with big puppy dog eyes as she speaks gold and weaves silk with her steps, she will beat a girl half to death on the football field. she never tells you why and it seals the fate between you, but the truth is that you’d never be able to forgive yourself if she told you. ( she did it for you. the unloved child people whisper about under the bleachers. the psychic's youngest. you’ll curse them, they say. ) you are not your sister and you’re certainly not your mother. you’re dramatic, earnestly so, not with an outreached hand but with an open heart. and you may never recover from spending your days in the dark house at the end of the block, but it won’t hurt to try.

009. THE BACKGROUND CHARACTER — your small town chokes you from a young age. you grow up as one of the cool ones in that big squad of pretty, rich kids that everyone wants to be apart of, but you never asked for entry. your mother’s a bird who breathes down your neck, pecks at you for answers that she will never get because you’re too stunted, too angry to really be the child she’d always dreamed of having, and you find that kind of funny because you’re a lab baby that cost more than her car. you’ll try for her, but not for anyone else. they know that your ‘we’ll see‘s and your ‘maybe‘s are really just your fun way of saying you don’t want to hang out. you’ll try for her because she gave you everything you have ever had, but all they give you is migraines. too loud and too inconsiderate, you think. you’re a harsh judge on people, but they know what they bought into when they invested your sour apple self. you watch from the windows and that’s how you’ve always liked it. you’re safe there. they can’t hurt you. you’ll sleep with one every other month, or attend a party or two, but you’re too fast and too much of a whim for them to even know you before you’re gone.

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