#we must be wiser than toddlers | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

house-of-slayterr · 2 years

Text

The Consequences of My Actions

Hannibal Family Pt. 7: @charliedawn @iloveslasher

Morgan’s POV:

Dinner had been interesting last night. Peter’s little friend was quite the character. They spoke in an odd way, almost like they weren’t afraid to speak their mind. Not even about confrontational subjects, just anything that came to mind. They seemed to think a lot, their brows almost always knit together in a confused display.

They were younger than Peter, that much was obvious, but they were in the same class. So they must be somewhat intelligent. Otherwise my little cousin would not hang out with them. He didn’t bring many students home, unless they were to become dinner guests. Hannibal called Peter away for help with something nearly half an hour ago. I watched Newt from the shadows as they stayed in the living room.

They where laying on the their stomach on the carpet, rubbing small circles into the plush fabric with their palm. Everyone few seconds or so they would shiver. It would start at the top of their spine and roll all the way through their toes. I could see them scrunch their nose each time it happened, as if it made them uncomfortable. Yet they continued to do it. How odd.

I watched a little while longer, entranced by their odd behaviour. No wonder Hannibal found them intriguing. They were no Will Graham, but they hadn’t seen the things that man had. They weren’t quite haunted in the same way. Instead they held an hier of naivety. Normally I’d be disgusted by it, but I sort of pity them.

Danger is lurking quite literally right under their nose, and yet they’re none the wiser. Of course, we all loved Peter. But if it came down to it, Newt would be disposed off if they became a threat. But this was possibly the most non threatening human I’ve ever observed. Even toddlers have more devious intentions.

They had a peculiar way of moving as well. Their movements were stiff, instead jagged. But not with pause like someone in thought, instead disconnected like someone who’s checked out. Mentally ill, I’m sure. They have to be, everyone else knew to stay away from Peter. Despite his shy demeanour, others could sense his sinister undertones.

They were kicking their feet to some uneven beat. Changing rhythm haphazardly and with no reason. I suddenly realised, I had no idea what they were even meant to be doing. Why were they hanging out in the living room with Peter? The television wasn’t on, they didn’t have a book in front of them, no puzzles… they were just playing with the carpet and completely content. I moved a bit closer, still staying out of their peripheral.

They began to hum a tune, their voice low and soft. It was gentle at first, almost timid. But it grew louder seemingly the more impatient they got with waiting. Until they began to mumble the words.

“Forget you’re apart of me, I know that you’re fond of me. But when I ask you if you love me, forget like lobotomy.” They sang.

It was unlike any song I’d heard before. Kevin liked to keep up to date on the latest music trends. But this sounded nothing like the type of thing he enjoyed. Hannibal and I had more refined taste, of course.

“I wish I could take a piece of my heart out. Make you leave. But even if they cut out my whole brain, feelings will always be.”

Their feet kicking became more rhythmic as they got into the song.

“Make me forget who I am. Say you’ll make me understand, you’re just taking my personal power.” They finished.

They ended the song with a dramatic sigh, turning to flop on their back. They shivered once again, yet this time it was more violent, almost like a small jerk. It caused them to sit up suddenly. Their eyes were screwed shut, I tilted my head curiously.

“Peter?” They asked?

It was so soft, I almost didn’t hear it. They must have noticed my presence so I stepped forward into the light. I wasn’t expecting them to jump as much as they did.

“Oh! Morgan.” They said.

“Peter is still with Hannibal, did you need something? I was passing by and I heard you call for him.”

Their face scrunched up.

“No, it’s fine Morgan, thank you.”

The frowned deeply. The kind that tugged at the corner of their eyes. I was going to take my leave, not wishing to over stay my welcome, I could always go back to observing later. They still needed a proper threat assessment; to be tested. To see if they could be trusted.

“Are they ok?”

“Hmm?” I hummed.

“Just- well, they’ve been gone awfully long time…” they said nervously.

A small bead a sweat formed where their throat met their clavicule. I watched as they swallowed thickly. They were nervous all of a sudden, but was it because of me, or something else? I took a step forward.

“I’m sure everything’s just fine, perhaps Hannibal got a call from Mr. Crawford and didn’t have time to drop Peter off back at home.”

This only made them more worried. They shook their head, hugging their body.

“I Hope not, Peter doesn’t belong at places like that.”

What a strange statement. Peter thrived in the realm of the dead. We all did, killing was our specialty. He wouldn’t be disturbed by a measly criminals sloppy murder scene. They were all amateurs, which is why they got caught. Of course I knew where they were. They were dealing with a particularly nasty piece of shit. The more I observed Newt, the less I could understand how their father could abuse them as much as Hannibal seems to think he did. He didn’t tell me much, and I didn’t pry. If it was pertinent, I’d be the first to know.

But I couldn’t tell them that. That we kidnapped their father and we’re torturing them. That Peter requested to do most of it himself. He wanted to make that man hurt for every bad thing he did to his best friend. And I respected that, seeing him take initiative for once was thrilling. It’s a shame I had to be here instead, babysitting. Making sure they didn’t run.

“Are you hungry?” I asked.

They tilted their head, brows furrowing much more. Almost as if nobody had ever asked them such a question. Perhaps no one had.

“We shouldn’t eat until everyone’s back home.”

Interesting, they called this place their ‘home’, not Peter’s, not mine, just home.

“Nonsense, a snack never killed anyone. I won’t tell if you don’t.” I offered.

I had to get them to trust me if I was going to test their loyalty. Scaring them away would do no good, not this time. Not when Peter seemed to actually care for this one. He would be devastated and I cannot have that clouding my conscious. I held my hand out for them to take, which they excepted.

“Thanks.” They mumbled.

They trailed behind me to the kitchen. I thought about what I could cook them. I knew for a fact, Hannibal had yet to serve them anyone yet. I don’t know what he was waiting for, it’s not like they would know. He’d done it many times, with Miss Lounds, Alana, Jack… Will. They’d all eaten someone without knowing. Even Abigail had, so Newt being a minor wasn’t what was stopping him. But I shouldn’t go behind his back, he had his reasons. As tempting as it would be to watch them devour someone, and see them break when they found out.

That was always the most fun, watching them break. The men were more satisfying, they always tried to me ‘manly’ about it. But they’d resort to puking and tears in no time. And the women, the women grew hysteric and would plead to whatever god they believed in for forgiveness. But Newt, how would they react? They belonged to neither classification, not fully. Despite looking like a girl on the outside, their brain was much more complex than that. I wondered what it would taste like. I shook the thought from my head, and looked back when a hand was placed on my shoulder. I raised a brow at them.

“Lost you there for a moment, where did you go?” They asked.

“Go?”

The gave me a nod, chuckling softly under their breath.

“In here.” They pointed to their head. “Your eyes went dark, like Peter’s do when he’s thinking.”

They too were observant, interesting. Maybe they would be more useful then I originally gave them credit for.

“Nowhere you need to worry yourself about.” I answered plainly. I knew they didn’t mean to pry, but they didn’t seem to understand we were still strangers. They shouldn’t pretend to know me because they knew Peter.

“Kevin doesn’t disappear in his head much.”

I raised a brow once more, daring them to continue.

“He hides in someone else’s instead. Poking around in whatever hole he can find. Digging deeper until they’re to confused to question his motives.” They started.

Bjr it didn’t sounds scared, or judgmental. It was like they were stating a simple fact. It wasn’t harsh, nor soft, just spoken plainly, with utter disinterest.

“You make my brother sounds like a narcissist.”

“With a tendency for sociopathy actually. He doesn’t like me very much.”

I frowned. Had they read Hannibal’s folders? I knew he kept files on each of us, his own way of feeling in control. He was in charge while Hannibal Sr. was in jail after all. We’d have to break him out soon; he’d been locked up for far to long.

“You believe Kevin is a sociopath?” I questioned.

I took some cheese from the fridge; grabbing the proper knife to cut it into cubes. Cheese and crackers would be a simple snack they would enjoy. They didn’t seem to be the type for a broad pallet. Their taste were quite childish.

“Is that what I said?” They asked back.

It wasn’t quite challenging in tone, more defensive.

“But you believe he had a tendency to be so.”

“He’s cynical, charming, arrogant, impulsive, irritable, presents as having little empathy and frequently gets in trouble in school. Often times, dragging Peter with him.” The concluded.

Fascinating. Yet they dared to challenge him last night at dinner. I continued to make their snack. They sat at the counter, fidgeting with their nails.

“You’ve paid attention to Kevin’s behaviour at school, before you were intimate with Peter?”

They scrunched their nose.

“Please do not use that word. There is nothing going on between Peter and I. Intimate suggests… unsavoury things, we’re familiar, harmonious, but not intimate.”

I raised my hands in mock defence. There was that shiver again, a visceral reaction.

“But yes, Kevin has been called down to the office 47 times, been reprimanded in front me 24, but I’m sure there’s been countless more, he’s gotten in 7 fist fights, two of which he didn’t initiate and he’s been suspended 3 times. All since the beginning of the year when I got here.”

They picked at the skin of their fingers more harshly, clearly becoming worked up. I knew I should step back, Hannibal wouldn’t be pleased if I started to wear down Peter’s new toy so quickly. But I couldn’t help myself.

“And what do you think of me?” I asked.

They looked up for the first time since they sat down, a bewildered look crossing their features.

“I don’t know you Morgan… I won’t pretend to.”

“Assume me.” I pushed.

They sighed heavily.

”You seem to have compulsive tendencies…” they poked around their head for more descriptors.

“Oh?”

“You’ve readjusted your grip on the knife 9 tiems, three for each time you’ve had to pick it up again after pausing. You did the same thing last night at dinner. You also spin your fork twice before eating. You tap for times on the table with your left forefinger once you’ve set a utensil down. And you adjust your sleeves between each action, which doesn’t come off as a nervous behaviour. In fact you don’t seem to be a nervous person in the slightest. You’re quite confident in all your actions.”

They cleared their throat.

“I could have declined your offer for a snack, but you would have persisted. Which suggests to me your obsessive need for control. You’re a perfectionist. If I had said no, it would have ruined how you pré-planned this whole interaction in your head. You wish to get to know me because your protective of your family, but more importantly Peter. Because you’re paranoid, a symptom of your PTSD.” They finished.

My grip on the knife tightened, my knuckles turning white. Now I knew why Hannibal’s patients felt uncomfortable when he read them. It was like being splayed open on an autopsy table for all the buzzards to pick and chose which sort of you they bore into. Their eyes trailed down to my hand. I expected them to react, pulling back in fear, and I would have to think quickly how to handle this. But I was stunned at what they did next.

Their hand felt gently on top of my own.

“I’m not going to hurt you, or Peter, Morgan. I answered because you asked. Don’t read to much into it.” They said, giving me a gentle smile.

I relaxed my hand a little.

“And Hannibal?” I questioned.

They were coming too close to figure us out, I would have to call a family meeting later. They didn’t retract their hand until they felt me pull my own away. They dropped their hands in their lap.

“Hmmm. He’s difficult to read. He doesn’t leave much time during our sessions for me to observe him. He asks too many questions. And outside of his office, we only meet during meals. He’s a very busy man. Possibly afraid of being alone with his own thoughts for too long. Perhaps Peter’s narcism was learned from Dr Lecter. He doesn’t mean to, but he’s not great at hiding his prejudice. But he judges with the best of intentions. Some Doctors join the feule because they like the sense of control, but he wouldn’t have become a psychologist if he didn’t want to help, right?”

Now this was interesting. A real question. A little intonation of hope at the end, they wanted a real answer.

“I do believe Hannibal enjoys his job, yes.”

They smiled at me.

“He too is low on empathy, which isn’t a bad thing. He makes up for it in showing sympathy, at least I can feel it. I’m sure his other patients do to.”

“So you’re officially a patient?”

“We’ll, no, no more than you are, I suppose. Perhaps I should be, I think Dr Lecter thinks so. He thinks our chats are useful, I find them boring. But it makes him happy, which in turn makes Peter happy, which-“

“Makes you happy”

I slid the plate to them.

“Peter makes me very happy.” They said.

I could tell it was sincere. The first statement they’d made this far that wasn’t flat. It held a type of warmth that I couldn’t rightfully describe. It was nice to know they didn’t have any sinister intentions with my cousin.

“Did I answer all you questions Morgan?”

“For now. Unless there’s anything else you’d like to share. Or I could leave you be until dinner.”

“No, I think I enjoy the company. Unless, of course, that was just your polite way of telling me you have better things to be doing. Thank you for the snack.”

I sat beside them on the counter, and watched a small smile grow on their lips.

“Your turn.” They said.

“You wish to know what I think of you?”

They nodded as they took a bite of the cracker. It was odd how happy they got from such a simple meal. It was so bland. They offered me one, but I pushed the plate back to them.

“We’ll, I’m not quite sure.”

“You don’t think you understand me, do you?“

“Does anyone understand anyone?”

They chuckled.

“I won’t be offended if you’re wrong. I’m sure I got a lot wrong earlier. My analysis was quite brutal, at least form a normal societal standpoint. Narcissism, and other personality disorders aren’t something that are taken lightly. People demonise them far to much. The people suffering with these conditions are still people, and society conveniently forgets that.”

No wonder they feel for Peter’s charms. They held all the cards to see the red flag, yet chose to wear rose coloured glasses. I pity them.

“We’ll, you care deeply, you show it with your actions rather than words. Acts of service are your love language. You’re adverse to touch most times, but you’re more comfortable when you initiate it first. And you do so when you’ve decided the other persons feelings are more important than your own.”

I watched as they chewed at their bottom lip, squirming in their seat. It was fun to watch.

“I don’t think you live in reality. You’re in heavy denial about something which is why you focus all your energy on being a people pleaser. You try your best to fit in, but not because it’s what you want to do, rather as a survival technique. You know your ship is sinking, so you desperately cling onto the most stable thing you can find, which happens to be my cousin. You idolise him, wrongfully so.”

They tore into the skin of their nails this time, little droplets of blood, beading at the surface.

“You don’t think Peter is worth looking up to?”

“Nobody ever is. Your attachment to my cousin is unhealthy, which is probably why Hannibal insists on making you one of his patients. He can stop you from taking things too far.”

They pushed out their chair.

“Thank you for your analysis Morgan. I think I’m done with snack time.”

They quickly left the room. I could tell they were fighting back tears. Sure, it was harsh, but was I wrong? Their interest could quickly turn to obsession. And I didn’t want to see Peter her his heart broken when Hannibal and I would have to put them down. They couldn’t stay long, it would be better to convince them to leave on their own. I took out my phone and called my uncle.

“How’s Peter doing?” I mused.

“You didn’t call just to talk about Peter, Morgan, spit it out.”

“The child is getting too close, you’ll have to work harder on your manipulation. They know you’re trying to sway them in some way, they just aren’t sure of what, or why. I’ve planted a seed of doubt, be sure to water it, won’t you?”

I hung up the phone. Hannibal and I were quite sparse in our communication. It wasn’t rude, just not laced with all the bullshit embellishments. Poor little Newt walked away with their tail between their legs. This should be fun.

Newt’s POV:

I felt stupid, utterly stupid. I promised I wouldn’t get upset, and like a cry baby, I went and ran away. How pathetic. But he wasn’t right. Peter was my friend, my normal friend. Sure, I’d never made one before, but this is how they described them in books.

My danger sense had been going off all day. But not strong, just a mild buzzing. And the longer it went in, the more I grew concerned. What the hell were Hannibal and Peter up to. The feeling grew in the pit of my stomach, and I knew I had to swallow my pride. Morgan knew where they were. I went around looking for him, finding him in the library. I stood at the entrance, debating if I should come in.

“Do come in Newt, I believe I owe you an apology for earlier” he said smoothly.

His tone of voice made me uneasy.

“No matter, it’s a nonissue. It’s late, I’m worried.”

“I spoke with Hannibal only an hour ago, everything’s fine.”

“No offense, but i don’t believe you. Not about this, not this time.”

He put down his book and slowly walked towards me.

“Are you accusing me of lying?”

“No, I- I can’t explain it. I just have a feeling something is wrong. It’s making me sick.”

He tilted his head at that.

“Fine, I’ll take you to them. Then you’ll learn to trust to take my word.”

I nodded. Something told me not to follow him into the car, but I pushed it aside. Making sure Peter was fine was my first priority. Everything about Morgan’s body language screamed instability. He was upset, but I don’t think he’d hurt me. He’s too smart, too proud. But as we made our way further from town, towards the woods, my stomach twisted further.

“Morgan”

“They’re just a little further, old family cabin.” He stated.

We indeed arrived at a cabin, which calmed my anxiety a bit. But I was still on edge. It reminded me of when my father would take me out of town for our hunting trips, and we’d stay in cabins liek this one. He took the keys out of the car.

“We’ll go on, they’re just inside.” He said.

I frowned.

“You’re not coming in?” I asked suspiciously.

“I don’t need to, I know they’re here.”

I squinted at him, scrunching my nose before hesitantly opening the car door. I slowly made my way to the cabin, knocking a few times but not hearing a response. I turned back to look at Morgan, who just shooed me forward. I tried the door and it was unlocked. Weird, that seemed unlike a man like Hannibal.

Most of the cabin was pristine, just like the house. This was definitely one of Hannibal’s properties. It was also fairly quiet. What were they doing out in a cabin by the lake all day? The sun was almost setting and Peter hadn’t checked his phone since he left. A little mouse scurried across my foot, and I looked after where it went. There were little red foot prints leading to a hole in the wall.

I followed the mouse to the little hobbit hole and held out my hand, waiting. It peaked it its nose out after a minuet or so, and I let it sniff my hand. It slowly climbed onto it, and I brought it close to my face to observe. It was covered in some sort of red substance, perhaps they were painting? I set the mouse back down and let it go back into the wall. I pushed forward, noticing a latch in the floor near the back of the house.

I thought for a moment, knowing it would be rude to enter. Morgan was probably just setting me up, getting back at me for earlier. But that bad feeling didn’t go away, so I opened the latch. I could see a light in the distance, they were down there. I could go, but, something urged me to push forward. So I carefully made my way down the later and slowly rounded the corner. I didn’t want to sneak up on them, but talking didn’t seem right, right now. My voice would come out too shaky.

I stepped in a small puddle, but shrugged it off, until I looked around the corner. My heart nearly stopped. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Hannibal and Peter where here alright, but so was my father. Despite everything yelling in me to run, my instincts betrayed me.

“Daddy?” I asked.

All three men turned to me. My father looked shocked, but could barely react from how swollen his face was. I thought I saw a glimpse of anger appear on Hannibal’s face, but I couldn’t care less. My eyes were trained on Peter. He held a knife in his hand, and his jumper was covered in blood, so was his skin. His perfect, welcoming, skin. It was tainted now. Marred with the blood of my father.

“Newt.” Hannibal started.

Peter opened his mouth multiple times to speak, but it was clear he couldn’t come up with anything to say. I didn’t dare take my eyes off him though. Hannibal took a step forward and I took a step back.

“Peter?” I asked.

I watched his eyes shift to Hannibal, like he was looking for some kind of confirmation. Hannibal moved forward again, but I moved back.

“I won’t run.” I stated simply. “So please, stop trying to chase me.” I said calmly.

Hannibal looked hesitant, but agreed to my request.

“Morgan brought me. I was worried you weren’t well. You didn’t answer your phone.”

“Morgan called an hour ago, he should have told you we would be home shortly.”

I chuckled dryly.

“And leave a job unfinished? That’s seems unlike you Dr Lecter.”

“You aren’t upset?” Peter finally spoke.

God, his voice broke me. Actually hearing him speak made this all the more real. He sounded scared. Of me?

“Oh, I’m livid right now Peter. The only thing stopping me from making and rash decisions right now, is the fact that you’re holding a knife, and I know Hannibal won’t hesitate. And I’m sure Morgan’s behind me right now.” I finished.

As if on cue, he gabbed me from behind, holding me tightly to his chest so I couldn’t flee.

“You we’re getting too close.”

“I told you not to read to much into it.”

“Reading into things is the Lecter specialty” he quipped.

“You weren’t meant to see this.” Peter brought my attention back to him.

He stepped forward, and due to Morgan’s hold on me, I couldn’t budge.

“Any of this.”

“So you were going to leave me to wither alone in the dark, forever? We’re meant to light each others flames Peter, not smother them. You promised.” My voice broke.

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

He was at arms reach now, knife still in hand. But I didn’t dare look at it, I held eye contact dispute how uncomfortable it made me.

“You think your lies do not hurt?” I was quickly becoming enraged.

This wasn’t Peter, my Peter. This Peter was ugly, and cold.

“He just wanted to help. Your father is a monster. The things he did to you-“

“To me! This isn’t your call to make!” I was yelling now.

I was never one to raise my voice, but I couldn’t help myself.

“He’s my father… MINE!” I screamed.

My body was shaking with rage at this point, my vision growing blurry with frustrated tears. I could hear Morgan chuckle behind me, he was enjoying this.

“Not yours Peter.” I tried to calm myself.

“Despite all this, have I given you any reason not to trust me Dr Lecter?”

He thought for a moment.

“No. You have not.”

“Then when I said I wouldn’t run, I meant it. Please tell Morgan to let me go. I don’t like being touched, let alone manhandled.”

Hannibal gave him a nod and he let me go. I adjusted myself, brushing off the icky feeling that cling to my skin. Peter tried to approach but I pushed past him. I approached my father, and the three men watched, on edge. I grabbed his face In my hands, looking him in the eye before ripping out his gag.

“Speak.”

“You vindictive little bitch, I should have let your mother smother you with that pillow when you were an Infant.”

He spat in my face. A mix of salvia and blood hitting me, the warmth of it made me want to vomit. I used my sleeve to wipe it away.

“Huh. No apology?” I asked.

“The only thing I’m sorry for is raising a bastard child like you. I forgave your mother for the affair, she paid for that. But she grew attached to you, that was her mistake.”

My eyes widened. I wasn’t even his blood? This whole time I felt disgusted being related to someone like him. And my mother, she- it didn’t matter now. I started laughing, the kind of laugh the final girl gets when she escapes the killer at the end of a movie.

“We’ll, if it isn’t the consequences of my own actions. To think, I brought some poor stranger into my family problems. Poor you, the husband of a cheating whore, and the surrogate father of an innocent child who loved you unconditionally.”

I scoffed.

“I cried for you, you know. Every-time I’ve thought about telling the school, or the police. The thought of you rotting in jail made my stomach sick. Mother would never forgive me, and I’d be the outcast who put their own father in jail. Cause what you did to me wasn’t that bad, right? Everyone’s father lost his temper sometimes, it was normal. I was just being dramatic, and a baby. Well guess what dad, I’ve grown up!”

I grabbed an ice pick from the table of tools and quickly plunged it between his rib cage, narrowly missing his heart.

“I’m not that naive little kid anymore, who thinks daddy just wants what’s best for them. You can’t order me around anymore.”

I twisted it in. I felt a hand on my shoulder and I flinched back, pulling my shoulder out of the way. In turn taking the weapon with me. Something clicked when I looked down at my hands, seeing the red, feeling the hot sticky sensation of his blood on my hands. I was going to be sick. I dropped the ice pick and stumbled back in shock.

“What did I-“

Peter pulled me into a hug, I crumpled to the floor, a sobbing mess. He shushed me, rocking me back and forth gently.

“It’s ok Newt, he’s never gonna hurt you again. And I don’t have to lie anymore, I promise.” He said.

“Morgan, get them home. I’ll clean this up.”

The rest of the evening was a blur. I was too stunned to have any coherent thoughts, or hear any of what they tried to say to me.

An: I was having a bad day, and this fic made me feel better lol. Hannibal is my OG comfort character.

#newt #hannibal #hannibal lecter #hannibal family #hannibal x reader #hannibal imagines #Peter lecter #Morgan lecter #Kevin lecter #fang writes #fangs ocs

28 notes · View notes

the-witches-you-couldnt-burn · 3 years

Text

It started with a whisper

I originally wrote ‘Like I did with you’ as a one-shot but people wanted a sequel. This turned out to be waaaaay longer than expected (4.7k word count). Inspired by Everybody Talks by Neon Trees. I hope you lot enjoy!

Ao3

(Also this is Mari’s new outfit, all credits go to the original artist)

————

Two teens stood upon the balcony of a large banquet hall, exposed to the midsummer night air. The sky was a lilac blanket that hung over the Parisian buildings, speckled with glowing stars. The moon, with it’s crescent smile, beamed down of the young couple.

Hey, baby, won't you look my way?

Marinette’s eyes were closed as she rested her head upon his shoulder, relaxing after the night’s rapid escalation. Tonight she had arrived at the ball with the intent to be there for her friends, but somehow she found herself within the arms of Gotham’s (and probably Paris’) Ice Prince. She had overheard his nickname from the Gotham students, one of which being Jon, who was in the middle of mocking the young Wayne. She had never considered that nickname as suitable; sure he was temperamental & had a tendency to snap, but icey to the core? No.

I can be your new addiction

Damian was calm. For the first time in his life he felt like he could take a breath. His exhale was carried off by a small gust of wind, the bush over hanging the stone railing rustled. With his inhale, the scent of Marinette’s perfume became present once more. Mixed with the crisp night’s air, her usual scent of pastries was mixed with what could only be described as ambrosia. His phone vibrated within his pocket, it was never on volume due to the potential risk it caused during his heroic activities.

“Shit.” Notifications covered his screen, multiple tweets, Instagrams and Tiktoks in which he had been tagged in. But the alert came from his family’s private messaging chat. The whole thread was a shit storm, Grayson and Todd’s messages were completely capitalised (he learnt years ago this meant ‘to yell’ in writing form) and both had multiple ‘keyboard spasms’. Drake, like the thorough detective he is, had combed through the images and videos, investigating their validity. His honorary sisters had replied with ‘awwwww’(s) and ‘Omg we MUST meet this girl! I need to know how she tamed the demon!’. He could practically hear Brown’s shrill voice from across the ocean.

Hey, baby, what you gotta say?

No reply from his father or Alfred. The two of them were the only semblance of ‘normal’ paternal figures he had within his life, after the sham of a relationship he had previously held with his grandfather. Their silence unnerved him.

Marinette had noticed his attention had shifted to his phone, her own mobile was buzzing away within her baby pink purse. Messages, notifications of account tagging and comments galore. A sigh left her lips when she saw her parents seemed to be none the wiser. Good, she didn’t need to deal with future adoration for ‘The boy who swept our daughter off of her feet’ (or something along those lines).

Her cheeks regained some of the warmth they held before as she thought of her parent’s reaction. Scrolling through her Twitter she saw her friends had posted multiple images of the night’s events, majority being her shared dance.

Chloé Bourgeois @TheBestBourgeois

what kind of Disney shit is this? (Insert video of two teens dancing around an mostly empty dance floor.)

Alix Kubdel @Sk8trGirl

Replying to @TheBestBourgeois

I KNOW RIGHT?! THEY WERE FUCKING FLOATING!!!

All you're giving me is fiction

She was thankful that they hadn’t tagged her but she hadn’t been spared by others in attendance. Her post thread had blown up, thousands had commented and even more had viewed the evidence. There was no way she would come out of this unscathed.

“Has anyone been on Twitter today?” The blonde of the family asked as she walked into the dining room. Her eyes focused on her scrolling screen, brows furrowed in confusion. “Actually has anyone seen what’s happening on any of our socials?”

It was early in the afternoon and the family had recently returned home after a straining stakeout. The Joker had broken out of Arkham and the Batfam had to deal with his minions. Dick’s arm was in a sling (sprained from a grapple gone wrong), Jason was icing his hand, Alfred was stitching Bruce’s chest wounds while Tim and the girls escaped without severe injuries. All were still recuperating and finally able to recharge.

Alfred always enforced a strict ‘no devices at the dinner table’ rule; no matter how urgent it was, it could wait until after sustenance was consumed. Tim strongly opposed this, but there was no arguing with Agent A. This all surmises that probably no one had seen the crap storm on social media.

I'm a sorry sucker and this happens all the time

Bruce sighed, bringing his free arm up to rub his eyes. Tilting his head back to look at Steph, “Who was it this time?” Barbara quickly took out her phone to see what Stephanie was talking about, all the while glancing accusingly at Dick and Jason. Both of whom held up their arms (or in Dick’s case arm), declaring their innocence.

“It wasn’t fucking me!”

“Jason! Language!” Dick shot a glare at Jason and was met with one in return. “It wasn’t me either.”

“Then who-“ Bruce started before being cut off by his most rambunctious daughter.

I found out that everybody talks

Stephanie with a squeal, exclaimed that it was Damian. Visions of what the Wayne brat could have done flashed through the heads of everyone in the room. He had been sent overseas before the quarantines and lockdowns hit. During Damian’s first month in France he had been forced into online schooling and then finally when he got to go to in-person classes he hated it. Described the class as a kindergarten with petty and vindictive toddlers.

Had he broken someone’s arm? Was that person of such importance that it had spread over multiple social media platforms? France’s government had announced on June 15th, that teens were now being inoculated so him having COVID-19 was doubtful. Had he insulted the wrong person? Had he taken over the government? He certainly had the potential.

Everybody talks, everybody talks

What they saw stunned them, even Steph as she watched it for the 7th time. Damian Wayne was dancing. But not only that, he was dancing with a girl.

It started with a whisper

“What is this shit?”

No one verbally objected to Jason’s outburst but he was sent a harsh glare from Alfred, Dick and Bruce. Their focus soon returned to the images and videos before them. Babs’ and Steph’s phones were returned to them as the others ran to grab their own devices. They all met back at the table, comparing the posts and comparing their notes.

I can hear the chitchat

“There’s no way this can be real.”

“Jesus Tim,” Barbara rolls her eyes, “have you seen the amount of posts there are? You’d be an idiot to think otherwise.”

Take me to your love shack

“I’m with Tim, how do we know this isn’t some skit. I mean, Demon Spawn almost looks normal. That’s a matter of concern.” He almost dry heaved when he agreed with Tim. Damian couldn’t be capable of naturally exuding that amount of humanity unless there was something in it for him.

Mamas always gotta backtrack

“I was just saying Babs, that we should check the credibility of these images. For all we know they could be gorilla glued together and trying to get unstuck.” Tim cringed at his own reasoning, he really needed to either sleep (probably not going to happen anytime soon) or find his favourite coffee brand (which had been one of the first to vanish after the covid hoarders appeared).

When everybody talks back

Dick was too busy freaking out and spam messaging the youngest Wayne, to defend Damian’s humanity. The family saw this and followed suit, wanting to get information from the source.

Chat name: Alfred supremacy

BigBird: AHHHHHH DAMIAN!

BigBird: YOU LOOK SO CUTE!!!

BigBird: HAIFJDNDNFI

LittleWing: WTF HAPPENED DEMON SPAWN YOU LOOK ALMOST HUMAN

Babs: who knew the city of love would influence the brat

Blondie: they are so cuteeeeeee!

Blondie: We HAVE to meet her!

Silent-but-deadly: agreed.

Timbo: YO DEMON

Timbo: Apparently the videos are legit

Timbo: are you being blackmailed?

And it just devolved into more chaos from there, fueled by the fact that they saw Damian’s ‘Blood Son’ account appear online before vanishing once more. Dick shrieked, “I FOUND HER ACCOUNT!”

The family gathered around the eldest son, peering over his shoulder to view his iPhone 12max screen. They saw a young girl’s Instagram account. It was locked but they could see her profile pic, the girl had black hair and looked to be if Asian decent. They compared it to the videos but it was hard to see due to the hall’s lighting and the minimised facial features of the pfp. Alfred suggested that they search up her username and see who has tagged her, some might have other photos of her.

After research for awhile, the family began to get frustrated with lack of results.

Hey honey you could be my drug

You could be my new prescription

“Come on!” Jason complained, “What kind of teenage girl doesn’t post her life online?” He ignored the girls glares and went back to researching. How had the account by the name of ‘mariiiiinette’ to managed to prevent the entire Wayne clan from accessing it? Damn Instagram privacy settings. He groaned, dragging a hand down his face, “We are fucking stupid. Why don’t we just use the Bat-computer? It would be so much fucking easier.”

“It shouldn’t be used for civilian issues-“

Too much could be an overdose

“The girl could be a meta for all we know! We aren’t safe until we know who she is.” Jason points a finger at Tim, his paranoia flared up and even though he would never admit it, Jason would do anything to protect each member of his family (although Bruce is still debatable).

All this trash talk make me itching

Barbara and Tim took their usual positions as Oracle and Red Robin (who had been banned from patrol due to lack of sleep). The rest of the Batfam stood behind them either with arms crossed or still failing at researching.

Oh my my shit

“The account is owned by a girl called Marinette Dupian-Cheng. She is French-Chinese and her parents own a popular bakery. Also if it wasn’t already obvious, she goes to Collège Françoise Dupont, aka Damian’s French school.” Tim begun informing his nosy family, “But this account has been inactive for the past 6 months, which is strange due to her frequent posting schedule before hand. It seems she probably has a second account and this is her old one.”

Everybody talks, everybody talks

“Not only that,” Barbara interrupted. “There are unopened messages from other accounts that accuse her of being a bully. There is a whole Facebook page about this girl and how she has been hurting her old friends, but neither side seems reliable. The so called victims seem to be twisting the truth but there is barely any information about Marinette so we can’t disprove it either.”

“Read out some of the messages.” Bruce took a cup of coffee from Alfred and sipped it.

The main screen of the bat computer displayed a Facebook group with the banner picture being a photo of Marinette. “They are mostly complaints expected of teen girls when there is a girl they don’t like; ‘Marinette is such a know-it-all’, ‘She is constantly insulting Lila’s intelligence’. They go on to talk about how Marinette was briefly expelled from the Collège before being reinstated by the principle for a reason unknown to them.”

Everybody talks too much

“Her school reports up until this year were good. The newest one states, ‘While Marinette is a wonderful and bright student, I encourage her to settle her disagreements outside of class. This seems to only be a recent occurrence and I implore her to go to the guidance council if she is in need of help.’” A beat of silence echoes through the cave, Tim sighed. “Jason’s meta theory could be correct. She could have just recently started exhibiting her abilities and using them to get what she wants.”

“Bruce what do you want to do?”

“We’re going to Paris.”

She opened her eyes to the blaring morning light that streamed through the blinds. Her lashes still painted with mascara that refused to leave. She felt a pang of sorrow when she was removing her makeup and dress last night, she never wanted the night to end. She shuffled down the stairs to the kitchen, covering her mouth when she yawned. She greeted her mother as she entered the kitchen to get breakfast.

She glanced at her phone and there was the chaos that was started hours ago and it was still occurring. It was the weekend, she wouldn’t need to deal with her classmates until Monday. But she would still have to survive her parent’s interrogation. Out of the corner of her eye she caught her mother smirking at her.

Everybody talks

“Nadja told me some interesting news about last night.” Marinette held her breath, glaring at the toaster, willing it to hurry up so she could escape. “Well,” Sabine patted her shoulder before rubbing Mari’s back. “I know you didn’t want to go but I hope you had fun.”

With that she exited the kitchen, probably going to help her father in the bakery. The ravenette stared after her, eye widened in shock, jumping when the toaster went off. Buttering her toast she went over the conversation, her brows furrowed in confusion. She had expected a ‘When do I get to meet the oh so famous prince?’ or ‘Should I be expecting a new guest sometime in the near future?’ or at least a ‘Who was that young man, Bǎozàng (宝藏 it means treasure)?’ But she said nothing.

A small smile was plastered upon her face as she changed and went down to help her parents in the bakery. Her father didn’t say anything either, he gave her a knowing smile before continuing to kneed the dough. She sat at the the store front as the cashier whilst her parents were busy making ‘Paris’s Finest Pastries’.

Her musings slowly faded as she was brought back to reality by badly hushed whispers. Two young preteens were by the bread roll casing near the door. She had seen them come in before with their parents, the girls went to the prestigious international school over in the 16th arrondissement. The one with purple hair kept whispering to the brunette, both ‘subtly’ glancing towards her. Using her enhanced hearing she listened in on their conversation.

“That’s her, I swear that’s her in the video.”

The blonde’s face soured likes she sucked on a lemon. “No, it wasn’t good lighting there is no way he would dance with someone like her.”

Everybody talks

Marinette had tough skin but their words had an impact, only a small one due to her defence mechanism of repressing emotions. She stopped listening and went back to drawing in her sketchpad, she was in desperate need of a new school outfit.

The two girls eventually came up to the counter, goods in hand. Marinette rung up and bagged their items (paper because save the turtles sksksk) in a tired daze. A phone was shoved into her face, her eyes barely adjusted to view the screen before the blonde spoke.

“Is this your instagram?” She asked in a tone so snobbish that it should be illegal from a person her age. Marinette finally was able to view the screen that was barely an inch from her face. Her old Instagram ‘mariiiiinette’ was displayed on screen, she hesitantly nodded, gaze flicking back to the two in front of her.

The blonde’s nose scrunched up and the purple goth girl squealed in delight. They soon after left the store, their conversation had devolved into ‘See! I told you’ and ‘Yeah, yeah. You were right.’

Walking to school on Monday, she had finally come down from cloud nine. She still rode the tail end of her high as she rushed along her path to her campus, she wasn’t going to be late but she sure wasn’t going to be early. She had spent the better part of the weekend designing and sewing a brand new outfit. Her new look was composed of a black cropped singlet (L'amour gagne hemmed into it and it’s straps), paired matching peach plaid cropped overshirt and a-line miniskirt. Her hair was down, ballet flats were worn and her makeup was the usual with the added edition of a rose gold eyeshadow.

Even though her face was covered in a black and gold mask, she looked hot.

She reached the campus and the whispers started again, people were still buzzing from Friday night. Her classmates, the majority of her grade and the younger years seemed to gossiping before class about the formal’s events. She couldn’t spot any of her friends or the two Gotham transfers, so she was stuck listening the the chitchat. Why couldn’t she have been late like usual?

Damian had a fowl disposition and it showed in multiple icey glares (and that was before he even reached the collège). His family had made their appearance known in Paris at 1am Sunday morning. He could have used his dorm to escape but his family didn’t have the word ‘privacy’ within their vocabulary. He didn’t want to have to pay for a lock replacement due to his brothers’ (most likely Todd with Drake & Grayson laughing at him) lock picking habit.

The Ice Prince was back with full force. He had just been... influenced by all the other couples. Yes he did respect Dupain-Cheng and he appreciated her company & pleasant conversations. He would struggle to hide a small smile at the memory of the dance, even if he denied himself the happiness of normality, he felt content when reminiscing.

“Ooo the Ice Prince is here, did he have a fight with his princess or something?” The voice seemed to mock him.

“The Disney Magic is gone. The demon is back.”

Everybody talks

At the second jeer he shot a glare at the perpetrator. Jon held his hands up in an ‘I surrender manner’, laughing as he joined Damian at his side. The two entered the school’s large foyer and looked to see if any of the classes were open yet. Sadly they weren’t, before he was wrong and the his class was plain torture but this was truely hell.

He saw Dupain-Cheng sitting alone on the stairs, drawing within her sketchpad. He wondered how a girl like her, who always seemed to be involved in other’s lives (for the better) was ignoring all of the comments about her. She felt his focus centre on her, eyes flicking up to meet his, she provided him with a small wave before continuing to draw.

Jon nudged him with an elbow to his ribs and dragged him off to the side, into the boy’s locker rooms. Jon scowled at the door, “It’s a mad house out there. You’ve heard what some people are saying right?”

“Why would I care about these imbeciles?”

Jon jabbed Damian in the chest, causing the demon to stumble. Green eyes darted from blue eyes to the tan finger. “You care when lies hurt people you care about.”

The day began to rapidly decline once the two dance partners took their seats, next to each other. They had both been placed up the back of the class and them sitting together hadn’t been a problem until now apparently. She wasn’t even safe when the teacher started their lecture, whispers and glances were cast towards them. Once the two got to biology it was better, Ms Mendeleiev was a strict teacher and was able to control the class.

Everybody talks

But the recess came. When the bell rang she slowly started packing up her equipment, Alix and Max (who she shared biology with) waited for her; she watched as the Ice Prince left through the door. She knew she didn’t need to be concerned about her friends joining in with the gossiping, if anything they would dispel people and tell them to ‘Mind their own fucking business’ because this whole situations is ridiculous, utterly ridiculous.

She did receive some slight teasing from Alix about being a Disney princess, but Marinette quipped back about the skater’s fairytale story being ‘Pinknette, the Geek and the Beast’. The three met up with the other two of their group, they had just come from geography. Kim was complaining that Argentina was a state in America.

“That’s Arkansas you idiot!” Chloe shrieked, lightly hitting his arm with her white handbag. Max held his head in his hand as he approached, how had his tutoring sessions failed so badly?

Chloe turned to Marinette, a smile forming from her glare. The blonde examined the designer’s clothing, nodding. “You look like you are about to have a hot girl summer.”

Marinette’s face burned, the tips of her ears coated in red. Alix chuckled and nudged her shoulder.

Everybody talks

“Look at her, she is so desperate for his attention that she probably copied those designs.”

“Why do you think he danced with her anyways? Maybe she has something on him? I mean, she forces him to sit next to her in class, who knows what else she has done.”

What. The. Fuck.

Chloe glowered towards Lila’s posy. “We have a fucking seating plan, those cretins-“ She made a motion to storm over but was caught by the ravenette, looking back to Mari, her rage decreased from a boil to a simmer.

“No Chlo. It’s fine, it’s not worth it.”

Everybody talks... back

The group walked out to the school’s front steps, it was a mad house... a mad courtyard? Students sitting on the stairs, on the grass and standing around mingling, all of them now were staring at her. She held her backpack close to her chest (she had swapped her signature coin-bag purse for the pastel pink bag), pretending its a shield. Her friends circled around her becoming an obstacle to prevent their stares. If people were afraid of a scowling Kim then they don’t know the scorn of Chloe or Alix’s bite. And Max, sweet quiet Max.... you better hope he doesn’t have blackmail on you (he probably does), he can dismantle your life with a single anonymous post.

Rushed footsteps approached them. The group was broken apart by a rude Wayne boy, he swept Mari away from the school and the gossip crowds within. Her four friends shouted at him and he kept walking, shooting a glare at them in response. He kept pushing Marinette forward with a hand placed on the small of her back, her backpack was now swung over his other shoulder.

They ended up in her favourite alcove. She had brought him here with the other Gotham transfers for a native’s tour of Paris. It had always been her safe place to be creative.

It started with a whisper (everybody talks, everybody talks)

“My apologises for our rushed departure but you seemed to want to get out of their anyhow.” His gruff tone danced through the silence, his head still peaking around the corner; watching for any unwelcome guests.

“Thank you.” She whispered, her voice almost being carried off by the gentle wind. A genuine smile illustrated upon her face.

“We weren’t able to converse after the events of the other night. I would like to formally apologise once more for my actions causing this adverse reaction. If I had kn-“

“You don’t need to apologise!” She squeaked, hiding her eyes behind her fisted hand. Her shoulders curled inwards as she tried to make herself seem as small as possible, a side effect of her common use of her secondary miraculous form: Multimouse.

“I chose to dance with you, you don’t need to apologise for my own actions.” He stared at her with confusion. He had taken the blame so she wouldn’t need to do so herself; but she had taken it anyways. He had given her an out. Why does she always take the blame, even for things out of her control?

“But if I hadn’t danced with you then you wouldn’t have been the focus of the entire school.”

Marinette stepped forward, her eyes hardened and blazing. “Damian Friday night I went there out of obligation to my friends, I didn’t want to be there. But dancing with you? That was the highlight of my week, probably my month too. I enjoyed our time together.” Her face softened, lips twitched downwards ever so slightly. “I don’t regret anything about that night, but do you?”

He was bad at comfort. Everyone in his family avoided him when they were in need, he plainly didn’t know what to do. She wasn’t visibly upset but he sensed that she is disappointed that he apparently didn’t share the same opinion of the night. The only thing he regretted about that night was letting Jon call him a coward, but then again if he didn’t he never would have danced with Dupa- Marinette.

He picked up her clenched hand, the tension in her body alleviated at his embrace. He remembered how Grayson would apologise to Kor’i or how his father interacted with Ms Kyle. He brought their hands up and placed a kiss upon her knuckles.

And that was when I kissed her (everybody talks, everybody talks)

“I do not regret anything either—“ he cleared his throat, “In fact, I’d appreciate if we would be able to interact more, especially outside of that cesspit.”

Was he...?

It didn’t matter.

She smiled the same dazzling smile she gave him at the dance. She nodded while laughing, “I’d love that.”

Everybody talks

The two stay talking, hidden within their secret alcove for the rest of the day. She texted her parents to say she was with a friend and would be back later that night. Damian didn’t bother texting his family, Marinette knew he had to be back soon due to his dorm’s curfew.

The sun was setting at they walked back together, he did the gentlemanly thing and dropped her off at her bakery door. She could see her mother behind the register inconspicuously looking over at the two of them. Damian’s lips quirked upwards, she was satisfied with his kinda-smile.

He walked back, hands in pockets and a neutral expression upon his face instead of a scowl. He reached his door and took his keys, he found that it was already open. Damn.

His family was splayed out within his two roomed dorm. Todd and Drake were fighting over a place to sit on his bed, whilst his father sat at his desk, watching the commotion. The three of them turned to him as he enter the room, they were the only family members able to attend on short notice; Cain had a ballet audition, Gordon & Brown had concert tickets for tomorrow, Grayson had to take care of Mar’i while Kor’i was on Tamaran and Alfred stayed to ensure no one died during their night time activities.

“We need to talk Damian.” His father stood, leaning onto the desk chair. “The school called and said you had an unexcused absence for half the day. Where were you Damian?”

Damian stared into his father’s eyes. He was fifteen, almost an adult, but was treated like he was ten again.

“I was with a friend.”

“Probably the girl from the dance. Marinette, right?” Todd mocked him. Damian snapped his head in the direction of his bed, glaring at both his brothers.

“That’s what I want to talk about with you Damian. Now I don’t know her personally but from what we’ve discovered through our investigation we have some concerns. What’s happened Damian?”

The youngest Wayne’s glare shifted off of his brothers to the floor, and then finally to his father; his family sitting in wait for his answer. Straightening his posture, his shoulders clicked as he rolled then back. His statement’s tone was sure and steady, “Everybody talks father.”

Everybody talks... back

#maribat #marinette x damian #mlb x dc #batfam salt #batfam is concerned #Daminette #the aftermath of ‘Like I did with you’#everybody talks by neon trees #max kante has blackmail and will use it #Alix will bite if provoked #dc x mlb #damian wayne x marinette dupain cheng #Marinette Dupain-Cheng is a meta?#supportive Dupain-Cheng parents ❤️

171 notes · View notes

shorkbrian · 3 years

Text

Prelude - I need to stop catching sight of poetry on my explore page lol. This is entirely self-indulgent and very specific cause I’m rotting thru life rn and so if u dislike I understand lol. When I was in the hospital this last time it sucked rlly bad and like the awful horny degenerate I was I kept thinking abt Kirishima and soft sweet Sugawara idk lol

Pairing - Death god Kirishima x Reader

Warnings - Suicide, suicide attempt, no smut. Death. Drunk Drivers. Yandere but only a little bit and cause I can’t voluntarily accept love it has to be forced bc I cannot handle the thot of someone who is sane loving me bc there is no freaking way lol

Music - https://open.spotify.com/track/5Iy1wdO0tMaHwKnfFYtlel?si=-vqod-W6SHia8ui2Hdl_9g

Adding this one bc it’s like one of my favorites and I wish god I wish and I hope that this year is better than the last amen lol also there’s nothing more sad to me than someone pleading and begging and crying for the year to treat you nicely like bitch u okay? no. the answer is no.

https://open.spotify.com/track/0xRO7EKgYKVB8zKIoiXMDD?si=HYBaiBzjRGmQwfCHgnTUxA

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

“It hurts.” You had told him, as the entity sat at the end of your hospital bed.

He often sank heavily onto the nearest surface, as if his bones ached with the weight of his body. You saw him often during those first few days in the hospital, days spent puking up pills, every move you made monitored, doctors and nurses scolding you about the severity of your actions.

You didn’t think they could see the hulking figure that comforted you.

“I”ve heard that it’s supposed to.” The red god of death would think aloud.

“I don’t want it then.” Tears upon your cheeks, soft, misty. “Take it.”

“Your life?” A nod would affirm his question, but the red god would shake his head. “I am no thief. Not a hunter, simply a gatherer of souls. I won’t take what doesn’t belong to me.”

“Then it’s yours, have my life. A gift, from me to you. Don’t make me live it any longer…..”

His sadness would show in his eyes.

But the soul-crushing hugs that were provided were admittedly a tiny bit nice.

“You’re far too sweet for your own good. I’ll receive your life when the time is right, not before.”

“But I don’t want it!” You sobbed into his shoulder, the god seeming to be your only friend in the world.

Hands stroked along your back, soft shushing sounds as the god attempted to soothe you in the ways he knew how. Soft touches, kind truths. “Many don’t. But it happens - life happens anyways. All you can do is find the things that make it less painful.”

“That’s not enough, it still hurts. I can’t stand it.” The sobs wracking your body didn’t stop the entity from holding you.

“I know, and I’m sorry.”

——

He’s patient and kind.

Surprising for a god who’s work involves collecting souls as if they were taxes. A job that should be bitter and tiresome, but the entity has infinite softness resting inside of him.

He walks with you, as you get “better“.

You watch him stop to marvel at flowers, to study the way dew drips from trees in little drops, eyes wide and wondering as crows startle from their perches and take off with noisy weeping.

This courtyard is drab and brown, a prison. Safe.

Yet the god of death treats the space gently, with respect. He thanks the old walls for standing, the worn stones beneath your feet. Their service is noted and appreciated. He’s so tender it almost makes you sick.

But you come to realize that he’s simply allowing himself to be vulnerable, to experience the earth and the beings in it.

For as soon as one recognizes vulnerability, which is so different from weakness or tragedy, one experiences a sense of tenderness. Without tenderness, pleasure means nothing. You need only look at the animals to see the truth of that. It is gentleness that distinguishes their playing from the actions they constantly take to ensure their survival.

You ask why he walks with you, why he is so focused on seeing you get “better“.

A soft smile, a meeting of eyes. “There is an end to your pain, sometime and somewhere. It’s most likely not here, not in this place at least-“ and he looks around, at the cold walls, the other sick patients, the staff. All human.

“-It will come. But for now, it’s enough to try and seek it out ourselves.”

You must look more sick than you really are, talking to thin air like that.

——-

Once you return home, the red god writes you letters.

He’s an old soul, an old god. You’re sure if you asked, he’d be able to recount the very first souls he reaped, a man and a woman, sinful and sweet but in love.

The letters help you get out of bed. What new stories or little quips the god has written pique your curiosity, even when you don’t want to move, don’t want to be awake or alive.

He tells you stories about certain souls, how each one is infinitely interesting, how they all interconnect. How some of them struggle against him, however fruitlessly. But he’s not the one who brought about their death, he’s there to comfort and guide.

Other souls, (“souls like yours” he writes) welcome him, run to his arms like a long lost lover. Their death was terrifying by their own hand, and it hurt. He can’t take away that pain, those memories. The red god says he wishes those souls find peace wherever he must take them afterwards, or at least, some form of contentment.

“The meaning of life is to give life meaning, at least, that’s what seems to be the consensus.” You rip off that part of the letter, hang it on your wall by your bed. The other letters you keep in your nightstand, content with the knowledge that there are souls out there like you

It’s hard work, creating meaning for yourself.

The red god takes to visiting you between each letter, says he misses you, the way your soul cries. He tells you that he wishes he could help you quiet it, quiet that raging, terrible storm that hurls you about.

You make him cookies - it’s the only way you know how to say thank you. It’s what your mother taught you, so it may not be right, but the god eats them nonetheless. He likes it when you eat with him, feeding you bites from his cookie, wiping chocolate off of your nose, making you laugh with stupid jokes and a mouth stuffed full of cookies.

Even if some of them are too crunchy, or others too soft, all of them imperfect.

Imperfection is the essence of humanity, he tells you, and it’s more fun eating each cookie with the thought that you’re devouring your imperfections, making yourself whole again, filling up the empty spaces in your soul.

——

Eventually, the crawl back to your feet, rise with the unsteadiness of a toddler. You fall frequently, cry often, but you’re able to get up and try again.

Some days you need to bury yourself in sadness, let yourself feel and feel and hurt. Other days are not so bad, but still tinged with regret and fear and sadness.

The red god is by your side, gives you something to cling to when you waver.

He is always there.

He will be there when you meet your end.

The god is in no hurry.

You question why he wastes his time on you, hours spent reassuring you, talking to you, tucking you in your bed and leaving glasses of water on your nightstand before taking his leave.

Home is a feeling, not a place. Home is with you - that’s what he tells you. You take his breath away, even though he might not even need to breath because he’s the god of death. HIs thoughts muddle and he trips over his feet and can’t help himself from wanting to hold you.

You learn that even gods yearn for home.

He’s capable of feelings and emotions just like any other human. He may be wiser, and older, able to draw from experience and a deep well of wisdom. But he still feels, and feels deeply.

Just as he gives the earth around him such reverence, he extends that same attitude when he deals with you.

“Everything I see reminds me of you. When I wake and the sun creeps over the mountains, hesitant, it reminds me of the way that you rise - haltingly, yet it happens nonetheless. The flowers in the field that so steadily grow, you’re like ground they take root in, soft and unstable yet still tenable with the potential for growth. I don’t know, I haven’t exactly held such closeness with a human-“

He trails off, but you think you understand.

Maybe you don’t. It’s hard to relate to a god.

——

A confession occurs, and you’re surprised to learn that the blood-red god of death is in love.

“What did my hands do before they held yours? What did my heart do without all of this love? I can’t hold enough of you, I carry such love for you in my heart.”

With a frail, hopeless human nonetheless.

You don’t know what to tell him, how to explain that you can barely take care of yourself right now, meet your own needs.

But the red god seems to know, seems to understand the way your breath hitches and your eyes widen. One more hug, squeezed tight to his chest while he promises nothing has to change.

Things do change, even if you wish them not to. The world doesn’t bow to your whims, nor the death-god’s.

Innocent touches, his hand on your shoulder, patting your head, offering to rub out the tension in your back after you’ve had a crushing day - they don’t feel so innocent anymore.

The constant survellience still seemed kind, and you knew it was with your best intentions in mind that the god hovered so close, invading every aspect of your life.

But a creeping tendril of unease took hold, and you worried.

Everywhere you turned, he would be there, ready to support you, walk you through anything you wished.

Again, you questioned his commitment. Why? Why you?

“I can’t explain how fond of you I’ve grown. How heat blossomed in my chest as we grew closer. There’s infinite things I wish to say to you, ways for me to express my-my love, but I’ll just let you live.”

He neither killed you nor let you live.

Was it frightening? Maybe. But you had nothing to really live for, lost, searching for your own meaning in a big big world, floundering in an endless sea of sadness and suffering. You weren’t afraid of anything the god could, or would, do to you.

Until you woke up, not knowing where you were, in pitch black.

Arms encircling your shoulders, a soft body beneath your own, holding you tightly, a hand caressing your cheek.

A sun rose, on a strange new land, on the blood-red god gazing at you.

“There seemed to be so much more time for you. But accidents happen, Drivers drink and hearts give out. I was expecting you to grow old, for us to live and love like that, see how you grew through life.”

He looked around this new world, and you vaguely remember what had come before. A walk along the sidewalk, blaring horns, impact, blood.

“But this will be just as nice. You can stay here with me now. Life can’t cause you anymore pain.”

You don’t feel comforted by those words. There’s no way for you to know whether this new world would be better than the one you left behind.

#kirishima #Kirishima Eijirou #kirishima x reader #kirishima imagine #bnha kirishima #kirishima x you #yandere #Yandere kirishima #tw.death #tw.suicide

195 notes · View notes

livia-dovehallow · 3 years

Text

old man - gabriel lightwood

Happy Birthday to the most Lightwood Lightwood to have ever Lightwood-ed, our king, Gabriel “Cecily’s Husband” Lightwood! 2 June 1860 (161 years old!) [taglist: @alice-got-the-blues ]

But for our purposes here, it’s 1890 and he is simply 30~

2 June 1890 - Bethnal Green, London, UK

“Pssst, Mam!”

“Hush, bach. You’ll wake him.”

Gabriel tried his hardest not to crack a smile. He’d woken up ages ago to the sound of shouting toddlers and scolding Welsh but decided to remain in bed, eagerly awaiting his surprise.

Well... “surprise.”

“Is Papa still sleeping?” It was Christopher’s voice now, where it was Anna’s before. Christopher spoke softly, carefully, as if he had thought long and hard about his sentences before speaking them. He was eloquent, like his mother.

He heard Cecily’s voice next, closer now. “I sure hope so,” she said to them in hushed tones. “Or else it’ll spoil the surprise.” Two small gasps sounded up from directly at Gabriel’s side with enough genuine horror to make Gabriel nearly break his poker face. “All right,” Cecily whispered now, and he felt the weight of her body creep back into bed beside him. “Now you may wake your father.”

The explosion was instant.

“Papa!” Anna screamed gleefully while Kit climbed up onto the bed and sat over his hip, chanting, “Happy birthday, happy birthday!”

Gabriel’s eyes flew open and he surged forward to snatch Anna from the floor and into the air. She squealed and fought against her flight while Kit squeaked, falling off his father’s hip at the movement and into his mother’s lap. Cecily laughed and sat him back up; Christopher was all smiles.

“Happy birthday, Papa!” Anna panted once he let her down on the bed beside him. Gabriel felt nothing but happiness fill his entire body. “You’re old now.”

Gabriel let out a surprised laugh. “I’m old now?” He asked, feigning hurt. “How can I be old?”

Anna scrunched her nose. “Mam says you’re thirty years old now. That’s old! Kit is only three!”

“Kit is two,” Cecily corrected with a tap on Anna’s nose, which make it scrunch up again. “He will be three. And you will be six.”

“It’s you who is old!” Gabriel declared, bundling up Anna in his arms again. “I remember when you were born, and you were very little. Now you are big and old.”

Anna gasped. Christopher crawled out from Cecily’s lap and into Gabriel’s, who engulfed him in his embrace as well, alongside his sister. It wouldn’t be long before neither of them fit in one of his single-arm embraces any longer. Gabriel pushed the thought out of his head.

“Happy birthday,” said Cecily gently; her voice like music. Gabriel smiled back at her, knowing full well the goofy, adoring expression he was giving her would warrant ridicule from his brother if he were there. It didn’t matter—Gabriel got to wake up every morning beside her and she had blessed him with two beautiful and energetic children he loved more than anything else in the world.

She leaned in toward him, obviously reaching for a kiss that Gabriel was happy to receive, until two sets of small hands shot up between their faces. “Ew!” Anna shouted. “Gross!”

Gabriel laughed, a true laugh that originated deep in his stomach and lungs. “Love is not gross,” he chastised, playfully.

“Don’t worry,” Cecily said with a wink. “I’ll love you later.”

Gabriel’s eyes widened. Really? In front of the children? His expression screamed. Cecily only shrugged and smiled her mischievous smile. Anna and Kit were none the wiser.

“We made scones,” Kit offered, looking up at his father with wide, lavender eyes. Gabriel smiled at his son, who shared his wild brown hair.

“Did you really?”

Cecily ruffled Kit’s hair. “Well, more like roughly shaped blobs,” she clarified, though her tone was of pure affection. “But the children mixed the batter and filled the pan themselves. I was not allowed to assist—other than working the oven, of course.”

“Mam said we’re too little for the oven,” Christopher added solemnly.

“Well then,” Gabriel declared, standing from the bed while still holding his toddlers, one under each arm as they giggled. “I must try these scones my wonderful children have made for me.”

Cecily—love of his life, his partner in crime, mother of his children—stood upon the bed and marched up behind him. “I want a ride to the parlor, too,” she stated and climbed onto his back. She hugged him from behind, her arms firm around his shoulders and legs around his waist. Had he been an old man, as his own daughter accused, it would have been unlikely he could carry his whole family down the stairs.

But Gabriel Lightwood was not old yet.

#gabriel lightwood #cecily herondale #gabrily #anna lightwood #christopher lightwood #cecily lightwood #happy birthday gabriel lightwood #tid #tlh #tsc #maggie writes sometimes #thanks to the anon who reminded me

92 notes · View notes

holylulusworld · 4 years

Text

New discoveries

Summary: The tables have turned to your advantage but new problems lie ahead...

Pairing: Mobster!Bucky x Reader x Mobster!Steve

Characters: Peter Parker, Peggy Carter, Dottie Underwood, Tony Stark

Warnings: angst, language, mentions of death of a loved one (drowning), pregnant reader, sassy reader, sweet Peter, tension, fingering, a hint of fluff

Credits: Divider by @firefly-graphics

<< Part 3

Ours to keep masterlist

“Doll, please,” Bucky grunts, pressing his erection into your ass. “I didn’t get off in two months. I have this sexy pregnant girl around and she won’t let me have her.”

“Whose fault is that?” You smile to yourself when Steve scoots closer to rub your belly. “If you wouldn’t be such assholes, we could have an awesome sex life. I liked you both.”

“God, does she make you as hard as me,” Steve looks at Bucky, not hiding his painfully throbbing cock. “This is torture.”

“This is Sparta if I want it to be,” you retort, glaring at Steve. “You know, the women didn’t take shit from their husbands either. Did you see the movie? Leonidas, the king, looked at his wife for confirmation first.”

“We are not in Sparta, doll. Now be good and at least tell us who will become a father. We were good, weren’t we?” Steve whines, looking at your belly. “Please, baby.”

“I can look at you for confirmation too if you tell us about the babies. Please let us know. We allowed Peter to only do legal stuff and be around of you all the time,” Bucky husks against your pulse point, a smirk on his lips when you squirm in his embrace. “Doll…”

“Fine, I’ll tell you but I have conditions you must fulfill first,” the dark grin on your lips let Steve’s features darken but he agreed to ‘play nice’. Bucky and he made a pact to at least try to be good ‘boyfriends’, even though, you refuse to let them call you their girlfriend. “I want to work again. You will tell Peggy and Dot you are the fathers of my babies and that you are in love with me.”

“You’re such an evil mastermind,” Bucky grinds his cock into your ass, groaning as you push back onto him. “I’ll do it if you are a good girl and let me slip my hand into your panties,” you shiver, even feel your core ache but you decided to let them suffer a little longer.

“No sideline, Barnes. Take the deal or leave it,” Steve’s eyes roam your body, and you swear, he just undressed you with his blue orbs. “This goes for you too, Rogers.”

“You will take Peter with you, no discussion. If we tell anyone you are expecting our heir, you’re in danger, doll. It would be wiser to not tell anyone,” Steve places one large hand onto your belly, slowly rubbing it again.

“They always made fun of me,” you whine, sounding like an angry toddler. “I want them to see I can have what they didn’t get. Not even a taste,” Bucky’s face buries into your neck. He’s nibbling at your skin whilst his hand creeps toward your panties.

“Let me make you cum and we’ll do anything you want us to do,” Steve doesn’t like his friend’s plan, but he nods, eager to at least watch Bucky pleasure you. “Just a bit.”

“Deal,” you gasp feeling Bucky’s hand slip into your panties to toy with your swollen nub. You swear you can feel the smirk against your pulse point when he feels wetness coat his fingers.

“Our girl is so wet for us, Stevie,” Steve smirks before he dips his hand into your panties too. “True, Buck. Now let’s decide who slips his fingers inside and who will play with her pearl,” your eyes roll back feeling two thick fingers slip inside…

“Ah, the infamous pregnant girl returns,” Dot snickers, watching you and Peter walk into the library. “Look, Pegs’ she brought her bodyguard.”

“This is Peter, he’s a good friend and, you got that part right, my bodyguard,” your voice confident, you snap your fingers to watch Dot’s face fall when Steve and Bucky walk into the library. “You already know Steve and Bucky, my boyfriends and fathers of my babies.”

“Fathers?” Peggy looks at Steve who places his hand onto your belly, confirming he’s the father. “You’ve got to be kidding me! Does she pay you for that brilliant lie?”

Dot’s laugher dies when Bucky wraps one hand around her throat to slam her into one of the shelves.

“Listen, hussy. That girl is ours. We made her our girl, filled her with our heir, and if she agrees, we’ll marry her one day,” Bucky grunts, pressing his thumb against Dot’s windpipe. “I want you to be very nice to Y/N from now on. If she or Peter tell me otherwise, I’ll be back.”

“Let me warn you, sweet cheeks, you don’t want Bucky to come back,” Steve smirks, seeing the fear in Dot’s eyes. “We went on a date with you to get information about our girl. Buck and I, we said something stupid and it ended in a fight with Y/N.”

“Now be good, do your job and shut up close to my girl,” Dot coughs when Bucky finally let go of her throat. She looks at the mobster, fear is still written all over her face.

“Peter, our girl is your responsibility now. Pietro and Clint are only one call away,” Steve whispers into Peter’s ear. “If anything happens, even if only a moth coughs, call them. Nothing can happen to Y/N.”

“Got it, boss. Nothing will happen to Y/N on my watch,” Peter nods at Bucky who still doesn’t like the idea of leaving you alone.

“Tonight, we want to know, Y/N,” Bucky points toward your belly, narrowing his eyes. “Or they will be no orgasms for you in the future…”

Only a two hours are left when Bucky strolls back into the library, carrying a huge bag with food.

“Delivery for my hungry girl,” the mobster smirks, placing the paper bag onto your desk. “We have your favorite roasted chicken, salad, bread, pudding, fruit salad, and something for Peter Parker.”

You nod, while you suppress a smile. Bucky bought all your favorite food and did not forget to bring something for Peter too. Engrossed in checking on the food Bucky get’s out of the bag you hear the door open once again.

“Bucky,” Steve grunts, walking into the library, a bag with food in his arms. “I thought we agreed it’s my turn to bring her food. I even bought something for Parker!”

“I’m hungry too, let’s just share what you bought,” Bucky smirks when your eyes drift toward the food Steve unpacks.

“Uh-he got unhealthy stuff. Look at this Buck,” you squeal, grasping for a Twinkie. “I hate and love that disgusting stuff at the same time.”

“I know my girl,” humming Steve watches you stuff the Twinkie into your mouth, rather choking on it than chewing. “Slow down, doll. I got more than enough.”

“Give me that peanut butter monstrosity,” grumbling Bucky stuff a Twinkie into his mouth only to retch. “That's too sweet…eek,” mumbling the mobster scrunches up his nose.

“It’s not that bad, Barnes,” you scold, inhaling the scent of your roasted chicken deeply. “I always loved to eat something sweet before lunch. Odd, I know. Most of the people eat the sweets after lunch or dinner.”

“You’re crazy, I like it,” Steve steals a mouthful chicken, grinning when you glare up at him. “Bucky said we will share.” He defends he stole food from you.

“Your stuff, not my roasted chicken. Keep your hands off my food or your son will kick your ass,” you gasp, acting as if you did not just drop one of your babies is Steve’s.

“Doll, is the other mine?” Bucky scoots closer, poking your belly with his finger. “Please tell me, Y/N.”

“Fine,” you throw your hands up in surrender, sighing deeply. “Both of you are going to be a father. Don’t ask me why, but the doctor said it’s possible.”

Bucky grins, looking at your baby bump again. His chest puffs and you swear, he looks like a peacock when he gets a cigar out of his jacket to hand one to Peter and another to Steve.

“I knew that my boys made it,” Bucky snickers, ignoring you throw a Twinkie at him. “They can swim.”

“Mine too,” Steve wants to light the cigar when Peter clears his throat. “Sir, not at a library and not close to a pregnant woman.”

“You should learn some manners, Rogers,” lips pursed you point toward the cigar. “Maybe Peter will give you lessons…”

“Finally, out of the house,” you groan, resting your head onto your desk. “I swear since they know both are going to be a father, they do not let me out of sight. I couldn’t go to the toilette on my own, Peter.”

“I know they seem to be overprotective, but their profession is not the safest. I can assure you; Mr. Rogers wants to keep your safe,” Peter gives you a soft smile, warming your heart for him even more. “I would never let anything happen to you, promised.”

Peter must’ve seen the worry in your eyes when you looked at him. You never thought much about Bucky and Steve’s kind of business. It’s not as if you didn’t know that they do illegal stuff, but you never thought it would affect your or your babies’ life.

“I know Peter,” you smile, still fear is creeping into your thoughts. “I don’t want to sound paranoid but there is that guy again, right next to the shelf with books about modern art. He comes to the library almost daily but never stays longer than a few minutes.”

Peter nods, taking a book from your desk to act as if he thumbs through the pages. His eyes drift toward the man and his blood freezes. “Why did I never see him before?”

“He always comes here when your shift is over. Before Pietro arrives, the man is gone. I don’t know why he’s still here today,” you whisper. “Do you know that man?”

“Unfortunately, yes. That’s…,” gasping you must watch the man stalk toward you and Peter. At the same time as you begin to panic, Peter remains stoic. He dialed Pietro’s number minutes ago, knows Clint and the others are on their way.

“I guess the cats out,” the man smirks, eyes roaming your body. “Name’s Stark, Tony Stark,” his eyes never leave your belly when he holds out his hand. “I must admit, I never thought Barnes and Rogers had it in them to keep a girl.”

“Sir, I must ask you to stay away from Ms. Y/L/N. This is a neutral zone,” Peter’s voice is strong, but his heart pounds in his chest. “I know you want to get to know the girl in Mr. Barnes's life, but this is not the time nor the place for it.”

“Peter Parker, all grown and tough now,” Tony smirks, glancing at his hand which you never shook. “Shame you didn’t agree to work for me back then. How are you?”

“I’m fine, thanks for asking. Just like my aunt,” Peters teeth grit and you wonder what happened back then. “I will ask you one last time to leave, Mr. Stark.”

“Or what, boy?” Tony’s smirk vanishes when the door flings open, revealing two angry mobsters and their men. “Guess times up, sweetie. We will see each other again. I hope to get to know you even better.”

Tony waltzes out of the library, tapping his hat before he snickers. “Have a great day, Ms. Y/L/N.” Your legs are about to give in when Steve rounds your desk to catch you.

“I’m sorry, Sir. I didn’t know he was here over the last days. Y/N said he sneaked in when Pietro came to take over his shift. It’s my fault he got that close to her,” Peter sighs.

“No, no…you protected me,” you gasp holding tight onto Steve when he picks you up in bridal style. “Steve, he protected me.”

“I know, doll. He did everything he could to keep you safe. We are here now, you are unharmed. Nothing else matters,” Bucky strokes your cheek, giving you a once over.

“No more working here. Stark knows who you are to us,” there is no room for arguments when two mobsters hold your life in their hands. “Clint, Pietro, pack Y/N’s belongings. Peter, Sam, you will come with us,” you lean your head against Steve’s chest, for once giving in to his commands.

“We’ll bring you somewhere safe, Y/N,” concerned Bucky pecks your lips, places his hand onto your belly before he looks you all over again. “No one hurts our girl.”

“She’s holding that odd picture to her chest for almost an hour,” Steve whispers, watching you press the photo Clint got from the library for you to your chest. “What shall we do?”

“Sir, if I’m allowed to give you advice,” Peter clears his throat, pointing toward the picture in your hands. “The photo, it’s important to her as it’s the last one her mother took of her brother. They were at a lake, vacation and all…” Steve nods, glancing at you. “Her brother liked to scare people, to make bad jokes, and well, catch a frog to watch his mother scream.”

Bucky chuckles, smirking at Peter’s words. “I guess that guy was a great little brother. I wish we had the opportunity to meet.”

“Y/N, she told me that her mother screamed and dropped the camera. She wanted to take the picture after she calmed but Y/N’s brother opened his hand only to reveal the frog once again,” Peter chuckles, wiping a tear off his cheek. “Their mother got so mad as he scared her twice using the frog but Y/N, she defended him.”

“A good big sister,” you kiss the picture before you place it onto the nightstand, a soft smile on your lips at the memory of your brother. “What happened later?”

“As I said, their mother got mad and insisted they must drive home that night. If not, the boy might be still alive. The next night he sneaked out of the house to put the frog into the pool. Y/N always assumed he wanted to scare their mother again.”

“We know the rest,” Bucky sighs, shaking his head. “I bet, Y/N’s mother felt guilty for cutting their vacation short and blamed Y/N instead.”

“According to the coroner, Y/N’s brother must’ve slipped. He hit his head at the edge of the pool and drowned.” Peter swallows thickly, hoping his bosses finally see you need someone to care for you, not own you.

“Stevie, we should check on her. Natasha and Clint keep an eye on Stark. Tonight, we can’t strike back…”

>> Part 4

Series Tags

@vicmc624; @aubageddon91

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

All works Tags

@yolobloggers

@shikshinkwon

@miraclesoflove

@mogaruke

@shatteredabby

@soryuwifeyxx

@letsdisneythings

@i-love-superhero

@psychicforest

@thevelvetseries

@deanmonandnegansbitch

@sabascio

@goodgodimaweirdperson

@that-place-called-middle-earth

@trumpettay

@zxph-yr

@belovedcherry

@matsumama

@rynabarnesrogers-reading

@emoryhemsworth

@buckybarnesplumwhore

@wonderlandfandomkingdom

@kitkatd7

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

Marvel Tags

@stuckys-whore

@notyourtypicalrose

@voltage-my2dlove

@officialmarvelwhore

@randomgirlkensy

@juniorhuntersam

@lumar014

@doctorswife221b

@sister-winchesters99

@the-soulofdevil

@sweetkingdomstarlight-blog

@dayasvalkyrie

@redroomproperty

@natura1phenomenon

@chaoticfiretaconerd

@heartislubbingdubbing

@hhiggs

@sea040561

@midnightsilver16830

@rvgrsbrns

@fandom-princess-forevermore

@amandamdiehl

@grincheveryday

@thelostallycat

@lunaticgurly

@xxlikeheavenxx

@supernaturalwintersoldier

@mrsdeanwinchester19

@pandaxnienke

@just-a-littlebit-of-everything

@tdbooth

@iloveshawnieboi

@vicmc624

@coffeebooksandfandom

@mariaenchanted

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

Steve Rogers/Chris Evans Tags

@roonyxx

@stylesismyhubs

@multisuperfandom

@mrspeacem1nusone

@fallenoutofrose

@rynabarnesrogers

@denisemarieangelina

@gabifernandessn

@heyiamthatbitch

@rosalynshields

@inlovewiththefictionalcharacters

@patzammit

@donutloverxo

@saiyanprincessswanie

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

Bucky Barnes/Sebastian Stan Tags

@rynabarnesrogers

@marshyrebelcloud

@buchanan-lover

@rosalynshields

@neii3n

@jane-dough

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

Stucky Masterlist

@marshyrebelcloud

@animegirlgeeky

#New discoveries #marvel #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #MOBSTER!AU #mobster au #steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #mobster!steve x reader #mobster!steve #mobster!bucky #mobster!Bucky x Reader #angst #pregnant reader #peter parker

420 notes · View notes

ibijau · 3 years

Text

How to Woo a Lan pt6 / on AO3

Jin Ling and Lan Sizhui fight a monster together, after which Jin Ling finds himself in need of more advice

Thanks to years of training and some good reflexes, both Lan Sizhui and Jin Ling had their swords out in a flash, and they managed to avoid being ripped apart by the beast’s teeth. The creature, furious at having missed its chance, continued attacking them for a while. Every time it would attempt to bite Lan Sizhui, Jin Ling would slash at it. If it tried to claw at Jin Ling’s face, Lan Sizhui intervened. They worked in perfect tandem together to exhaust the beast, only needing to shout a word here, to exchange a glance there.

And yet, in spite of their efforts, the enormous wolf showed no signs of weakness.

“I’ll try something,” Jin Ling shouted at Lan Sizhui. “Be on your guard, I don’t know how it’ll react!”

Lan Sizhui grunted in acknowledgement. While he set out to distract the creature, Jin Ling took his chance and quickly set off a distress signal to alert their friends. The flare and the accompanying noise startled the giant wolf, giving Lan Sizhui a chance to bury his sword in its chest.

The beast let out a terrible crying upon being wounded so, leaping away with such force that it nearly took Lan Sizhui with it. Instead the blade left its body, which started bleeding profusely over the forest ground. Scared by the flare and in pain, the giant wolf turned around and ran away with such speed it seemed to teleport away. They would have lost it, if not for the bloody trail it left behind.

"Do we follow or do we wait?" Lan Sizhui asked.

"Waiting would be wiser," Jin Ling said, "but if we pursue it then it won't be able to rest at all, and that might be to our advantage."

"I agree. Anyway, Jingyi and Zizhen will be able to follow the trail too once they get here, so it should be fine. They can't be that far, and they'll help us when they arrive."

Unless they didn't see the flare because of the trees, Jin Ling thought. It really wasn't the best environment for that sort of signals. But it was fine, he told himself. They had wounded the wolf once, they could do it again and kill it so it wouldn't harm anyone again. So Jin Ling kept his worries to himself, and they followed after their prey.

As they advanced through the woods, the temperature steadily dropped around them, while the blood trail grew larger. When they reached the monster's den, both boys were shivering, their teeth chattering from the unnatural cold. It had to be the wolf's den, Jin Ling though, watching at the place where some large thorny bushes twisted around one another, forming a large, threatening mass from which came an animal stench. Indeed looking closer the silhouette of the giant wolf could be seen in the shadows.

More importantly though, both Jin Ling and Lan Sizhui could distinctly hear a young child crying.

"I think I see him," Lan Sizhui whispered, pointing at one side of the bush where a small colourful shape could just barely be seen through the thorns and leaves. "I think he crawled under something so the wolf can't eat him."

"I see him too," Jin Ling said. "We need to get him out before the wolf finds a way to dig him out. I could try to shoot at the wolf, but it's hard to see inside the bush. I have an idea, but.."

"But it's a dangerous one. Then we should wait for the others, Jin Ling."

It would be wiser, certainly, but wisdom didn't seem so important when they could hear that giant wolf snapping its jaws and snarling, the child cries growing louder and more desperate. Jin Ling didn't want to be the sort of cultivator who stood by and watched someone die just because it was safer, and he knew Lan Sizhui wasn't like that either.

"One of us needs to attract the wolf outside and distract, while the other goes in there and gets the child out."

"I feared you'd say something like that," Lan Sizhui sighed. "I had the same idea. But it's dangerous to do that, and…"

"It's dangerous yeah. And I'm sorry, but I think you should be the one fighting the beast."

This earned Jin Ling a startled look, but he had expected that. It wasn't what he would have preferred, honestly, but it was the better option because…

"You're a better swordsman than me," Jin Ling said. He would have found such an admission humiliating if it had been about anyone else, but with Lan Sizhui he could be honest about their respective skills. "You'll have a better chance to hold it off alone. I'll try to be quick, and when the child is safe I'll help you fight the wolf! But I know you can manage without me for a bit."

"I don't like it," Lan Sizhui protested. "If the wolf returns while you're in there, there's no space to use a sword. It's too…"

"I have a dagger too, and I'm good with it. Jiujiu made sure of that. And it'll be fighting you, so it'll be too busy to care about me."

"I don't like it. But if you're sure, if you trust me, then I trust you."

Of course Jin Ling trusted Lan Sizhui, more than he trusted anyone in the world except perhaps Jiang Cheng. He hoped someday, Lan Sizhui would know that.

Having agreed on this plan, Jin Ling walked away from Lan Sizhui, trying to come as close as he could to the den's entrance as he could without being spotted. When he was in place, Lan Sizhui started making noise to attract the wolf's attention. It took some effort, but the giant beast eventually sprang out of its hiding place to attack Lan Sizhui.

Jin Ling waited a moment to make sure the monster was distracted, then ran inside of the thorny bush. The stink inside was nearly enough to make him gag. A mix of rot and animal odours, made worse by unhealthy energies circulating through that place, and too small human bones scattered around. Jin Ling managed to ignore it all and focused on the still living child.

It was easy to spot the still crying child, but far harder to actually reach him. After checking that the monster was fully distracted, Jin Ling dropped on his knees in the bloody grime and crawled under some heavy branches, extending his arms before him to grab the little boy. The toddler, at first, cried harder upon being touched, but eventually realised there was another human with him and all but threw himself into Jin Ling's arms.

Outside, the noise of fighting became louder, the wolf growling and whining in pain, yet it did not return to its den to hide. Lan Sizhui was doing his part perfectly, as expected. Jin Ling took a brief moment to see if the child in his arms wasn't too badly hurt, then left the den just in time to see Lan Sizhui slice off the head of that giant wolf. Ouyang Zizhen and Lan Jingyi, which had found them after all, were using their swords to keep the monster in place while Lan Sizhui finished it off.

Jin Ling could only stare.

He knew how great Lan Sizhui was of course, but seeing him in action was always…

It was a little hot.

Not that Jin Ling had too much time to fawn over his future husband. The child in his arm, who had gone quiet for a while, started crying again. He did have some fang marks on his chest after all, and a number of scratches on his arms, legs, and face because of the thorns. Jin Ling tried to soothe him, gently petting the parts of his hair that weren't bleeding and telling him he was safe now.

When Jin Ling looked again at the others, Ouyang Zizhen and Lan Jingyi were inspecting the giant wolf, trying to determine how it might have become so big, while Lan Sizhui…

Lan Sizhui was staring at Jin Ling.

There was a very odd air on Lan Sizhui's face as he stared. His expression was an intense one, though what exactly was felt with such intensity, Jin Ling couldn't have said. He wasn't doing anything special after all, just rocking that little boy in his arms while passing on some energy to him to soothe his pain. Wasn't that just the normal thing to do?

Perhaps it was too normal, Jin Ling realised, his rocking of the toddler slowing down. While Lan Sizhui had fought such a fierce creature and seemed a little breathless still, Jin Ling had just crawled inside a bush, and still had plenty of energy to spare. He hadn't meant to keep the easy part of the plan for himself, it really was just that he'd known Lan Sizhui would do better than him against that monster.

He opened his mouth, ready to defend himself, but Lan Sizhui just turned around and rejoined the others' conversation. He really must have been angry at Jin Ling, too, because until they returned the little boy to his father, Lan Sizhui kept glancing at Jin Ling, only to look away whenever their eyes met. He even offered to carry the child at one point, before turning a little red from what had to be refrained anger when Jin ling assured him he didn't mind keeping it. Surely Lan Sizhui had to be upset that Jin Ling wasn't even a little tired. But really, the little boy had fallen asleep in his arms, so even if he was a little heavy, it was better to let him rest, right?

Jin Ling knew he had done the right thing all along, but he still couldn't help feeling like he had failed. Maybe he should have shown off, taken risks… Jin Ling would have, but Jin zongzhu couldn't afford to, and it wasn't fair.

The whole thing was so upsetting, but there was a silver lining. Lan Sizhui might not have been that annoyed with Jin Ling after all, because as they got ready to head their separate way, Lan Sizhui asked his companions to go ahead, saying he would join them in a moment. Jin Ling braced himself for a scolding, but instead when they were alone Lan Sizhui smiled at him in that soft way which always made Jin Ling's heart beat too fast.

“You know, it was nice to get letters,” Lan Sizhui said, almost shyly. “I know you’re very busy now that you’re a sect leader but… it’d make me happy if we could continue writing like this. And if there’s another Night Hunt that looks promising, that could be interesting as well.”

"Only if you don't bring Jingyi next time," Jin Ling retorted, too shocked to think of anything better to say.

Lan Sizhui laughed gently, his eyes two happy crescents, and nodded.

"I'll try, but I can't promise. You know how he gets. Anyway, I just wanted to say that so… please write again, and I hope we'll meet up again soon."

With that he hopped on his sword and flew away before Jin Ling could say anything more. What more could he have said, anyway? This whole trip had been so confusing, and he didn't know if he'd made progress or not.

Jin Ling needed the opinion of an expert.

A week after that Night Hunt, Jin Ling headed for Qinghe. He didn't even pretend to make an excuse for it this time. He just wrote a letter warning he was coming, choosing a date near enough that Nie Huaisang wouldn't have time to send a reply forbidding the visit, and just showed up.

The guards at the door of the Unclean Realm looked as unhappy as before when he arrived, but Nie Huaisang's first disciple appeared less annoyed than on his previous visit, and even asked him whether he had preferences regarding the type of tea served. Her sect leader still tried hard to appear upset when Jin Ling entered his office, glaring and exclaiming he was too busy for this.

Maybe Nie Huaisang really was this busy, now that he no longer pretended he couldn't run his own sect. Yet he hadn't given orders that Jin Ling wasn't to be allowed inside the Unclean Realm, and his desk was clear of paperwork, meaning he'd prepared for the visit.

Jin Ling had to fight a smirk. That generation which had known the Sunshot Campaign, they all had big scary reputations, but they were a bunch of softies.

Softies with a body count, yes. A recent body count in some cases, sure. But softies anyway.

"So, what news does Jin zongzhu bring?" Nie Huaisang asked after they had been served tea and the servants had retired. "How did your Night Hunt go?"

Jin Ling dutifully recounted the whole thing. Nie Huaisang laughed when he heard about Lan Jingyi inviting himself at the Night Hunt. It was, according to him, typical Lan behaviour.

"They're as protective as one can be," he told Jin Ling. "Wangji didn't even know about our little affair, but he crashed several of our dates."

That comforted Jin Ling a little. Maybe Lan Jingyi had spotted a change in Lan Sizhui's behaviour that Jin Ling himself had not noticed, indicating romantic interest. This theory was confirmed when he continued explaining what had happened. Nie Huaisang had a more favourable view of what Lan Sizhui might have thought about Jin Ling's rescuing of the child.

"That family, they've got a soft spot for any person who knows how to handle a child with gentleness," Nie Huaisang claimed. "They have what you might call a… complicated history with the concept of family."

"Hanguang-Jun seems like a good father," Jin Ling protested. "Sizhui always speaks well of him. Not just well, but fondly."

"I'm sure he does. How does he speak of the rest of the family?"

Jin Ling took a moment to consider that. "He mostly doesn't. People kind of avoid the topic around me, unless they're taunting me. I think he likes his uncle and great-uncle well enough. The others… I don't know. I'm not even sure what other relatives he has?"

Which was odd, Jin Ling realised. People really didn't talk about their family to him if they could avoid it, but he still gleaned things here and there. Like the fact that Ouyang Zizhen had a bunch of sisters, too many aunts, and one uncle who'd died in the Sunshot Campaign. Or how Lan Jingyi was the baby of the family, with his oldest brother already a father. But Lan Sizhui didn't speak about those things, even when chatting with people who weren't Jin Ling.

"Is there a problem with his family?" Jin Ling asked. "Oh. Did they maybe not like his mother? She's not… I think she's not around anymore, but I'm not sure if she's dead or just gone?"

Nie Huaisang opened his fan, but not quickly enough to prevent Jin Ling from seeing a smirk.

"Surely you can't expect me to engage in gossip," Nie Huaisang said with mock horror. "It is a terrible habit, and even if Lan Xichen had confided anything to me on account of our intimate friendship, I would never betray his trust. Well, not about that anyway."

"You just like to make things difficult, it makes you feel smart I bet," Jin Ling grumbled. "Oh, but that reminds me… so you wrote to Lan Xichen after all?"

Nie Huaisang, so cocky a moment ago, turned pale at the question, his hand trembling so bad he nearly dropped his fan.

"Who told you that?"

"Sizhui. He said his uncle got very upset about it, and changed his mind about leaving his seclusion."

"He read it?" Nie Huaisang asked in a trembling voice. "He… are you sure?"

Jin Ling nodded. If it had been anyone else saying it he might have doubted it, but the source was sure.

"Lans don't lie. What did you even write to him to upset him like that?"

Nie Huaisang sharply closed his fan, before quickly reopening it. He did this a few times, before settling for fanning himself with quick gestures.

"I didn't think he'd read my letter," he explained with a nervous chuckle. "Lan Qiren and Lan Wangji had quite heavily hinted that I wasn't welcome to contact Xichen anymore. I figured they'd be the one reading the letter, and he would just be told about the contents by his family, supposing they told him anything at all. If I had known, I wouldn't have been so… cold about my explanation."

"You…"

"I had to write with an audience in mind!" Nie Huaisang said, his fan moving faster. "I don't know if they knew about our affair, I don't know how much they knew, I feared Lan Xichen might feel he'd need additional punishment if his misbehaviour was revealed, and... Lan Wangji probably doesn't know, he was too busy mourning Wei Wuxian to remember others have feelings too. But Lan Qiren… he must have suspected, but I don't believe he knew how serious the affair was, or he would have tried to put an end to it. He's always been hopeful that Xichen would make a reasonable marriage someday. I'm sure he'll get his wish now. I couldn't say, I had to be factual, I had to…"

Jin Ling, awkwardly, reached over the table to pat Nie Huaisang’s shoulder. Normally he would never have allowed himself such familiarity with an elder, but Nie Huaisang really looked like he needed to be comforted.

"I'm sorry. I was trying to help, but…"

Nie Huaisang smiled. "It's fine, the miscalculation was mine. At least Xichen knows everything now. I suppose harsh honesty is better than lingering doubts. I owed him that, and in the long run it might makes things easier on him to think I don't…" he trailed off, his hand tightening on his fan until his knuckles turned white. Quite abruptly he lowered his fan, suddenly smiling with all the appearances of good humour. "I'm rambling, and this doesn't concern you. Back to your situation, since this is about your Lan. And I'm thinking, on the topic of honesty… I do recall the Ghost General saving your life in Yunping City?"

Jin Ling, startled by the sudden change in topic, blinked a few times before he could recall what Nie Huaisang might mean.

"You mean when your brother's corpse tried to murder me? Yeah."

"Good, good. Did you ever thank him for that?"

Jin Ling frowned and shook his head. The way he saw it, he didn't particularly need to feel grateful toward Wen Ning. Saving his life meant that Wen Ning had balanced the scales between them and compensated for having kill his father. Jin Ling didn't really hold much resentment anymore, but he wasn't sure he could be grateful either.

"You should think about it," Nie Huaisang advised. "And if you don't know how to go about it, then perhaps you should ask for advice from someone who knows him."

"I'd rather not speak to Wei Wuxian more than needed," Jin Ling grumbled. "Oh. Wait, you mean ask Sizhui? Why would he want to help with something like that?"

"Why indeed. I don't know why, I'm just throwing ideas around. Lan Sizhui is a person you trust, much more diplomatic than yourself, why would you ever want his help in such a delicate matter? And why would you want to show your beloved that you are less resentful than my generation, and more dedicated to peace? Why would you…"

"I get it! Fine, I'll get Sizhui to help me with that. I'll write to him and…"

"No, ask him in person," Nie Huaisang corrected, sharply closing his fan. "Something like that… yes, in person would definitely be better. Get him to visit, don't say anything about why you're inviting him until he's there."

Jin Ling figured it made sense. He didn't want a letter intercepted that revealed he had good intentions toward the Ghost General, at least not until he had decided how to reveal that on his own terms.

He also still thought that Nie Huaisang liked making mysteries a little too much, and maybe it wasn't a surprise that it had come back to bite him in the ass one day.

"And now, one last thing before you leave, Jin zongzhu," Nie Huaisang said, a wide smile on his face. "You see, my first disciple was looking through some paperwork, and found a number of bills from Qinghe artisans for Jinlin Tai that they claim were never paid. I thought we might have a look at that together?"

Jin Ling's face fell at the news, and he shivered when he saw the size of the pile Nie Huaisang dropped on his desk.

Truly Nie Huaisang knew how to take his revenge on those who annoyed him.

#zhuiling #lingzhui #xisang #jin ling #lan sizhui #mo dao zu shi #mdzs #jau writes #operation woo a lan

31 notes · View notes

curekibouka-writing · 4 years

Text

Sleep Tight, My Dears (twst one-shot fanfiction)

Summary: The long centuries of conflicts had etched hundreds upon hundreds of bloodshed in his eyes, yet never once had Lilia trembled this much.

Warning: major character death

Genre(s): Tragedy, family

Word count: 1120

Why?

What went wrong? How did it go wrong? Why... this was not supposed to happen.

The long centuries of conflicts had etched hundreds upon hundreds of bloodshed in his eyes, yet never once had Lilia trembled this much.

There laid a dragon, blood oozing out beneath an enchanted sword that pierced through its skin and impaled its heart.

And squashed under its talons was a young knight whose aurora coloured eyes were still misty with tears.

With one last deafening screech, the dragon exhausted all its power. A burst of green flames enveloped its gargantuan body, leaving behind ashes in the form of the once elegant and dignified Prince of Thorns himself.

This was not supposed to happen— Then what was? Lilia inwardly jeered. Did he really expect a battle of destiny to leave them unscathed? Did he truly believe he could rewrite this twisted tale into a happily-ever-after?

Maybe he did, because he tried, and failed royally. Expected.

But now he wished he had tried harder. Now he wished he had been wiser. For he had never felt so... so helpless, as Malleus and Silver, his children, sprawled out in front of him, on the verge of death.

His stomach churned when they both looked to him, embers of life still persevering in their eyes, seeking wisdom, guidance, and assurance from him as if that would keep the light of life burning.

He had none to give.

They should not be gazing at him with such gentle eyes, for he was what made everything go so wrong. They should be condemning this poor, simple fool. A fool who made a wish that costed too much.

Oh but was it not at times like these that he must indulge them? Did he not owe at least this much to them? To the wonderful sons that he had always been so immensely proud of?

His eyes stung. His throat was tight. And his heart was this close to leaping into green flames, let it all burn down. But he smiled. Grinned maybe.

For them, he told himself.

“Fa... ther...” Silver coughed out, trying to sit up, but he couldn’t feel his torso at all. Shakily, he extended a hand instead.

“F... fa... ther...”

“Right here,” Lilia enfolded Silver’s hand in his smaller ones, kneeling down. He coated his words with layers of poise, to the best of his ability at least.

“It ap..pears... I have... failed you...” the young knight wheezed, a mess of guilt, sorrow and barely holding on. “Plea..se forgive...”

“You’ve done well, my boy. Your gallant stance wouldn’t have been inferior to any esteemed warriors of the past.” He placed Silver’s head on his lap — when was the last time his son slept on his lap?

“Lilia...”

He looked up at Malleus approaching, hunched over in pain, each step an ugly stagger, dripping with blood, dripping with fear.

“Lilia, answer me...”

Lips quivering, breaths rapid, a visage of fright smeared all over the Thorn Prince’s usual indifference.

“Did I... did I do this...?”

His emerald eyes darted around the seared surroundings, then returned to his retainers. His family. Silver.

“...I did this?”

Silver denied without a second to waste, “Malle...us-sama... no! It was... overblot... It is... I who must... apologi—”

“Lilia...! Tell me,” Malleus seemingly could not hear it, and urged Lilia to answer instead, “Please. Am I...”

When was the last time he allowed himself to put on such a graceless display?

“Am I a monster…?”

Lilia recalled, Malleus had asked this very same question the last time he’d been this frightened. So small had he been, unable to control the fire in his small body, nor the fire in his young heart.

“Come closer,” Lilia whispered gently, fatherly, gesturing for Malleus to lean on his shoulder.

“That’s right, scooch in,” he rested a hand on the side of Malleus’s head, the other caressing Silver’s forehead. A promising smile still plastered over his features.

They sought assurance, so assurance he shall offer.

“You are not a failure. And you are not a monster.”

They sought guidance, so guidance he shall offer.

“Loathe not yourselves. You owe this cursed world nothing.”

They sought wisdom, and so the truth he shall impart.

“Loathe me instead,” he hissed, his words envenomed with detest, “I’m to blame.”

There was a lump in his throat, which he was trying to ignore. Now, of all times, he could not afford to show even a fleck of doubt.

Otherwise he might be convinced to forgive himself.

“I’m to blame for never truly understanding you, Malleus. Had I known to do more, say more than ‘Cease your sulking’, perhaps all this could have been prevented. Loathe me, for not fulfilling my role as your guardian, and your confidant.

“And I’m to blame for thrusting this fate onto you when you were but a toddler, Silver. Had I given you a choice, a different path, perhaps you could’ve been enveloped in flowers and light instead of thorns and blood. Loathe me, for being too weak to do it myself.”

Yes, blame him for this massive miscalculation. For forgetting that love blossoms in peace, making conflicts exponentially more heartbreaking than when there had only been hostility.

And yes, before today, he’d thought his aged heart could never be more broken.

But that was fine. May all the ache be his. So that the youths could sleep forever in peace and tranquillity. Free from cruel fate, free from needless hatred, free from any more conflicts.

He even deliberately left out the apology, so that they wouldn’t be obligated to forgive him

Damn the Great Seven for bestowing upon him these wonderful children.

“Lilia... Not even... when hell freezes over... shall I loathe you.”

“Fa...ther... Being your... son... has been an... ho..nour...”

With their hands over his — dedicating their final glimmers of warmth to him, they both asserted,

“Thank you.”

And then their fingers slipped. Fell. And Lilia didn’t bother to cling onto them.

Somewhere behind him, he could hear gasps and cries, and a particularly booming voice now reduced to something close to a whimper, “Young Lord! Silver...!”

Still it was too loud.

Lilia breathed — so soft, so weak, “Hush, Sebek; hush, all of you. We wouldn’t want to disturb their slumber, now would we?”

He was thankful there were no further disturbances.

“Sleep tight, my dears.”

Still smiling. Still poised. Still fatherly. Still strong.

Until he could no longer sense a single bit of warmth. He let go of them, digging his nails into his face,

and screamed.

The End

#twisted wonderland #Disney Twst #lilia vanrouge #malleus draconia #Twst silver #twst fanfic #twisted wonderland writing #twisted wonderland fanfiction #diasomnia fanfic #diasomnia angst #twst angst #Diasomnia #twisted wonderland scenarios #Twst writing

238 notes · View notes

lailyn · 4 years

Text

The Way We Were

The knock on the door came late evening, so faint and hesitant Loki almost brushed it off as a product of his overactive imagination. On days like this, when the sun was low and the birds had settled to roost, Loki’s melancholy often paid him a visit. Hearing things was not unheard of.

There was the knock again. It sounded more resolute this time.

The banging and clanging from the kitchen ceased momentarily and Tony’s head bobbed up from behind the island counter. “Do you mind getting the door, babe? I kinda have my hands full at the moment.”

Loki rolled his eyes. He waved away their daughter’s toys and righted the cushions on the couch before trudging grudgingly to greet whoever was at the door. For some reason, the journey from the living room to the front door felt long and never-ending, his feet heavy and his heart heavier.

His wards were holding, but he felt far from safe. He held onto the small frame tighter and closer to him.

“Stephen.”

“Loki.”

“I...wasn’t expecting you.” Loki's grip around his daughter tightened.

"Mama, is he a bad man?" He heard her whisper in his ear, and just like that, the tension drained out of Loki like water.

"No." Loki loosened his grip around her. "No, baby, he's not."

“Stephen, my man! You made it!” Out of nowhere, Tony appeared, and the trance broke instantly; Loki took an abrupt step back as his husband reached over to give their guest a hug.

“Tony.” Stephen’s smile was warm and genuine, as was the affectionate squeeze he gave Tony’s shoulder. “It’s been a while.”

“Yes, we’ve really moved out of your jurisdiction,” Tony said with a roll of his eyes. “Wellness checks probably aren't warranted as much.”

“Not when you’ve moved upstate, no, not so much,” Stephen said serenely.

Upon realising that none of them had moved in the last thirty seconds since Loki answered the door, Tony balked, “Are we just going to stand here like a bunch of idiots? Get your ass inside!”

“Husband,” Loki admonished him, doing his best to cover both their daughter’s ears with one hand.

“Oops.” Tony shooed them all in. He could no more bear the awkwardness than Loki could pretend that they were nothing but old friends.

He closed the heavy mahogany doors behind them. “I’d offer to take your coat, but…”

Much to everyone's amusement, the Cloak of Levitation had flown across the threshold to make itself at home, pretending to socialise with the other outer garments on the rack behind the door.

The toddler in Loki's arms squealed in delight.

Stephen admired the cabin, casting an appreciative eye at the high, lofty ceiling with its great timber beams, and the great roaring fireplace. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

“I didn’t think the neoclassic, minimalist luxe look was going to work but you know our dearest Loki. He always knows what he wants.” The look of pure adoration on Tony's face was something to behold.

A soft blush coloured Loki’s cheeks, his “Stop it,” half-hearted and weak.

Stephen's fingers hovered over the lone Japanese ceramic tea bowl on a display table. "Edo period?"

Loki’s eyes were unreadable. "I imagine so."

Stephen would recognise the rough, rustic finish anywhere; the crack that went down all the way from its rim to its bottom was unmistakable. He remembered the hours Loki had spent studying the gold lacquer with which the crack was filled, and he remembered keeping him company.

"Wabi-sabi." Stephen nodded in approval. "The art of seeking beauty in imperfection."

Loki's stoic face gave an imperceptible spasm.

“Espérance, darling, be a dear and go upstairs for a short nap, okay?” Loki pressed a kiss to the little girl's cheek. "Daddy and I are going to talk to Uncle Stephen for a while. We'll call you once dinner's ready."

"I'll take her," Tony offered. "Why don't you take Stephen outside, babe? I've put out some hors d'oeuvre on the patio."

"She's grown so big." Stephen marvelled at the sight of his friends' eldest daughter as she climbed up the stairs one step at a time, clutching the rail in one hand, her father's hand in the other.

"That's one way of telling time." Loki said coolly. "Watching children grow."

Without another word, Loki turned and led Stephen onto the patio, where several chairs had been laid out on the deck overlooking the picturesque lake below.

Loki had no sooner sat on the chair that offered the best view of the mountains on the other side of the house than the first hum of a familiar tune began to play from the various speakers hidden in the trees around the property.

Tony must have tinkered with the controls inside the house, and Loki heaved a sigh, forlorn and pensive.

He did not blame his husband for the poor choice. It had nothing to do with Barbra Streisand’s metier as a singer, as legendary as it was.

"I could listen to this song over and over if not for the memories."

Stephen took a seat on the other side of the coffee table. It was a comfortable, yet companionable distance. "It's always been your favourite."

"The song or the film?"

Now that Stephen really thought about it, he had no idea. "You never told me."

Loki allowed himself a wistful smile. "You hated it. The ending."

"I don't understand why they couldn't be together."

"They were too different."

"They were their own person, sure. But they loved each other. They should have been able to make it work."

"Are we still talking about Barbra Streisand and Robert Redford?" Loki eyed the man sitting next to him. "Or are you talking about us?"

Stephen felt like kicking himself. This was not why he came. He was not going to ruin what was left of this fragile friendship lamenting lost loves and what-ifs. He did not have many friends left, in this world or off it.

"We were too similar," he managed.

Loki snorted. "Polarity has nothing to do with compatibility. What repels does not always repel. What attracts does not always last."

"That is true," Stephen agreed reluctantly.

"You Midgardians look to the stars for guidance, do you not? The alignment and such, to see if one is right for another?”

“Certain cultures do, yeah.”

“I was not born under these stars, Doctor." Loki raised his head to the heavens. "So your theory is flawed."

Stephen knew better than to challenge an idea when there was no point in winning. He had lost so much already. A wiser man would argue that losing was not the same as sacrificing; if done for the greater good, it was noble and worthwhile and who cared if he was alone? If his bed was cold every night?

As long as Loki was safe, warm and loved, Stephen cared not one damn bit.

"It's pretty cold tonight, huh. How about a drink?"

Two steaming cups suddenly appeared on the coffee table.

Loki raised an eyebrow. "Pumpkin spice latte? You hate this stuff."

Stephen flashed him a smile, boyish and familiar. He offered no explanation for why it looked so sad. Perhaps he did not realise he was wearing it. "Not anymore."

A sudden splashing sound and a whiff of bourbon had Loki shooting out a hand to cover the rim of his cup before Stephen could offer to do the same to his drink. "I'm alright, thank you."

In his shock, Stephen nearly dropped the bottle with a fumbling gasp, and his host turned to give him a sharp look.

In profile, Loki’s looks had appeared untouched by age. But now, Stephen could see the passage of time in the seaglass eyes, how their piercing brilliance cast a sallow hue over a complexion so pale he could see the veins in Loki’s temples.

"Does Tony know?"

Loki's forehead furrowed as though the question puzzled him, but it smoothened as he looked down at the hand he did not realise he was holding to his stomach.

"I was planning to tell him the good news tonight."

Stephen closed his eyes. Finally he knew why he had come, and why he must now leave.

He recapped the bottle of liquor slowly. He banished it to his secret pocket dimension in exchange for another object, one he had coveted for his own but now only knew was only given to him for safekeeping.

Slowly he stood. As if answering his silent call, the Cloak of Levitation flew through one of the open windows upstairs to settle around his shoulders.

Loki tore his eyes away. He could not look at Stephen's majestic silhouette for too long.

"Must you leave so soon?" He asked lightly. "You'll break Tony's heart."

The foliage of red and gold here was as beautiful as the one Stephen and Loki once shared a long, long time ago.

He pressed in Loki's hand a memento of that time, a souvenir from one of the many Shinto shrines Loki had dragged him to up and down the ancient town of Kyoto.

"Fall has seen its share of broken hearts."

With the return of the sad smile and a small shrug, Stephen then asked the cruelest yet kindest question of all. "What is one more?"

_____________

Loki watched the last of the autumn leaves fall one by one onto the cold, hard ground. He had never told anyone but his eyesight had become better with age, especially in the dark. Be it his Jotunn blood or his ever-growing proficiency in the practice of magic, he found it both a blessing and a curse.

Winter was coming.

And something was burning.

The smoke detector blared but the alarm sounded distant, unimportant. A white noise of modern living.

There was a time when Loki would have let the world around him burn, just for one moment of peace...until he learned that solace was not a place. Tony taught him that.

The patio door slid open behind him and before his husband could speak,

"Do you need a hand, darling?" Loki said without turning his head.

"I think I burnt the turkey!" Tony said, sounding awfully stressed over an overdone poultry no one was going to eat anyway. "I need some time-turning magic! Stephen, you need to timey-wimey the turkey back to edib - "

He frowned. "Where did Strange go?"

"He had to leave."

"What? Why?"

"He didn't say."

"It's not Thanksgiving without turkey."

"I'm sure we'll manage," Loki said mildly.

He waved a hand and the smell of smoke disappeared, the smoke detector alarm dwindling into the first chimes of the cicadas' night song.

"Think it was some kind of Sorcerer Supreme business? He left without saying goodbye."

"Must be."

Tony sank slowly into the chair Stephen had so hastily vacated. "Well, I guess protecting our reality comes first.”

“Yeah,” Loki said softly. “I guess.”

"Are you alright?" Tony asked carefully.

“You didn’t tell me he was coming.”

“I didn’t know he was. He has never RVSP-ed before, no matter how many times we invited him over.”

“Why now? Why this year?”

“Maybe he just misses you.”

“Anthony…��

"How long has it been? Seven, eight years since you last saw each other?"

Loki had meant to leave Tony's rhetorical question unanswered but nostalgia had other ideas. "Ten."

Tony whistled. A decade, huh. "That must be why."

“Tony, don’t.”

“Look, Lokes,” Tony said haltingly as he ran a rakish hand through his hair. "Everybody has a history. You know mine. I'm lucky if I could learn half of yours before I die but what I do know of it, I'm cool with it. You're with me now and that's all that matters."

Loki said nothing.

"Am I wrong?" Tony pleaded when the silence went on for far too long.

Loki rolled his eyes. "There's a little girl upstairs who has your face and your name, what do you think?"

"Seeing as she is our daughter, she's mine, sure." Tony's eyes were asking a different question altogether, Are you?

Loki sighed, feeling sick to his stomach. The one sip of the sickly sweet drink he took sat heavy and sour, heralding the onset of nausea that would take hours to calm.

His hand slipped inside his pocket and grasped the palm-sized object, not knowing what to expect -

The tiniest gust of wind blew against his cheek, and Loki let out a startled cry. He had not felt Stephen's magic in a long, long time.

"Loki?" he heard Tony call out, the abject concern in his husband's voice.

He picked up the pouch that had fallen out of his pocket and fisted it tightly, noticing how his nausea had completely vanished.

"It's an Omamori charm," he said faintly. "The Japanese would gift these to expectant mothers as a good luck charm for safety in pregnancy and childbirth."

"Why would he - " Tony's eyes bulged as he gaped, "You're pregnant?"

"Yes," Loki said, painfully aware of how feathery and weak his voice sounded.

"And you told him?" Tony asked, his voice rising in pitch. "Before me?"

Loki ignored the jealousy in Tony's voice and the hurt in his husband's eyes. Not only was it unfounded, Loki was barely holding it together himself.

He shook his head more forcefully than he intended and a few tears landed on the weather-beaten deck, darkening it in places.

"Stephen just knew." Loki wiped his face surreptitiously. "He knows these things."

"I bet he does," Tony muttered darkly.

Loki turned to look at his husband furiously. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"Baby, I didn't mean it like that." Tony hurriedly tried to gather Loki in his arms but his unyielding husband refused to budge so Tony slid onto the floor and surrendered himself to the mercy of Loki's lap. "I say the stupidest shit sometimes, stuff I don't even mean."

But Loki was nothing if not persistent. "Then what did you mean?"

Tony was quiet for a time. "Bambi, I'm the coolest guy I know. I look good for my age. Did I tell you my skin age dropped from fifty to thirty after I went on that cleansing diet Bruce recommended on his podcast?"

If Loki waited long enough, Tony almost always got to the point. Eventually.

"Hey, Fury told me that the last Sorcerer Supreme lived for hundreds of years. How crazy is that?"

“Where are you going with this?”

“Nowhere,” Tony said all too quickly.

"You are talking to the God of Lies, Tony, or did you forget?" Loki's eyes glinted dangerously. "Try again."

“Someday...one day when I’m no longer around and if you decide that - ” Tony hesitated. His gaze shifted to the floor. “I just want you to know that I’m okay with it. I’m okay with the idea of...you. And him.”

“You would say that to me when I have given up everything to be with you. To take you as my husband." Loki's eyes welled. "To bear our children.”

His breath hitched, his chest felt tight. "After all these years, you still - "

"No, Loki. Please, don't."

Tony could never stand to see him cry, but Loki could not help the tears streaming down his face of their own volition.

"Please don't cry…"

Rough, calloused hands pawed at the hollow of his cheeks.

"I just wish I could make you happy."

But Loki was not having it. "The man can see into the future, Stark. Do you honestly believe he would have let you have me if you couldn't?"

Tony was stunned into silence.

"What ever gave you the impression that I was not happy with you?" Loki asked bitterly, his entire frame trembling under the weight of anger and some other emotion he dared not name. "You are not some charity case I picked up because you had the shorter life to live."

The silence stretched into long minutes of heartache and morose reflection.

“Are you mad at me?” Tony asked quietly.

"No." Loki shook his head. “I am thankful for you. You gave me a chance. No one else did.”

“Hey, hey. It wasn’t all me. It was mostly you. It was all you.”

Tony grabbed Loki's hand and pressed an exceptionally fierce kiss on the bone-cold knuckles. “You gave us a chance. I just wanted someone I couldn’t have.”

“Someone you thought you couldn’t have," Loki corrected.

Tony gazed into the icy depth of Loki's eyes, looking for an affirmation only Loki could give.

“Stephen may have come first but you are not second, Tony."

Loki touched his fingertips to the sides of his husband's dear, sweet face. "You were never second.”

"I love you, Games."

"And I, you," Loki reassured him, stilling the quiver of Tony's lips with a brush of a thumb. "Even if you don't always believe me."

"I do." In a throwback to his overexcitement on their wedding day, Tony showered Loki's face all over with kisses, each more desperate than the one before. "I do, I do, I do!"

"I never doubted you, Loki. I was just being an idiot. An insecure, self-centered idiot." Tony reached out a hand to touch Loki's stomach. "Are you okay?"

"I am more than okay." Loki laced his fingers through Tony's. "Are you?"

"Are you kidding? Do you see this?" Tony gestured at the giant grin he was wearing. It was so huge he felt as if his cheeks would snap. "This is my happy face. I am super happy." Then his face contorted. "When did we -?"

"Make her?" Loki bit down on his lip. "By my calculation, probably last month on our trip to Italy."

Tony's already big eyes widened. Her? He mouthed.

Loki thought of the pouch charm with its exquisite pink brocade and gold silk lining.

The Sorcerer Supreme was never wrong.

"Yes, we are having another girl," Loki said giddily. Tears of happiness did not sting as much so this time he did not bother blinking them away.

Tony's eyes danced. "Can I tweet this yet?"

"No."

"But my followers come up with the most amazing baby names!"

"No!"

Tony pouted. "Fine. But we're giving her an Italian name."

"Tony, we don't really have to name every kid we have after the place where they were conceived, you know."

"Espérance grew into hers," Tony argued. After a few seconds of heavy thinking, "I quite like Isabella."

Loki wrinkled his nose beatifically. "Too common."

"Ludovica? You thought the sculpture was beautiful."

"I am not naming our daughter after a tomb effigy!" Loki said indignantly. "Although I did meet Bernini once. Give him a slab of marble and he could breathe it to life."

The reminiscent smile on Loki's face took on a life of its own. "You would have liked him. He was quite flashy, like you."

"God you're sexy when you name-drop famous dead people," Tony sighed.

Loki began to laugh; it started off slow, before escalating into a full, heartfelt laughter that had him grabbing Tony's face in both hands.

Stephen chose to serve the world. Maybe in another life, he would choose Loki.

But for now, and forever…

There was no other man for him.

He bent down to kiss Tony on the lips, gently, deeply and fully.

"Anthony Stark, you have my heart." For Loki too remembered his wedding vows. "Whole, healed and eternal."

And eternal indeed was their love, the former Iron Man and his Ice Prince, and healed were their hearts, conjoined as one, for as long as they both shall live.

#frostiron #strangefrost

16 notes · View notes

seawitchkaraoke · 4 years

Text

Looking fetching

Ao3 link in the notes, spoilers for A Killing Frost.

Simon hadn't meant to lie to October, not really. It's just that it hadn't seemed important and by the time Acacia asked if he was Sylvester's fetch, he didn't want to interrupt their search for his daughter with long explanations, which would undoubtedly have been needed, had he answered "yes".

And it hadn’t truly been a lie. He had never once described Eira as "his" firstborn, merely the Daoine Sidhe firstborn and when he told Acacia he was Sylvester's brother, it was true. October would understand that, she called the Lady May her sister as well after all.

So yes, he had excuses and he hadn't technically lied and surely October would understand. It had been drilled into him never to tell anyone his true nature after all, he had long since learned to mirror the magic of the Daoine Sidhe as much as possible and if he was better with transformations than he had any right to be, well, he was simply talented.

And yet.

And yet when October said, again, that it wasn't his fault, he couldn't have resisted Eira, her being his firstborn after all, and Dianda and Patrick, his Patrick, who he had never told, were right there.... He knew it didn't matter. If he wanted a chance at redemption, he had to be honest.

So.

"She isn't my firstborn"

Silence. Dianda and Patrick stared at him. So did October and supposedly Tybalt, though the king of cats wasn't in his line of sight.

"what do you mean? You know she's the Daoine Sidhe firstborn, you said so yourself?" October sounded like she was contemplating dragging him back to the sea witch to fix him, since he had clearly lost his mind.

Well. Better explain then.

"Yes, she is the Daoine Sidhe firstborn. She is my brother's firstborn and my father's firstborn, but she isn't my firstborn"

Deep breath. This wouldn't make them hate him any more. Probably.

"I don't know who my firstborn is, but I know it is not her. I- I am not Daoine Sidhe”

He took another breath. Best to just say it, “I am a fetch. Sylvester's fetch, though you could have guessed that I suppose. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, it never seemed like the right time and my parents taught me never to tell anyone and I didn't-"

He was babbling, he knew. Somehow, he couldn't stop. He was still holding Patrick's hands, but he couldn't bring himself to look at him, why had he never told him in all the years they had known each other? October might forgive him; she had forgiven worse and they had not, in truth, known one another long but Patrick? Patrick be should have told ages ago

"I'm sorry I misled you, truly, I understand if this changes things, there's really no excuse, I should have told you centuries ago-"

"Simon"

That stopped him. Patrick didn't sound angry, but he didn't exactly sound happy either, and Patrick rarely sounded angry even when he was and-

"Simon, please, look at me"

He couldn't disobey that voice, so soft and insistent and unbearably calm. So, he lifted his head, slowly, and looked into Patrick's eyes, expecting anger or disappointment or betrayal.

All he found was love.

"I never loved you for your species you know?" Patrick smiled wryly "of course I would have preferred it if you had told me - and you really should have - but if I can forgive you turning my son into a tree-"

Simon winced, glancing towards Dean who was a little way away, talking quietly to Quentin "I really am sorry about that"

"as I said, if I can forgive that, I can forgive you not telling me about being a fetch - and sweet Oberon, if I didn't know you so well I'd think you were playing a joke, HOW can you possibly be a fetch?

"yes!" October had finally found her voice "HOW are you a fetch? Shouldn't I have seen that in your memories? Shouldn't Sylvester, you know, be dead?"

"I'd like to know that as well" Tybalt spoke, now, seemingly calm "I've known you an exceedingly long time, and you never showed any indication of being your brother’s death omen"

Simon was about to answer, when Dianda, suddenly snorted.

And then laughed.

And then kept laughing.

And then lost control of her legs and landed on the beach on her long shimmering tail.

“Um”, said Simon, intelligently “are you alright?”

Dianda tried to answer but couldn’t – she was still laughing too hard – so she held a hand up signalling them to give her a minute.

After several minutes, that they all spent staring at Dianda and that Dianda spent trying to calm herself down, only to look up at Simon and lose it all over again, she managed but kept her eyes resolutely away from him.

“of course, you are a fetch”, she said, “why not? I don’t even need an explanation, this is Faerie, this might as well happen”

“….well I’d still truly appreciate an explanation if it is of no inconvenience to you”, said Tybalt.

“okay okay, yes, so. Um.”, Simon stuttered, not really knowing where to begin, “so. You know where fetches come from, right?”

“Yes”, said Tybalt and Toby. “No”, said Patrick and Dianda. They stared at each other.

“Hey, it wasn’t my secret to share!”, Toby held her hands up, warding off Dianda’s stare and taking a step away from her tail – as if that would really save her.

“Alright”, Simon pinched the bridge of his nose, “as far as I know we come from nighthaunts who drink living blood… does that match what your Lady Fetch told you, October?”

“Err, yes but what do you mean ‘as far as you know’? Don’t you remember? Because May remembers, it’s really useful sometimes but also kinda creepy”

“No, I don’t remember…. I didn’t even know I was a fetch for a while. I appeared when Sylvester was still very young – I believe there was an assassination attempt, my father killed the assailant but some of my brother’s blood must have gotten mixed in his - and so his… my… our parents changed my memory and adopted me. Don’t ask how or why they did this; I could only speculate. Possibly they believed that if I could not remember being a death omen that Sylvester would survive”

Toby interrupted at that “but wouldn’t you have noticed? Didn’t your appearance change to match his or you could feel danger and all those…”, she waved her hand, “funky fetch powers?”

Simon sighed, “maybe if I had been older, yes, but I was very young at the time. The only memories I had were Sylvester’s, which I imagined to be my own, and he was just a few years old, only a toddler.”

Toby frowned “okay, never mind that imagining you two as toddlers is just weird, but wouldn’t you have realized as you grew up?”

“I would have yes. I did, in fact, but not in the way you appear to imagine. You know we grew up with your mother –“

Toby nodded, a frown on her face.

“- well. One day we were playing and Sylvester… he fell. He fell and he hit his head and he didn’t get up. My sister and I didn’t know what to do, she ran for our parents and I…”

“you faded.” Toby spoke up again, realization on her face, “you faded, and my mother told you to stop. But… but how did she save Sylvester? She saved me from elfshot by changing my blood, but she couldn’t have done that to him”

“She did not, no. But she- She was only a child but she grabbed the nearest rose and drove the thorns into her skin and when that did not make her bleed as much as she desired, she grabbed more roses and then she grabbed my knife that I used to make little wooden figures and she… she bled. She bled a lot. I don’t know what she did or how it could have been possible, but Sylvester woke and the nighthaunts didn’t come to call either of us home and when my parents arrived they found a lot of blood but no dead child.” He took a breath, “If I did not already love your mother, I think this may have been when I fell. She was so sure and so beautiful and so fearless, and she saved my brother, one of the most important people in my world”, he grew quiet, “at the time, at least”

They took a moment to digest that. Then Patrick, dear Patrick spoke up “that may have been the only selfless thing Amandine ever did. I’m glad she saved you, and him, for your sake, but Sylvester never deserved you”

Simon sighed, “he was a child, Patrick, dearest. We all were. There was no resentment yet in those days, no mistakes that couldn’t be taken back, just four children”, he glanced at Tybalt, “four children and a prince of cats who seemed to appear at random intervals”, he tried to pour amusement into his voice. The others simply stared at him, clearly not impressed by his attempts at joking.

“Be that as it may” Tybalt drawled, clearly unembarrassed by Simon’s mention of him, “pray, continue with your recounting. After this event, did your parents tell you what you were?”

Simon nodded, “they did. They didn’t have much of a choice. Perhaps they could have claimed that the fading of the one when the other died was normal for twins – they are exceedingly rare in Faerie after all – but I would have questioned why my magic was different or perhaps met some other pair of twins eventually. I suppose they deemed it wiser to tell me, so I could learn how to hide as a Daoine Sidhe as best as possible”

“but your magic!”, October burst out, “you can do blood magic and I’ve never seen May do that! I don’t understand”

“Have you ever seen her attempt blood magic, October?”, he asked, but before she could answer, he shook his head and continued, “but no, you are quite right. I am not very good at blood magic. I can do some – just as you are capable of illusions despite having neither flower nor water magic at your disposal – but I am not good. I am however decent at alchemy which can achieve many of the same results. True, I vastly prefer having some time to make a potion out of blood but once I have done so, no one ever questions whether or not what I am doing is truly the result of blood magic as such. I look and act Daoine Sidhe after all and who has ever heard of a fetch existing long enough to learn deception?”

“And you are, as we have seen, surprisingly adept at transformations”, Patrick mused. Simon winced again and glanced towards Dean – still walking along the beach with Quentin – but Patrick did not sound angry, “really I should have seen it ages ago. You never did show me all that much blood magic, but you transformed scraps into new suits on a far too regular basis, when the old one would truly still have served me fine”, he was smiling now and finally Simon allowed his shoulders to sag. Patrick really had forgiven him for the deception.

“you never did learn how to properly dress yourself”, he sighed but was smiling too now, comfortable in the centuries old banter.

“Well, that’s why I married a mermaid”, he grinned, “clothing is really rather optional down there. What’s the point, truly, if it will only get wet?”

Toby exclaimed in protest that when she had been in the undersea, everyone had been clothed, Dianda laughed and backed her husband up that no, it was true, they barely knew what clothes were in her realm, and Simon allowed himself to breathe.

He didn’t know what was to happen to him next. He assumed he would be sent to sleep for a hundred years and he truly could not say he did not deserve that and worse. But at least he could do so, knowing that no more deceptions stood between him and the people he loved so dearly.

#october daye #toby fic #dianda lorden #patrick lorden #toby daye #simon torquill #seanan mcguire #tybalt #simon is a fetch theory #a killing frost #a killing frost spoilers

34 notes · View notes

anonymousanomieness · 4 years

Text

Cheat the Church of Integrity — Strip the Sanctuary of Truth — Compromise the Cult of Society — Life is YOUR Game

Introducing The Games (Continued):

vi. The Time and Space Game What better way to control the masses than to contain them within a limited number of perceivable dimensions and parameters by perpetuating a fictitious narrative? The nature of Time has been pontificated since antiquity; yet, there’s not much to grasp. Time is only an intangible concept — a product of the imagination that somehow became so pervasive, that the vast majority took for granted that it is merely a creative idea. When does the ego become aware of the idea of Time? When one is a baby, or even a toddler, one is unaware of anything called “Time.” Even when a child is becoming “potty trained,” it is debatable as to whether or not Time needs to be grappled with. One may claim that a toddler has a sense of how much time there is to safely reach a toilet before having an “accident” — however, truthfully, the toddler is not thinking in terms of time, but rather, urgency. If the toddler delays going to the toilet, then due to its body’s digestive system, the toddler will experience a biological sensation, which will then trigger a psychological feeling of urgency, which will grow more intense the more the toddler delays. The mental sensation of urgency is a predictable outcome of the biological sensation within the digestive system — but either way, it is independent of Time. After all, the toddler will experience these sensations regardless of whether or not it believes in Time. If the toddler has an accident, the toddler will not likely believe that it “ran out of time”; rather, it will simply accept — perhaps after some emotional trauma — that its body gave into the biological urgency of the situation, regardless of Time. Contrary to popular belief, urgency does not relate to Time; it only relates to a sense of importance and high priority stemming from strong convictions, or pressure. Time is an extra imaginative factor that we subconsciously plug into life equations, usually to denote urgency. If you eliminate Time from an equation, urgency still remains, until you eliminate what seems to be directly causing the sense of urgency. The toddler’s sense of urgency will disappear when it finally releases its waste through the digestive system. Likewise, the sense of urgency that a person feels when they are holding their breath will disappear once their body insists on exhaling and inhaling deeply to relieve the tension. Time does not contribute as a risk factor at all; the person holding their breath risks losing consciousness not due to prolonged “time” without oxygen, but simply due to a quantitative lack of necessary oxygen — regardless of time. Yet, we insist on thinking of Time as some independent force that “moves things along” on its own, like some phantom glacier. My least favorite cliché is, “All things change with time.” Time does not change a thing; rather, objects, including living beings — and perhaps forces of nature — make any and all changes. (It can be said that objects and living beings are, in a sense, forces of nature themselves.) Any change that is made to your reality is either caused by your actions, the actions of some other object, or natural forces — all falling within your consciousness. Time is not a force, but an idea. Regardless of whether or not you believe in Free Will, all changes that occur within your awareness — for certain — are not initiated by anything with the name “Time.” Similar statements like, “Times have changed,” only serve to make you feel powerless and useless. Sure, it would be wise to accept that you cannot control everything, as you may not be able to stand up to a hurricane…but are you seriously going to base your life decisions on “the times you’re living in,” rather than allow your imperatives to determine and influence this timeless present moment of your creation? One would be wiser to consider that Time does not perpetuate us; rather, we foolishly perpetuate Time as a fixed idea. The Operators within the Church of Integrity, or the Sanctuary of Truth, use the concept of Time to their advantage in order to control masses of people without them even realizing it. To be fair, most commoners enjoy utilizing the idea of Time to their benefit as well. This is tempting, especially when you want to instill a sense of urgency within your followers so they will prioritize your intentions and act according to your desires more readily. Hesitation and procrastination do not actually demonstrate an augmentation of “down time,” but rather a diminution of personal desire and the will to act. However, you can trick people into fearing you, and therefore cooperating with you, if you introduce them to Time, and explain that they will experience an undesired sensation if “time runs out” due to a “deadline.” We tend to fear potential consequences. However, these are only spooks — contrived ideas based on the concept of “after.” Etymology shows “after” to be derived from “off,” as in “farther off” or “further” — beyond the present moment. When we start to worry about what may happen after, farther off, further down the line, beyond the present, etc., we are less capable of enjoying what is right in front of us. “After” is only part of our imagination, since it has not occurred yet! Likewise, “before” is only a dream, because it is not happening anymore! Only the present is occurring now.

• • •

Another obstacle to contend with is space — that is, the concept of space as a measurable entity within our immediate perceivable environment. The vast majority has trouble questioning the validity and significance of space, due to being so caught up in the five main senses, and the physicality of surroundings; in other words, we are so convinced by our perception that all objects surrounding us are undeniably “real” and external from the self, rather than entirely mental and internal — within the self. That being said, it truly does not matter whether you think your surroundings exist externally or internally. You can believe that your surroundings exist as independent materials outside of your perception, yet still agree that the concept of space is nothing more than just that — a contrived concept. Space, let alone time, is not a phenomenon that stands in its own right; rather, space and time are tools of our imagination that we utilize in order to make sense of our awareness, and how objects within our consciousness seem to behave. A widely accepted system that is easy to debunk is that of “orientation” or “direction.” Terms such as “North,” “South,” “East,” and “West” were completely contrived by human minds. They each simply seem to describe a general path that progresses toward or away from a given point of reference. For example, “East” is the general label given to a path that progresses toward the rising sun. It comes from Proto-Germanic “aust-,” meaning “toward the sunrise.” “North” is the general label given to a path that progresses “left” of the sunrise, as the term descends from the Proto-Indo-European root “ner-,” meaning “left” or “below.” The word “left” is thought to derive from the Kentish or northern Old English term lyft, meaning “weak; foolish”; or from the East Frisian term luf, or from the Dutch dialectical loof, meaning “weak, worthless.” Of course, these would be referring to the arms or hands. Usually, the “left” arm tends to be the weaker arm. So, humans conjured up a metaphor comparing a contrived direction traveling away from the sunrise to a weak arm that seems to be pointing in that same direction, when one faces the sun at “dawn.” The “tangible” objects involved here — if you will — are the sun and the weak human arm, based on the temporary perspective of a human looking towards the location where the sun was said to rise. From observing these tangibles, humans have invented the intangible concepts of “North,” “South,” “East,” “West,” “Left,” and “Right” to assist with navigating awareness. It is clear how significant of a role the Language Game plays here. It is worth mentioning that languages borrow from one another, which means that concepts and terms across all languages — even if they refer to something global, such as “the ground” — do not originate simultaneously. The vernacular spreads through globalization, imitation, and repetition, and continually evolves. It becomes clear how most humans instinctively tend to imitate what they observe, rather than constantly innovate. This makes sense, considering when we are babies we must imitate our caregivers to survive. Language and communication certainly assist with surviving and thriving; but this does not mean that it is necessary to build a world in your mind that gives life to intangible, invisible concepts — and then impose your imaginary world upon the awareness of others, let alone your own consciousness. Within the Legal Game, lawyers, judges, and jurors use the Time and Space Game in tandem with the reasoning process. The word “reason” is part of the definition of the Latin word causa, and the Old French word cause. When someone tries to determine the “cause” that led to some “consequence,” they are merely reasoning. It might as well be said that they are seasoning, since all they are managing to do is sprinkle your awareness with arbitrarily imposed suggestions as to why you experienced something. “Where were you on the evening of April 4th, 1995, at 6:32 PM, when the sun and the moon were at this or that position in the sky?” “Why, I was standing at such and such coordinates, facing just Northeast of the Eastern border of the territory formerly known as Yugoslavia!” What nonsense! This is nothing more than a sly game — a manipulative tactic. Yet, we willingly choose to play this game every day, never stopping to question it. There are no hours, days, months, years, borders, countries, provinces, coordinates, or cardinal directions! There is only one “time” and “space,” and that is this moment! Awareness does not need a map, nor a compass to thrive. Consciousness is not a chronological web of events, all pointing the blame at one another. The winds will continue to blow, whether or not we measure their speed, or where they go. The sun will continue to rise and fall, whether or not we trace its journey, or keep watch at all. To be continued...

#egoism #egoist #egoist anarchism #anarcho-egoism #individualism #individualist #individualist anarchism #anarcho-pessimism #autonomy #autonomist #autonomism #anticiv #society #anarchy

6 notes · View notes

docholligay · 5 years

Note

PHARAH TRACER BODY SWAP FREAKY FRIDAY STYLE

I’m going to move on from this since I know some people want SM stuff and I’m already to 2600 words on this but I am having a GREAT time and please let me know if you want me to continue this!

Lena Oxton was used to having an unusual life. She had been the world’s top fighter pilot, she had seen herself as a child, not knowing it meant, she was a medical miracle who by all theories and standards shouldn’t have been able to be sitting there next to Pharah when it happened. No, she was very used to life being just a little strange, just a little off-key, and mostly, she appreciated that she would never be bored, or boring.

None of which truly prepared her for waking up on a hardwood floor, twenty centimeters taller.

“Bloody…” she rolled over, her head pounding, and looked over to her right.

Her body was lying there, next to her. Her eyes widened, and her heart leapt into her throat, the tight panic of knowing that it had happened again, oh no, it had happened again, and she was out of time, and her whole body began to tremble as she thought of the pain of it–she couldn’t do it again, she’d die, it had nearly killed her the last time–but there was no cold at all. No pain. Just a strange tingling at her shoulder, which was offputting, but not painful. This wasn’t being lost in time at all.

She was so surprised for a moment, that she forgot to be afraid, and sat up.

“Am I dead?” Her voice echoed off the walls, but it was wrong, it was deep and rich and nice enough, but it wasn’t hers, was it?

Her body began to moan next to her, and pinched its fingers at the bridge of its nose.

Tracer looked at herself. “Uh..you alright…me?”

Her body mumbled something in Arabic.

Tracer looked down at her hands, one metal, a gold ring welded to it, and one so much darker than she’d fallen unconscious with. Her hands, or at least, the ones she was currently processing, flew to her hair, a small low ponytail fixed to the back of her head, a gold bead wrapped around a strand. She looked back to her body, and crawled over next to it.

“Fareeha?”

Her body’s eyes opened, and blinked a few times. “Nothing, I only must have…” Pharah’s bright brown eyes looked into Tracer’s dark ones, “Ahhh!”

Tracer yelled back, and jumped away from Pharah, who was also Tracer, trying to twist her arm behind her and finding that the body she was inhabiting wasn’t quite as flexible as her own, and she fell back to the ground for a moment.

Pharah rolled to the side, and made to grab the knife from her pants, only to discover that there was no cargo pocket at all. She took in the scene for a moment, and sat back on her heels. Her body folded easily in the position Pharah had stretched herself for so many times. It was painless. Easy. She looked down at her chest, at the blue light there. ANd then glowered back at Tracer.

“What did you do?”

“Right,” Tracer said, laughing, “I’s like, God but I’d love to steal Fareeha’s body, and me with all me science knowledge, be nothing but a bit of a lark to do, just going to take me–”

“I did not mean,” Pharah growled, in a voice that was much too high to bring across the frustration she felt, “That you meant to.”

Tracer slowly stood up, a little dizzy from the strangeness of her body. She reached out a hand to the desk, feeling at it with the hand Winston had created. It felt mechanical, in a way she struggled to describe even to herself, like the information was being delivered, and was simply that. She touched the hand back to her chest. She didn’t care for the sensation.

Pharah rose to her feet. “You have to be used to it.”

Tracer walked over to the tiny closet, so much more quickly than she was accustomed, and opened the door, looking at the small mirror inside it. She felt at her face, tracing the tattoo below her eye, the sharp carved edges of her chin and her nose, her commanding jawline.

“I’m you.” She said, the mystery and strangeness in it permeating the space.

“No,” Pharah pulled at the sweater on her body, “you are in my body.”

Tracer whirled around and looked down at Pharah, which Pharah disliked immediately.

“Bloody ‘ell Fareeha, you know exactly what it is I meant, no need to get so specific over it.”

They stood there in silence for a moment, both of them attempting to wrangle with the strangeness of the situation, both of them wondering how this could possibly have happened, and if it had been borne of ill intention, or a mistake, or just one of those things that seemed to befall only those who live storied lives. Neither of them came up with much. The day had begun like any other, right up until a blinding headache and a dash into the darkness.

Tracer sat cross-legged on her desk, pulling her legs into position. “Well,” she said, chin in her hands, “Now what?”

Pharah sat down in her chair, immediately noted the desk was too high for her to comfortably type, and and pressed her lips together in annoyance, eyes closed. There was no protocol for this, no answer she knew. As far as she was aware, there was no precedent for this sort of thing, no case study or treatment Mercy could even consider.

But it would have to be Mercy, because there was no better option.

“We will ask Angela.” Pharah nodded her head, determined.

“Mmmm,” Tracer was looking at her own body more closely now, pulling up her sleeve to look at the muscles there, “Fareeha, do you ever eat a carb? Drink a beer? I’m plenty strong meself and that’s the truth, but it takes a good deal more deprivation than I care for to get this sort of definition, and–”

“Tracer! Pay attention!”

Tracer looked at her, and scowled. “Well,” she slowly dismounted from the desk, “We’ll ask Ang later, as I’m off to actually use these looks. You never bloody ‘ave, and someone ought to–”

Pharah leapt to her feet. “Are you saying you will make me cheat on my wife?”

Tracer giggled. “I’m not you, just in your body, right?”

Fareeha Amari considered herself a patient person, most of the time, and over the years, she had found a particular level of patience with Tracer, who she even, sometimes, could admit to herself, although never anyone else, she quite loved, and found charming in her own way. But Tracer knew how to needle her, and sometimes simply did it as her own sort of stress response, and Pharah was in no mood.

Well, she thought, Tracer is an excellent fighter, and I have always been curious what fighting as her might be like.

With that thought, she exploded toward her own body. But old habits die hard, and she went to throw Tracer into the wall, forgetting that she was much smaller than Tracer now, until Tracer grabbed her by the collar and tossed her back across the room. But Tracer herself was locked in her ways, and as Pharah came back for another round, Tracer tripped over herself–her balance was not nearly as keen or even as it had been–and she was staggered to find that jumping up out of the way was a near impossibility with all the stone she’d gained in the last half hour.

Whatever they had imagined fighting as the other might look like, and well they might manage a body with strengths they could not possibly know, it ended up looking quite a bit more like two toddlers on the playground. Pharah could feel that her body was one firm muscle, but she did not know how to use it, still throwing punches that could not possibly land with the force she wanted, lacking any knowledge in how to use speed and momentum. Tracer was ready for the sheer power of Pharah’s body, but not the slow planning it required to use it, born a creature of impulse and quickness. She was a hummingbird in the body of an eagle, and just as awkward.

Then Pharah tried to blink.

She had seen Tracer do it a hundred times before, even in this casual CA where she wasn’t supposed to be able to at all. It was a small advantage–half a second perhaps, maybe one in an outside chance–but it was still there, and she had used it to best Pharah on a handful of occasions. Perhaps in a wiser moment, Pharah would have recognized that knowing it could be done and knowing how to do something were cousins, but not twins, and so she should ask and practice, and be sure of herself. She was so often careful, and wise in this way. But she was frustrated, and she was angry, and she knew it was a great tactical advantage, and so, she thought about where she wanted to be, and tried to move there.

She fell to the ground immediately, not by any force of Tracer’s, who was still figuring out how to aim with the cannon that was her new body, but with a fierce contraction that went through her whole being, something that reached into her brain and fired, and she gasped with the pain of it. She crumpled to the ground, her stomach turning, heart pounding, barely able to breathe.

She heard her own voice in Tracer’s patter, and hand rubbing her back as the haze cleared. “It’ll pass love, I promise, it’ll pass. Just a moment, is all. Shouldn’t ‘ave tried it, ‘arder than it looks, in this kit, but it’ll pass.”

Pharah looked at her. “Does that happen often?”

“Nah,” Tracer smiled and shook her head, “But I do remember it. Not any fun at all. Deep breath, love, come on then.”

She helped Pharah sit up and lean against the wall. Pharah had often wondered, what it was like living in Tracer’s body, if it caused her pain, and had always thought it would be too rude to ask. Tracer avoided speaking about anything that teetered on the medical, and had expressed multiple times that while they could do what they liked if she was killed, during her lifetime she had no interest in being a scientific subject.

Pharah had not known how to make it clear she was asking as a concerned friend, and so had never asked at all.

But now she had Tracer’s body in hand, and so she felt justified to ask a short question. “Is it like that when it works?”

“Oh no, oh no,” Tracer sat beside her, “bit of nausea, sometimes, but nothing like that, love. That’s only when I don’t manage it,” she laughed, “beside all that, we’ll go to Ang, and she’ll fix us up, and so it won’t be your worry at all.”

The phone on the other end of the room went off, and Tracer reached into Pharah’s pocket and pulled out three candy wrappers and a small, blue, three sectioned box with a cheerful cartoon frog on it. She popped open the middle compartment, and handed a small yellow pill to Pharah.

“Do take this though, and I’ll thank you later when I’m back in me own body.”

She handed Pharah a glass of water, and Pharah did what she was told, the dizziness and pain beginning to subside.

“Sorry, Fareeha.” She sat next to her. “Didn’t mean anything by it. Pushed you a bit far.”

“You were only playing,” she sighed, “I…am anxious, to solve this.”

“Well,” Tracer shoved herself against the wall and stood up, “Let’s go find Ang.”

_________

Mercy was pleased with the quality of her life, since they’d moved to London. There was a temple she liked, not too far from their brand new apartment, and a pastry shop down the road, and she enjoyed sitting out on their tiny little plot of cement and reading a book in the inconsistent sunshine. Maybe they could stay, she thought. Maybe she could stop living her life as a tumbleweed, and find a place to settle, with her Pharah, and be still and happy.

It seemed more and more possible every day. Pharah complained, but she mostly did it in that way where nothing in life was perfection, or as organized as it might be, and she had long since given up the idea of moving back to Cairo, ever since a beach vacation in Spain had resulted in Mercy nearly getting heatstroke. Pharah would never want to be in a place where Mercy was unhappy, because, she had said, in that sweet and tender way Pharah herself never recognized as tenderness, then Pharah would be unhappy. They had kicked around Zurich, but Mercy never missed Switzerland, it was simply a place she had been born, and where her childhood had died. She had liked Boston, she hadn’t cared for Alberta, but London seemed like it could be home, if Mercy was ever allowed such a thing.

She was thinking on all of this, gazing out the window at the clear, humid day, when she heard the door open, and the familiar clunk of Pharah’s boots on the floor. She wasn’t normally home this early, but Mercy’s heart leapt at the thought that maybe she had finished with work, and since Mercy had finished with hers, they could go have lunch together at one of the little restaurants nearby. There was such a cute patio at the little brasserie, and Mercy had been wanting to try it–Pharah usually indulged her with a smile–so the timing seemed nearly perfect.

“Angela,” Pharah’s voice rang out into the kitchen, “I was so much hoping you would be here, I was wondering.”

Mercy’s body tensed. It was all wrong. Everything was wrong. She knew Pharah, knew her like she knew few people on this earth, and this was not her Pharah. Her voice was wrong, her movements were wrong, this imposter knew Pharah so little that her boots were still on, on the floor Pharah had waxed only yesterday. She was trapped here, with something pretending to be Pharah, and her phone was at the other end of the room.

The creature grinned at her, too wide and too bright.

Mercy grabbed for a knife from the block, eyes wide, and faced back at the thing. She would fight. She may lose, but she would fight hard.

“You are not my Fareeha.” She growled, as frighteningly as she could.

“Ang! Ang!” The monster put its hands up. “It’s me! It’s Lena! Fuck’s sake, love, just thought it would be a bit of fun.”

It was Pharah’s voice, but it was Tracer’s, too, and Mercy set the knife down, confused. Tracer came through the door, looked at Mercy with with great concern, and then glared at the strange Tracer-voiced Pharah.

“It was a terrible idea, which I told you it would be.”

Pharah! Mercy sighed relief, just for one moment, before the horror of the moment set in, as she stared across her small kitchen. There was Pharah. Same warm, dark eyes that Mercy always lost herself in, same wide shoulders, same soft mouth. But she was altogether different, too, her eyes darting around, looking this way and that, as if trying to take all of life in by snippets. She hadn’t stopped moving since she came into the room, fiddling with her hair, rocking up on her toes. And Tracer, too, was right, and wrong. A smattering of freckles, chestnut hair, chirp of a voice. But still, and solid, hair combed down and neat.

But this was impossible.

#sailorsunspot #HON HON HON

78 notes · View notes

fear-before-valor · 4 years

Note

💫

(Thank you again for your help with the trollish, by the way!!)

Tranz by Gorillaz

When you get back on Saturday night And your head is caving in Do you look like me, do you feel like me Do you turn into your effigy?

Jim stared into his bathroom mirror, where a crack remained that had never been repaired. He traced over his own doing with a very human fingertip, though he’d made the crack with, at the time, stone hands, instead of the warm ones that he was peering at now. The crack had split the mirror down the middle, and spiderwebbed into smaller offshoots that weren’t quite enough to completely distort his reflection; they were only just enough to make something look Not Right. Though, to be fair to the mirror, every time Jim had seen himself since even as far back as Eternal Night— and really, was that even that long ago? Or did it only feel that way?— something had felt Not Right. Capital N, capital R, Not Right. He’d seen it in everyone’s faces; in the brave way his mother had tried to hide her fear and worry behind support, but he could tell. He’d always been able to tell, with her. And Toby. And Blinky, after a while. He’d seen the worried faces of his family who tried to be strong for him, like he tried to be strong for them. But no amount of strength could hide when something uncontrolled in their faces blanched for just a moment, when they’d looked at him, just for a split second too late for them to cover it up.

It was one thing he definitely didn’t miss, from his time as a troll.

He wasn’t sure he even could say he missed it at all, though, if he was being honest. He’d never really asked for the form; only accepted it because it was what had been expected of him.

He supposed, if he did miss anything from it, though, he missed how utterly invincible he’d felt.

…Well.

Until he hadn’t anymore, when he was stabbed through his armor—through his heart—and suddenly he hadn’t felt so helpless in his life, as his own mind had turned traitor.

Jim never thought he’d approach anything like the singular sensation of even seeing his own effigy. Though, to be fair, he still hadn’t.

He hadn’t seen his own effigy.

He’d become it.

Do you dance like this? Forever

He could feel stone crumbling, as he met his own eyes in the mirror; he could feel his own skin crumbling, as his terror stared at him back. He could feel his own body crumbling— I’m dying…! He’d thought. I’m dying and Claire has to watch—

and then he felt the soft vibration of his phone at his hip. Three quick buzzes, a pause between them, three more buzzes, a pause between them, three more, and a pause, and Jim almost missed the green ‘accept’ button.

He raised his phone to his ear, forgetting to look at who it was.

“Jim? Where are you? My mom is demanding pictures, and my dad can only stall for so long!”

Claire.

When Jim opened his mouth to answer back, he was surprised to feel a smile stretched over his lips— he hadn’t even known he’d started to do that. He was quiet for a moment, just smiling, listening to the muffled commotion of Ophelia Nuñez nigh on a warpath, and her husband who had the distinct sound of a father trying to quiet a rambunctious toddler, while also attempting to have a civil conversation with his wife, all at the same time.

And it struck Jim.

It was so normal. So, incredibly normal. Even hearing NotEnrique chime in once in a while, sounding remarkably delighted by the chaos, was so blessedly normal, that Jim’s smile threatened to turn into a beam.

Claire had apparently gotten worried at his lack of response, however, and said, uncertainly, “…Jim? Are you there?”

He snapped back to the present. “Oh. Hey, Claire. Sorry; uh, I was having trouble fixing my—” he’d meant to decide if he was going to say his tie, or his hair, but instead it came out as, “Hairtie. I mean—”

Claire cut him off, a soft giggle chiming through his phone speaker, which set his heart spiraling. “Your hairtie, huh? Well, hurry up beauty queen, or we’re going to be late. You know between my mom and yours, we’re going to take centuries to be done with photos, and that’s not even taking into account when we meet up with Toby and the others, and their parents. It’s gonna be a brigade of parents, Jim!”

Jim chuckled, supposing that he wasn’t quite as unhappy about that as he perhaps should be. “Okay, okay. I’m on my way.” He said, and after a hushed ‘I love you,’ from Claire— who would never live it down if she was caught saying such a thing at seventeen— and a sickeningly sweet ‘I love you’ from himself in return, Jim hung up the phone, and slipped it back into his slacks pocket.

In his defense, he really had been trying to fix his hair, before he’d had his… episode. Now, he stared at it, and decided it was a hopeless cause due to the sheer amount of ruffles it would get from his mom alone, and so reached to grab his suit coat, instead. Pulling it on, he exited the bathroom, and just as he was about to slide down the railing, a hand caught him by the back of his collar.

“Now, Young Atlas, I do hope you were decidedly not going to risk ruining your dress pants on our banister?”

Jim groaned, rolling his eyes in an extremely over-exaggerated way, making sure Strickler saw. “I was gonna be careful!”

Strickler only looked amused, “I’m sure. But why don’t we take the stairs like civilized people, just in case?” He wrapped a gentle arm around Jim’s shoulders, guiding them both down the stairs together.

Barbara was at the bottom, dressed casually, for once— there had been no ifs ands or buts; she had the night off, and wasn’t on call unless the world ended. Of course, given Arcadia’s track record, that could have been an unfortunately high chance, but then again, it felt like even evil was taking a backseat that day. It seemed that that day was the first day they’d had in ages where no one wanted to destroy the world. Not even a continent.

And it was divine.

The sun was hanging lazily in the sky, golden light filtering harmlessly through their blinds, though Strickler was, of course, careful, regardless. He’d agreed to stay with the children until Barbara got back, but stood in the foyer as a mother stared at her son— looking so scarily like an adult— and watched with a smile, as she embraced the boy, trying to hide her misting eyes.

Barbara pulled back after a moment, and despite her valiant effort, hadn’t successfully stopped her tears from spilling, so as she pulled away from Jim, she wiped at her eyes under her glasses. Jim’s face softened, as he reached up to put a hand on her cheek, “Aw, mom, hey—”

“You just look so grown up, Jim.” She cut him off, going in for a second hug. He laughed, and hugged her again, and they held it, for longer this time.

After a moment too long, Jim opened his eyes to glance at Strickler, and shot him a look that screamed help me. Jim wasn’t sure he’d be able to get his mom to let go by himself. Then again, this, too, did not bother him much.

Seeing Jim’s face, however, Walt chuckled and moved to place a comforting hand on Barbara’s shoulder. “Come, now, tarn, you must get going. You two have a picture date to attend, after all.”

Barbara finally pulled back enough to give a wet laugh, saying, “I’m glad you made me get waterproof mascara.” She smiled fondly at Walter, “It’s going to come in handy, if this is only beginning.”

The beginning of many more events to come, she meant. Jim was a senior this year, and graduation was approaching far quicker than any of them were ready for.

“I’m going to go get a few more tissues, actually.” She realized, and turned to dart back into the living room, to secretly tuck the whole box into her purse. She wouldn’t be the only one who needed them, after all.

As she left Walter and Jim alone, the former teacher reached to clasp Jim’s shoulder, to get his attention, and to hold him in some way. The boy was good at hiding it, but Strickler hadn’t missed the slight shaking of his hands, which he’d tried to hide, as he’d buried them into his coat pockets, post-hug. Walt gave Jim a gentle, reassuring smile, “Jim. How do you feel?”

The boy futzed for a moment, glancing into the living room, and then back to Strickler— there was a flash of a memory, when the two of them had been watching for Barbara in a much different way— and then he shook his head, smiling—a real smile, genuine. He spoke the truth when he said, “I’m fine, actually. Just nervous. I’m bad at dancing.”

Walter gave a gentle, kind laugh, “I believe you ought not worry, Young Atlas. Were Claire to break up with you over your dancing, I fear there would be a much larger issue at play.”

Jim’s eyes went wide at the implication, and Strickler realized the poor timing of the joke. “Ah, but… you needn’t worry. The world will not end because our trollhunter has two left feet. Claire loves you, Jim. You will be quite alright, I believe.”

Jim fidgeted for a moment, looking as if he was trying to make up his mind on something.

And then Barbara rejoined them, giving Walt a quick kiss on the cheek, interrupting whatever Jim had been about to say. She slung her purse over her shoulder, and reached to place a hand on Jim’s back. “Let’s go, honey. Can’t keep Claire waiting too long, eh, Romeo?” She teased.

Jim rolled his eyes, but grinned, “Yeah, yeah.” He turned to the door, but then halted, and looked over to her, as if he’d just remembered something. “Hey, Mom? Why don’t you go get the car started? I think I left mine and Claire’s tickets upstairs.”

Barbara looked at him to joke that that was, of course, important, but as she turned, she caught the smallest glimpse of the corner of the tickets already sticking out of Jim’s coat pockets. She glanced from Jim to Walter, who gave her a nod. Ah.

She pretended to be none-the-wiser, as she walked over to hug Walter. He was surprised, but accepted it, and as she held on, she whispered, “Thank you, my love.”

He murmured, “Of course, von swin dwoyem eks klokarp.”

Barbara gave a soft laugh. “One day I’ll get you to tell me what that means.”

“Not a chance.” He winked, as she let go, and properly exited the house.

Jim had averted his eyes throughout the exchange, embarrassed. No matter how long he lived with them, it would still always be a little awkward to see the two of them like that.

He looked back up when the front door clicked shut.

It was a split-second, the silence hanging in the air between them. And then Jim surged forward, and wrapped his arms around Strickler’s neck, having to get up on his tiptoes to do so, even for his stature. He held on only just long enough for Walt to loosely wrap his arms around Jim in return. They stayed for a moment, and then Jim pulled back, standing awkwardly, as if he’d surprised himself.

Strickler opened his mouth to speak, but Jim took that moment to cut him off, blurt, “Thank you,” and make a beeline for the door.

Walt let him go. When the front door shut again, he smiled to himself.

Do you dance like this? Forever

That night, three very not-normal teenagers engaged in one of the most normal rituals of high school that any of them had gotten to do, thus far—Senior Prom. They filled their phone storage with pictures, screamed their voices hoarse, abandoned shoes, ties, coats, danced themselves breathless, wheezed when they had not the breath to laugh at that very same dancing, collapsed on each other in a giggling heap on the floor when they rested for only a moment—they had to soak up everything; they couldn’t waste time sitting!— and stole far too much food from the snack table. They saw friends, old and new, teased each other, or professed love, declared themselves best friends, and decided to abandon their plans for the future. They didn’t need them. For one, incredible night— for one, normal night, they danced, frozen in forever.

For one beautiful night, Jim danced, hand-in-hand in a three-pronged circle with his two best friends in the world, and after two long, long years… Nothing was wrong. It was perfect.

#// one: sorry this is so long omg #// two: i did not think this song would work so well?#// three: you're amazing #ask #maiolica-admirer #song prompts #drabble #not rp #// edit: added a read more #trollhunters #jim lake jr #// fandom tagging bc I kinda like this?#// I kinda like how it came out??#// so uh #// iaoefjw #// yeah #// chucks this into the tags and yeets away

10 notes · View notes

reds-self-ships · 3 years

Text

🔎 The Adventure of the Detection Club

Chapter 6: By The Book

Table of Contents & Trigger Warnings

Redford opened the rather well-worn looking ledger. “This is our current list of members, as up-to-date as yesterday morning, when I updated it ahead of Dexter being officially sworn in as a member. The check means that they’ve paid their dues for the month—which Harris Thomas unfortunately didn’t for several months in a row, as such he was expelled, and Dexter Collins was due to serve as his replacement.”

“I see,” said Ryunosuke. “So why did Dexter Collins get offered membership after Harris Thomas was expelled?”

“It’s a particular rule of our organisation; fully-paid membership is capped at seven members, per club constitution. Of course, we have honorary members, but they bear the name alone. Bit like an honorary degree. Just because you’re considered an honorary doctor doesn’t necessarily mean you can walk into a hospital grab a scalpel and set to work, you know?”

Redford quickly jotted down a list of the organisation’s members, and handed it over to Ryunosuke.

“Oh thank you. Let’s see here…”

Redford Ninate – President of the Detection Club

Christina Agatha – Vice President of the Detection Club

Arthur Conan Doyle

Dexter Collins – Most recent admission

Alan Edgar Doe

Raymond Chalmers

Hannah Sophia

Harris Thomas – Expelled, but now deceased.

“‘Arthur Conan Doyle’? Why does that name sound so familiar to me…” said Susato. “Wait a minute, isn’t that Iris’s agent?”

“Oh yes, I believe he may well be. Doyle represents quite a few authors nowadays, given that he’s now officially wound up his medical practice. Bit of an odd fellow at times though, but his medical knowledge is second-to-none.

“Christina’s a pharmacology student in the university, specialising in poisons. She’s rather well-known for her work. After a nursing student read one of her novels, she was able to accurately recognise the symptoms of cyanide poisoning in a toddler, so she was considered prime candidate for the vice presidency.

“Raymond Chalmers is…well…a bit of an odd fish if you catch my meaning.”

“Odd how?”

“Well his style of writing is a little…how could I put it…grittier than most. He’s an American exchange student, as is Doe. But Doe’s work is more psychological than Chalmers’s work.”

“And what about Hannah Sophia or Dexter Collins?”

“Hannah Sophia’s written plenty of psychological thrillers herself, but she’s getting more into the old-school kind of stuff nowadays. As for Dexter, his work’s impressive, if a little droll at times for my tastes. But, he met the requirements for admission so we quite literally couldn’t say ‘No thanks’ to him.”

“I see. All good to know. Did they all get along well with Harris?”

“To my knowledge, yes. But as I mentioned earlier, we crime fiction writers always value our secrets, so they could’ve been in a darn fight club or something with the man and I could’ve never been any the wiser. It might be an idea to investigate every lead possible before you end up ruling anybody out.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” said Ryunosuke, making a mental note. “But what, exactly, did you mean about the admission requirements?”

“You mean to become a member?”

“Er, yes please.”

“It’s a rather simple process, actually. First of all, there must be a vacancy. And a vacancy is either through a member being expelled for contravening the organisation’s constitution or bringing it into disrepute, being jailed for more than a month, failing to pay dues, or, naturally, if the member were to die.

“Second of all, you must be nominated by an already-existing Detection Club member, and submit a completed work of crime fiction to be brought forward for consideration by all other members of the club.

“Thirdly, the club members must vote for who, exactly, to admit. However, we rarely use this particular clause. All but the president of the club vote. That way we can ensure there’s always an odd number, preventing the need for any run-offs or tie-breakers.”

“I see. I should make a n—”

Redford handed a note over to the lawyer. “I’ve already made a note of that for you.”

“Er, thank you,” said Ryunosuke, putting the note into his pocket. By the time this particular investigation was finished, it was looking more and more likely than not that the court record was going to be about as thick as a crime novel itself.

“I’ve got all the contact details of club members located within this folder, and you can consider this my official permission to use all of the contact details within—as well as any resource of the Detection Club where necessary—for official use during the course of this investigation. Thankfully, club rules allow for that too.”

“These club rules all sound to be incredibly specific, Red,” said Ryunosuke.

“You wouldn’t believe how specific they are. I’m allowed to do that under Rule 1345, Section A1, Subsection B64, Paragraph 223.”

“H-How many?!”

“Rule 1345, Section A1, Subsection B64, Paragraph 223. It makes more sense than Rule 8262, Section Z26, Subsection G223/X, Paragraph 2: ‘The club’s hot cocoa supplies may only be obtained from Bradley Cocoa Inc.’—I’m more of a Neville Cocoa Co. fan myself. If you want to, some other day when I’m not under investigation for murder, I could bring you for some cocoa. My treat, of course.”

Ryunosuke’s cheeks seemed to be going redder and redder than his client’s namesake. “I—I’d like that a lot, th-thank you…” he stuttered out, before there came the noise of a typewriter clattering to the ground outside.

“G-Get off o’ me ya great bawbag!” cried a voice. “You there, Sholmes! What the hell d’ye thing ye’re doing?! Tell ‘em to lemme go!”

Ryunosuke exclaimed: “What—?!”

Redford exclaimed: “—the hell—?!”

Susato exclaimed: “—is this—?!”

They quickly stepped out from the office to find Mr. Sholmes, Athelney Jones, and several police constables wrestling a man to the ground, with Sholmes desperately trying his best to try and fit a pair of handcuffs onto him in order to try and keep him restrained.

“Get…offa…me!” cried the man, standing up like a giant that had been rudely awakened from his slumber.

The man was tall and well-built, sporting well-combed fair-brown coloured hair and a rather well-kept handlebar moustache. Compared to Redford or even to Mr. Sholmes, he looked to be a giant amongst everyone that was stood in the room that day.

But what really drew the gathered crowd’s attention was the fact that he seemed to be wearing an outfit that was much too small for him; an outfit in the form of a small silver tiara, a green sleeveless top, a pink tutu and ballet slippers, with what looked to be a pair of wings cut out from cardboard strapped to his back and a long wooden stick with a star attached to the end of it.

“Sholmes! What the hell d’ya think yer playin’ at?”

“Arthur?!” exclaimed Redford. “You know you can’t come in here right now, not whilst the police are still investigating!”

“Sorry…Did you just say Arthur?” asked Susato.

“Yes, this is Arthur Conan Doyle.”

“One of your lot then, eh?” asked Jones, folding his arms with a sneer on his face.

“Not only that, Detective Jones. But this man…” Sholmes spun into the centre of the room and pointed at Conan Doyle with a flick of his fringe. “…is the true criminal that you’ve been searching for all along!”

“It was Arthur All Along? Come off it.”

“If anything, he should be prosecuted for crimes against my eyesight,” said Ryunosuke out loud, not quite sure where to look, given that the outfit that the man was wearing was far too small for him and far too revealing for everybody else.

“I’m quite sure of it. After all, I have perfectly intact logic and reasoning that can explain all.”

“Such as?”

“Well then I’ll show you then. It’s officially time for…Herlock Sholmes’s Dance of Deduction!”

“Oh this’ll be something to look forward to!” cried Redford excitedly, taking out his notebook and already beginning to rapidly scribble notes.

“Trust me when I say it isn’t…” said Ryunosuke, slumping over and fixing the defence attorney band that had slipped slightly down his arm.

#OTP: Red Dragon #self shipping #self insert #the adventure of the detection club #story #fic #self shipping fic #TGAA spoilers #TGAA 2 spoilers

1 note · View note