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arvandus · 3 years

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Touch (pt 9) - Amity

PAIRING: Dabi x Fem!Reader

STORY WARNINGS: 18+ only please! Drug abuse/withdrawal, adult language/themes, heavy angst, past trauma/abuse, anxiety/panic attacks, PTSD, fluff, pining, slow burn, eventual emotional SMUT. *please pay attention to the chapter tags as these warnings will apply at different times*

CHAPTER WARNINGS: talk of killing, blood, needle/medical sewing; pining... lots of resistant pining. Typical sensory overload due to quirk use.

CHAPTER SONG: Ocean Eyes by Billie Eilish

Part 1 Part 8

Artwork credit to @hellowon31 on Twitter (https://twitter.com/hellowon31)

Part 9: Amity

Between your second night in a row of poor sleep and waking up incredibly early, it didn’t take long for exhaustion to find you again. By mid-day your sensory overload had subsided enough that you collapsed into your bed, dreamless sleep dragging you under instantly. It was short-lived, however; it felt like no sooner had your head hit the pillow, that a knock on your door roused you groggily from your slumber.

Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you stood up and answered the door to see Toga standing in front of you, a bloodied washcloth held to her temple.

“Oh my god, what happened to you??” you exclaimed, as you let her into your room.

“I was out running some errands and a thug tried to jump me in an alleyway.” Toga replied cheerfully. She halted in her tracks. “Oh… aren’t you still sick with the flu?” She instantly covered her mouth and nose with her free hand, taking a step back.

“Huh? Oh!” you exclaimed. Right. Crap. You forgot about that little white lie. “Sorry, hang on a sec.” You quickly went to your medical bag and pulled out a white disposable mask, placing it over your face. “Is that better?” You asked, your voice muffled.

The tension in Toga’s shoulders instantly left, her posture easing as her hand dropped away from her face. “Yeah, thanks. Are you feeling okay? I could try to do this myself this time…”

You balked at the thought of Toga treating her own injuries.

“I’m fine right now, I promise.” You replied.

The blonde shrugged and fully entered your space, although her folded hands in front of her body communicated she didn’t want to touch anything.

“So, a guy jumped you in an alley?” You asked.

“Yeah. He was big, too. And had a quirk that gave him extra reach on his arms.” Toga explained.

You weren’t quite sure what sort of errands required Toga to be in alleyways, but you had a feeling none of them were good. The curiosity pulled at you - you could feel the question on your lips, but you swallowed it down. When you had first joined the League, you and Shigaraki had discussed the importance of compartmentalizing your role from the others. You were the only one out of the group who was defenseless after all, so as the weakest link within the League, you had both decided it would be best if you knew as little of the League’s affairs as possible, in case you ever got captured and questioned. You were allowed to participate in general discussions regarding the League’s next moves and what areas were important to you that you wanted to focus on, but the nitty gritty details were kept separate: private meetings with other villains, locations, times, that sort of thing. So, despite your curiosity, you knew not to pry.

Instead, you asked, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she replied, “but I can’t get this to stop bleeding.”

“Let’s take a look.” You gingerly removed the cloth from the wound to see a deep gash in the skin before new blood filled up. You placed the washcloth back over the wound before it could spill over. “Hm. Better keep that on there. You’re going to need stitches.”

“I figured.” She grinned. She took over holding the cloth to her head while you grabbed your medical bag. You escorted her into your bathroom and had her sit on the toilet seat. Her outfit was speckled with blood, some of it from her wound, and, you suspected, some of it not.

“So…” you started, as you washed your hands in the sink. “What happened to the thug?”

“I drained him.” She replied cheerfully. The casualness of her statement filled you with a confusing mixture of fear and pity.

“You killed him?” you asked, as you prepped your needle and thread.

Toga looked at you with her yellow feline-like eyes. “He would have killed me if I didn’t.”

“Tilt your head back.” You instructed. Toga did as you said, and you carefully removed the cloth before placing your fingers over her open wound. She winced slightly at the contact, but quickly relaxed as your quirk soaked in.

Silence filled the room as you cleaned her wound with antiseptic and set to work. The heavy quiet dragged on as your mind mulled over the girl next to you. You had a thousand questions in your mind, but none of them seemed very appropriate to ask, not without upsetting her. And despite your good standing with the League, you made it a careful point not to get on anyone’s bad side. It wasn’t so much that you didn’t trust them, although a part of you was always wary around those who were willing to commit violence. But you also understood on a personal level that the problems these villains had went far deeper than society was willing to acknowledge. Mental illness, quirkology, environment… all of it played a role in dealing the hand that these outcast individuals had been dealt.

Minutes passed as you stitched up the cut and cleaned the blood from the sealed wound once more. You were washing your hands when Toga finally spoke, her voice soft. “Are you mad at me?”

You paused to look down at her. Her brow was furrowed, her mouth pulled into a sulky frown as she stared at her hands. She looked like a child waiting to be scolded, and in that moment, you could see how young she still was. You gave a soft sigh. “Of course not. He attacked you, right? You had to defend yourself.”

You paused then followed up with, “I’m sorry you had to do it.”

“Don’t be…” she replied. “I liked killing him.”

Your hands faltered as you began putting away your supplies and Toga noticed.

“You don’t like it, do you?” she asked, accusation lacing her voice. She was defensive, waiting for your judgement.

You couldn’t blame her. No doubt her quirk was something she likely struggled with all of her life before finally giving in to it. She had never given you her story directly, but it wasn’t hard to guess. Everything about her – from her ramblings to her actions - spoke of a caged animal who finally got a taste of freedom and refused to be captured.

Contradicting feelings warred within you, and you struggled to wrangle them. You had to admit, you hated the idea of her killing. More importantly, you knew that her victims weren’t always street thugs, villains, or corrupted heroes. But at the same time, despite this uncomfortable fact, you also understood how strongly quirks affected behavior, how it could act like a poison, messing with the mind and forcing its way into being expressed. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen it; you understood it intimately.

You looked down at her and a familiar sense of pity unfurled in your gut, snaking into your veins, pulling at your emotions even as your core roiled at the idea of needless violence. She was just like him... a victim in her own way, despite the horrific things she did.

“You think I’m a monster.” Her words cut through your thoughts, and your attention refocused on her. She had her knees hugged up to her chest, her feet propped on the closed toilet lid that she occupied. You mentally scolded yourself for abandoning her as you got lost in your head and crouched down next to her.

“No. I don’t think you’re a monster.” You answered soothingly.

“Then why do you look scared of me?” Toga demanded.

You gave her a smile that you hoped reached your eyes. She was more perceptive than you gave her credit for sometimes. You had to choose your words carefully.

“I’m not scared of you.” You explained. “ But I am a healer, Toga. I see someone who’s hurt, and I want to take that pain away. It’s what my quirk is. It’s a part of who I am and it’s what motivates me. So, I won’t deny that it’s hard for me sometimes to understand why you do what you do because it’s so opposite of how I am.”

Toga averted her eyes, her body tightening in on itself.

“But…” you continued as you placed a hand on her forearm, “I’m not scared of you. And even though you do monstrous things, I don’t think you’re a monster.”

Toga slowly lowered her knees, letting her feet touch the floor as she stared at you. “Why not?” she asked.

“Because,” you replied, “You still care about people. You and Twice were the first to welcome and befriend me when I joined the League. And the way you take care of Twice… like he’s your big brother… that counts for something. You even care about Dabi, even though he’s an ass. That was why you checked on him that night, right? You treat each of us like family. Now why would a monster do that?”

“But I still want to cut you guys all the time…” she confessed.

“I know. But you don’t. That should count for something.”

Toga smiled at you with teary eyes. “You’re so nice, big sis.” Her compliment made you smile.

Toga hopped of the toilet with a nimble bounce, signaling the end of the conversation. “Am I all done?”

You nodded. “You’re free to go.” You announced. Toga made her way to your bedroom door, but she halted when you called her name. “Toga… don’t forget to change your clothes.”

Toga looked down at the bloodstains splattered across her school uniform. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Thanks, big sis!”

She left your room with a jovial wave. As soon as the door closed behind her, you slumped down onto your bed as you removed the white mask from your face and placed it on your nightstand. Exhaustion washed over you again, deeper this time than it was before. It wasn’t even so much due to your quirk since you didn’t have to use very much of it this time. Instead, your mind focused on Toga, replaying the conversation. It filled you with a swath of competing emotions; pity, anger, frustration, helplessness, fear. The feelings swirled in you making a rank stew in your soul, old and familiar.

This was just like before.

You shoved the feelings aside, unwilling to look too closely at them. You already had enough on your plate as it was… you didn’t want to dredge up more of the past. It would only add more stress and it wouldn’t change anything.

You laid down again in the hopes that this time, finally, your sleep would be nightmare free and uninterrupted.

* * * * *

The withdrawal-induced restlessness Dabi felt lasted throughout the day, making sleep near impossible. To keep himself from going crazy, he forced his energy into cleaning up his space, despite his typical disdain for chores. He straightened up his desk, took out the trash, and most importantly, did his laundry. It was overflowing and stank of mildew, and he was in desperate need of clean towels. His bed was no better, reeking of sweat and infection and covered in chip crumbs. But while his body appreciated the movement, the lack of mental power the activities required did little to distract from intrusive, obsessive thoughts.

He wasn’t sure which thoughts he wanted to avoid more - thoughts of his family or thoughts of you. The memories of family were old and familiar, but the emotions in them were raw, threatening to suck him in and shred him to pieces like it’d already done so many times before. But thoughts of you weren’t much better, at least not to Dabi. He didn’t like the warmth he felt each time he thought of you, and yet he kept going back to that feeling, like opening the fridge to stare at that last piece of cake. He was at war with himself, and he didn’t know how to fight it.

Somehow, with all of his coming and going from his room, he somehow managed to never run into you. He wasn’t entirely sure if that was a good thing or not, but like all other uncomfortable thoughts, his forced himself not to focus on it. It shouldn’t be important. You shouldn’t be important. His mouth pressed into a thin line. The number of times he had to tell himself that were becoming too many to count, and it never did seem to make much difference.

The cleaning only occupied him for so long. Towards the end of it he found himself sitting in his room, waiting for his clothes to finish drying so he could retrieve them. He had laid back on his bed just for a moment, to stare at his phone. He woke up an hour and a half later, his mind muddled with jumbled dreams and memories. Cigarette smoke, a child’s laughter, the sound of himself screaming in agony…

He shook his head to knock the unwanted fog from his brain and grabbed a smoke to soothe the shaking in his hands. The cigarette was gone within a minute. The haze still lingered though as every inch of Dabi’s nerves hummed and his gut clenched in discomfort. So, he inhaled a second cigarette for good measure and followed it up with an electrolyte drink paired with a couple of antacids. His laundry was likely done now; no point in letting it sit there and risk another League member touching his things.

With the laundry dry and sitting on his bed in a crumpled heap, he stared at the contents, a frown on his face. Your towels were mingled with his, and the sight of it filled him with an uneasiness that had little to do with his withdrawal. It looked entirely alien to him, intrusive in his personal space. His stomach gave a weird flutter before giving way to a wave of nausea.

Stupid, he thought to himself. They’re just fucking towels.

He began folding the first towel. It was half-assed in its effort and one hundred percent intentional, as if giving careful care to your items would give away something about himself he wanted to keep secret. But even as he did so, intrusive curiosity crept into his mind. How did you fold your towels?

Idiot. He caught his wandering mind and reeled it back in forcefully, but it did little good. His mind was a master escape artist, running away to explore other unwanted thoughts without his permission as soon as his mental back was turned.

As he folded your items, his hands slowed slightly in their actions, taking in the feel of cotton on his fingers. He watched as he rolled the soft material between his thumb and forefinger while memories bubbled forth, broken and vague. Waking up in the shower, sitting on the toilet with your towel over his head, feeling of your hands working the cotton over his wet hair. He tried not to think of your face, but of course not wanting it made it appear in his mind. He remembered your eyes, the concern in them, and the memory filled him with a warmth that he was still struggling to understand, even as he tried to deny its presence.

It was short-lived – the memory of your tender gaze soon faded away to a terrified one, and now he was remembering your scar. A new thought came into his mind then, dark and plaguing. The look of fear you’d given him that night - did you wear that same frightened expression on your face when you were burned, marked by whatever asshole laid their hands on you?

Dabi could feel his body temperature begin to rise.

The last towel was folded, and he swiftly grabbed the pile and shoved it on top of his dresser as if were contaminated. Contaminated with memories, contaminated with you…

He faltered for a moment, his anger disrupted by that strange sense of guilt that gnawed at him. The unwelcome mental picture of you cowering in fear as flames licked your skin danced in his imagination. No wonder you had been so utterly terrified of him that night. No wonder you’d been unable to look him in the eyes the next day…

Dabi caught himself staring at your things and forced himself to turn around to finish his laundry. He folded his clothes swiftly, not caring whether or not they were done nicely before shoving them into the dresser drawer. Then, with his clean towels in his arm, he went into the bathroom to give himself that much-needed shower.

* * * * *

You woke up feeling groggier than usual as the orange-red glow of the late afternoon haze filtered into your room. As predicted, your sleep was restless and riddled with hazy uncomfortable dreams that instantly began to fade away as soon as you opened your eyes. You sighed in annoyance as dissatisfaction slinked across your tired skin. It was as if you had slept the entire time with your body tensed, ready to run at a moment’s notice, and now you were feeling the effects.

You got out of bed with a stretch to ease the stiffness in your muscles. Maybe something to eat and drink could lift your spirits and wake your body up. You slipped on your shoes and opened the door before remembering to grab your mask off of your nightstand. Then, you left your room to trudge downstairs.

The smell of pizza greeted you as soon as you stepped out onto the main floor, and your stomach growled in response, your mouth watering.

“Y/N!” Toga cheered. “Did you take a nap?”

You frowned as your hand self-consciously went to your messy hair. Was it really that obvious?

“Yeah, I was pretty tired.” You confessed, as you tried to fix your stray strands.

“Are you feeling any better?” Magne asked. You could tell she was asking about the ‘flu’ you were supposed to have.

You shrugged. “Yeah, a little…”

“And how about Dabi? You were treating him too, right?” Magne continued.

You felt embarrassment bubble in you, and you scratched at your cheek as a distraction. “He’s doing okay… I think it’s hitting him harder, though. He’s probably going to need some more time to recover.”

“He came down here yesterday without a mask and everything.” Spinner grumbled. “Then decided to take a stroll. He couldn’t be that bad, could he?”

You shrugged. “Stomach bugs are weird and vary from person to person.”

Shigaraki’s voice surprised you from behind. “How’s his burn?”

He knew about that…? Maybe Dabi said something the day before. Either way, no point in lying about it now…

“It’s doing well... but it’s not completely healed yet.”

Shigaraki grunted and grabbed a slice of pizza from the open box sitting on the bar.

“Hey, Y/N! You want some pizza?” Twice offered.

“Yes, that’d be-“

“She can’t eat pizza when she has the flu!” Toga scolded. “She might throw it up. She needs something simple!”

Your heart sank. No pizza??

“No, it’s okay…” you started, your eyes staring at the perfect slice.

“I’ll go make you something, okay big sis?” Toga chirped as she bounded lightly towards the small kitchen behind the bar.

Oh… oh no….

“Oh, um… it’s okay Toga, I’m not really hungry…” you tried to call after her, but she was already gone and out of earshot.

You fiddled with your hands nervously. Cooking was not one of Toga’s strong suits. Fortunately, Kurogiri was present, watching the exchange.

“I’ll make sure she doesn’t burn down the kitchen.” He commented, as he followed after her.

You stood there awkwardly, strongly contemplating grabbing the entire pizza box and running away with it. But you’d just had that personal exchange with Toga earlier, so abandoning her when she was trying to do something nice for you probably wouldn’t go over well.

Damn it. You were too nice for your own good sometimes.

On defeated feet, you walked over to the couch and sat down next to Compress who was reading a book. He put the item down as you sat next to him and gave you a smile. “How nice of you to grace me with your company, little flower.”

You crossed your arms and sulked into the couch cushions, wishing they would swallow you up. “Toga is cooking for me.”

“Oh dear, so I heard.” He commented. “However, Kurogiri is supervising her. Perhaps this time it won’t be so bad.”

“Kurogiri doesn’t eat.” You pointed out.

“True,” he laughed. “But perhaps you set your standards too high. I never said he’d ensure that the food is good; however, his assistance may ensure that it is edible.”

“Don’t you use logic on me, Mr.” you replied, even as you tried to suppress a smile.

“Then perhaps a magic trick then?” he offered. “As a distraction.”

“Sure.” You grinned.

A few minutes later, Toga came out with two steaming bowls sitting on a rectangular tray.

“Oh good! You’re still here!” Toga smiled. “I made you soup!”

You stifled a groan as you stood up and stared at the contents. It… didn’t look bad…. It looked like it was canned soup at least, which, all things considered, were one of the simplest things to make. Still, it had that a slight burned odor to it when the steam reached your nose.

“Why are there two bowls?” you asked.

“Oh! One’s for you and one’s for Dabi.” Toga explained. Behind her, Magne chuckled at the table. “He hasn’t come down to eat yet today so he’s probably hungry.”

“It was my suggestion.” Kurogiri stated. “You are still sick after all, so it would be in the League’s interest if you and Dabi had your meals in your rooms until you are no longer contagious.”

“Maybe it can be like a little dinner date!” Toga added.

You fought the flush of hot heat that seemed to take over your insides. “A what?”

The last thing you needed was the League thinking you and Dabi were dating.

The blonde girl giggled as she handed you the tray. Her hands instantly went up to her hot cheeks, her eyes glazed over with infatuation. “What I wouldn’t give to have a private dinner date with Izuku!”

“Oh geez, not this again…” Spinner grumbled.

“Hey!” Toga shot at him. “It’s rude to tease a girl in love!”

You were grateful that Toga was easily distracted, and you took the opportunity to make your escape. “O-Okay. I guess I’ll go take this upstairs then… Thank you, Toga.” You mumbled.

You walked out of the room quickly, the soup sloshing in the bowls and threatening to spill. But you wanted to get out of there before things got even more awkward. Toga wasn’t even the real concern – the real concern was Magne. Her chuckle had not gone unnoticed by you, and she was a master conversationalist when she wanted to be. The last thing you needed was more intrusive questions or implied statements, especially with everyone there to listen in.

You took the stairs instead of the elevator, not trusting the old rust bucket to run smooth enough with bowls of hot soup in front of you.

Dinner date. You wanted to laugh. Dabi certainly wasn’t the type to do dinner dates. In fact, Dabi probably didn’t even date. He probably just hooked up with random girls whenever he felt like it.

Your stomach tightened into an uncomfortable knot.

It didn’t matter. You weren’t his type anyway. And he shouldn’t be yours, not with all of his baggage. And boy, did he seem to have a lot of baggage. Besides, he didn’t need the pressure of someone pining over him while he struggled to keep himself together. He needed someone he could trust. He needed a friend.

You felt yourself start to calm as you centered yourself on that single fact. He needed a friend. You could do that. You’d already committed yourself to it.

You made it to your own room and set the tray on the floor outside your door so you could go in and grab your medical bag. If you were going to take soup to Dabi, then you might as well treat his wounds and give him his pills. It was about time for it anyway. With your bag slung onto your shoulder and the tray once again in your hand, you went over to his door and knocked.

It opened and you froze, eyes wide, as a warm humid air wrapped you up in the scent of shampoo and body wash.

Dabi stood before you in nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants that left little to the imagination. Shit. It hadn’t even been a full five seconds and you were already staring at his crotch. Hot embarrassment flooded you as you averted your eyes, only to get stuck on his glistening, bare form. You’d seen him shirtless many times, had your hands on his body, even… but something about this moment was different. Maybe it was the shower. Maybe it was the simple - yet absolutely sinful - sweatpants. Or maybe it was how he seemed to be carrying himself in this moment, like he was the king of his domain. He was a living art piece, every angle of him stunning from the slope of his shoulders to the cut of his lean waist. Even his stitches looked beautiful, the light bouncing off of them like gems. Whatever it was, Dabi seemed to be a thousand times hotter than you remember him being, and it left your brain feeling dumb as hot desire washed over you.

You were staring. You knew you were staring but you couldn’t break the trance he seemed to put you in. Your eyes took in the cut of his cheekbones, the slope of his nose, the shape of his lips. Aqua blue eyes stared at you in knowing amusement, grabbing you like the tide and pulling you in. You could feel yourself floundering beneath his intense gaze as you struggled to get a hold of yourself.

“Uh…” you stuttered.

You were still staring.

“Hey, Doll…” He greeted, a playful grin on his lips. His voice washed over you, and you felt lightheaded.

This was so embarrassing. If he had any doubts that you found him attractive before, then he certainly didn’t now.

“Hi.” You said dumbly.

His eyes broke contact with yours to look down. “Hey-” His hand shot out to quickly grab the tilting tray, soup splashing messily over the sides of the bowls.

“Shit! Sorry, sorry.” You cursed, as you adjusted your hold. You kept your eyes down, unable to stare at him any longer. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah.”

Was that a chuckle you heard in his voice? How dare he.

You crossed the threshold, only to find yourself even more smothered by the clean scent of his recent shower that permeated the entire space like a fog. Beneath it, the faint hint of cigarette smoke was present, but it was muted. The light in the room was dimmer than you remembered and you realized why – he had put one of his shirts over his shoddy lamp, reducing its brightness. The humid warmth in the room was paired with a strange heavy silence. Your eyes instantly checked his window and there was no billow of the curtains this time, no street noise coming forth. Your breath froze in your throat for a moment as you realized – he remembered. All the things that had bothered you this morning were modified for your arrival. A weightlessness swelled in your chest, intertwining with the attraction you were still grappling with. You set the tray down with shaky hands before wiping your sweaty palms onto your pants.

Dabi came to stand next to you with his towel on his shoulder, the warm bare skin of his chest brushing against your arm as he stared down at the bowls. With his proximity so close and your own emotions running amok, it took every ounce of mental fortitude not to hug him right then and there.

“Did you make that?” he asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Oh, uh.. Toga did.” You finally said, as you moved slightly away from his bare skin.

“We should have let the tray fall.” He stated as he stared at the contents with distaste. You couldn’t help but laugh at his comment, and it helped clear some of the brain fog. He gave you a soft glare. “Why did you even take this? You should have just said no.”

“Well, not all of us can be as nice as you, Dabi.” You teased. “Besides, she wanted to do something nice for us because she thinks we’re sick.” You explained.

“If I eat that I probably will be.” He retorted.

“Oh, come on… it’s probably not that bad… just a little smokiness to it. That shouldn’t bother you, right?” You put a spoon into a bowl and handed it to him.

He gave you a deadpan look as you held the bowl against his chest, his hands refusing to take it. “I’m not eating it.”

“Hey, if I have to eat this, then so do you.” You glared.

“Like hell.” He replied. “Besides, I already have food here.”

You set the bowl down and stared at the bags on his desk. “Yes, chips, beef jerky, and cigarettes! So healthy.”

“The three basic food groups.” He agreed with a grin. He sat down in his desk chair, his legs spread wide as he slouched back. It took extra effort to not let your eyes wander. “Tell ya what, doll… you try it first. If you don’t throw up or die, then maybe I’ll consider eating mine.”

You rolled your eyes at him and grabbed your bowl. “Fine, you big baby.”

You filled your spoon and raised it to him in a mock toast before placing it into your mouth. He watched the motion in silent amusement, his eyes focused on your lips as they closed around the spoon.

It was awful. Definitely burnt. And the parts that weren’t burnt were overcooked, making the textures all wrong in your mouth. You swallowed forcefully, suppressing a gag.

“Mmm… You look like you enjoyed that.” Dabi teased.

“Hey at least I’ve actually tried it.” You shot back. “So, I guess that means only one of us is a little bitch.”

Dabi’s eyes widened, the light in them dancing in amusement, as a grin spread across his face. “You kiss your mother with that mouth, doll? You’ve been with the League too long.”

You pointed your spoon at him. “Don’t try to act like you know me. And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not dead. So eat up.” You picked up his bowl again and held it under his nose. By this point, you knew the soup wasn’t really that edible, but now you were determined to have him suffer with you.

The smell wafted up and he wrinkled his nose. He pushed the bowl away back towards you. “I don’t think so.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You said you’d try it if I did.”

“I said I’d consider it.” He replied. “It’s been considered and denied.”

“You’re an ass.” You pouted. “It really is awful though…” you confessed. “and she had Kurogiri with her, too. Like… how?”

“Kurogiri doesn’t eat.” Dabi replied.

You laughed. “That’s what I told Compress!”

Your conversation was interrupted by a loud, hungry rumble in your gut.

A low chuckle rumbled from Dabi’s chest that made your heart pound and your flesh feel warm. “C’mon doll, don’t torture yourself.” He said. “Why don’t we just go get a bite to eat. There’s nothing keeping us locked up in here.”

Toga’s words echoed in your head. Dinner date. Oh geez, if she or Magne saw you two leaving the premises together, you’d never hear the end of it. The offer was tempting though, and you were pretty sure Dabi was starting to get tired of his snacks. Junk food could only satisfy for so long; at some point he needed a proper meal.

But something nagged at you as you stared at the man in front of you. He seemed to be doing okay at first glance… his recent shower certainly seemed to lift his spirits. But you had been too distracted by his attractiveness earlier that you hadn’t taken the time to really assess him. Now, you could see the exhaustion still in his face, could see the small wiggle of his leg and the drumming of his fingers on the table. You checked the time on your phone – no doubt your quirk and the pills were beginning to wear off. But how far along that was, you couldn’t really say; it was hard to tell with Dabi; he didn’t show his pain very easily.

You knew your appetite would disappear once you pushed yourself into sensory overload. But Dabi couldn’t wait, even if he might try to play it off that he could. More importantly, you didn’t want to try to deal with a withdrawal-suffering Dabi out in public. Your heart sank slightly. Goodbye delicious dinner, for the second time that night.

“…I should probably treat you first.” Your eyes landed on his bag of goods as your stomach rumbled again. “But maybe a snack would be good.” You confessed. You felt embarrassed for asking, especially after the big show you’d just point on… but pride had to take a back seat before your stomach ate itself.

His blue eyes stared at you for a long moment. You could feel your skin start to prickle under the weight of them.

“Sure, doll.” He finally said. He rummaged through one of the bags until he found what he was looking for under a bag of spicy chips. “Is this your style?”

He tossed you a prepackaged muffin about the size of a softball. You couldn’t fight the smile that blossomed across your face. “Yeah, thanks.” You opened up the wrapping and began breaking off pieces of it. “You want some?” you offered, holding the muffin towards him.

He shook his head. “Nah. Don’t feel much like eating.”

You broke off half of the muffin for him anyway. “I still need to give you your pills, so you should eat something first. Besides, this is too big for me to finish by myself anyway.”

Was it a lie? Of course. You were starving. Did Dabi know that you were lying? Of course. But he took the other half of the muffin anyway. You sat on the edge of his bed while he sat in his chair as the two of you ate together in silence for a moment. As you ate, your eyes wandered around his room.

That was when you noticed it.

“Are those my towels?” you asked.

Dabi looked over at his dresser as he stuffed the last of the muffin into his mouth. “Yeah. They’re clean now.”

“Thank you…” you replied. Your eyes scanned the room, taking in the details. “You cleaned up…”

Dabi shrugged. “Don’t sound so surprised. I’m not a complete slob.”

You stared at him as he began fidgeting with a pack of cigarettes, tapping the box on the table, flipping it over, and tapping the other end. Over and over it somersaulted, and you wondered if he was craving one right now. Why didn’t he just take one out and light it up?

Was Dabi… being considerate?

Then again, the action didn’t come as much of a surprise to you as it might have before. He’d been more willing to do small acts of kindness ever since the night of his withdrawal. Bringing ramen. Adjusting his room for your sensory overload.

Now this.

Was it fueled by guilt? Or did he actually care?

He looked like he was waiting for something. You watched as he rubbed at his scarred arm with his free hand, irritation flashing across his eyes. Of course. He was waiting for you and your quirk. You ate your muffin faster. As soon as it had disappeared into your mouth, you reached for your bag and took out the pill bottle. His eyes were on it instantly, the shaking in his leg stilled by the sight of it, his shoulders releasing some of their tension.

“Here.” You offered, handing him his pills. He took them and swallowed them dry before opening up a beverage and taking a swig.

Dabi eyed the bottle in your hand as you closed it. “That’s looking awfully low there, isn’t it?”

You put the container back in your bag, enclosing it in a zippered space. “It’ll be enough to last us through tomorrow morning.”

“That’s cutting it real close, don’tcha think?” he replied.

You looked up to see his brow furrowed in concern and offered him a reassuring smile. “It is. But I’ll be picking up the refills tomorrow before our evening session, so there’s nothing to worry about. Now let’s take a look at your back real quick.”

He stood up and dragged his chair over to where you sat and straddled the seat with his back facing you. The bandage was still on, but you could tell it had gotten wet in the shower. You’d have to be careful when changing it this time, since the bits of skin that were starting to heal might reopen.

You applied your quirk first around the bandages, then began to delicately remove the wet gauze and tape. Your fingers were cold on Dabi’s skin and a small shiver ran up his spine at the sensation of your touch. The wound didn’t show any signs of infection or fresh damage, so you continued business as usual, applying the antiseptic followed by fresh gauze. As you patched him up, your eyes kept drifting to your towels, thinking about what had happened that night. There was something important you’d been meaning to ask him. Something you had to know.

“I… have a question.” You ventured.

“Hm?” Dabi responded, his head turning slightly to the sound of your voice.

“The next day… after I helped you out that one night… was there anything… off? About you specifically?” you asked.

There was a long pause and you could tell Dabi was thinking heavily, which only made the dread in your gut sink in deeper.

“I couldn’t feel anything.” He finally admitted.

“I’m not talking about the pain. I’m talking about… I don’t know. Anything else.”

“I know.” He replied. “When I woke up, I couldn’t feel anything.”

Your brow furrowed and the dread hardened into a stone. “…what does that mean?”

“It means I didn’t care about a thing, doll. Everything was turned off.” He was facing away from you and in that moment, you wished he wasn’t – you desperately wanted to see the expression on his face. Your hands felt clammy as you processed his words.

“You mean your emotions?” you clarified. You needed to understand more. You needed to know how bad it was. “What… did it feel like?”

“Empty.”

You finished putting the last bandage on him but you barely noticed as your vision became unfocused, your thoughts whirling. Holy shit. You had turned off his emotions? You supposed in hindsight it made sense, since it was likely his memories and the emotions attached to them that were torturing him that night. Why else would he have been blabbering incoherent apologies as if he were desperately trying to atone for something? But still… the severity of that made your blood run cold. Emotions were everything, contrary to what some people might think. They fuel how people think, how they act, how they react… entire personalities – entire identities are built around how emotions are felt and how they are dealt with. You very well could have entirely erased Dabi as a person. In fact, you likely did, at least temporarily.

You swallowed the hard lump in your throat and tried to calm your panicked breathing. “…How long did it last?”

He was quiet again, and the silence was worse than anything.

“Please tell me.” You begged. “How long?”

“Hours.”

Your heart was racing and your ears ringing. Your eyes began to sting but you fought it, focusing on a patch of scarred flesh on his back to distract yourself, memorizing its pattern. You didn’t want to cry in front of him. Not again. And certainly not twice in one day. You wanted to apologize, to beg his forgiveness, but you couldn’t make the words come out, not without your emotions spilling out with them. Instead, you forced yourself into action, treating his scars with your quirk.

There was so much more you wanted to know. How did he get his emotions back? What did it feel like? Was it slow, or at all at once? Did he feel relieved?

Did it hurt?

But you couldn’t bring yourself to ask those questions, no matter how badly you wanted to know, no matter how badly you wanted to understand. They were too personal, and you could already tell by Dabi’s growing reluctance that he didn’t want to talk about it any further.

You’d apologize to him. At some point, once your emotions were under control, you’d apologize.

You finished numbing his back and shoulders, even tracing down his triceps a little. “Turn around,” you instructed.

He did as you asked, adjusting himself in the chair so he was now facing you. You avoided looking at him, the shame and guilt far too heavy for you to lift your eyes. Unbeknownst to you, a frown pulled at his brow, his lips. You wore your emotions so plainly…

You took his hand in yours and continued your quirk as your skin began to prickle and sting. The sound of the shower dripping in the bathroom was louder now. Dabi shifted slightly in his chair and the scraping sound against the floor was like nails on a chalkboard. The odors in the room went from pleasant to offensive.

“I gotta question for ya,” Dabi suddenly ventured. “Did you change my clothes that night?”

Your hands faltered and you glanced up at his face before you could catch yourself. His eyes had a glint in them you couldn’t quite place in your distracted mental state. You felt embarrassment creep across your skin.

“I did. I had to get you into the shower before you combusted.” You replied as you continued to treat him, your hands on his collarbone. The feel of it was so familiar now…

“I was naked?”

“Only for a moment!” you replied. “You were in your boxers for most of it, but I had to change you out of those after the shower.” God, this entire conversation was so embarrassing… why did he have to ask about this of all things?

“…did ya peek?” he asked.

Your mouth struggled like a fish out of water for a moment as you glared at him. “NO!” You finally exclaimed. “Of course, I didn’t! Why would you even…” but then you saw the grin on his face and you realized he was teasing you.

You playfully punched his arm. “You’re an asshole.” You fumed.

He laughed. “That didn’t even hurt.” He mocked.

“Of course it didn’t, idiot. I already used my quirk there.” You shot back. “Now stay still so I can get your damn face.”

“So feisty…” he murmured.

Shit. With your senses heightened, you could almost feel the vibration in his voice, as if he were closer to you than he actually was. For the briefest moment, it distracted you from the growing pain of your scar, from the sound of the drip drip from the bathroom shower. You wondered what it would feel like to have those words uttered against your skin, his hot breath warming your flesh, the feel of his rough lower lip brushing…

You clenched your jaw until you nearly gave yourself a headache, forcing the intrusive thoughts out of your mind. You weren’t here for this. You were here to treat him and get out of his space. You weren’t his type. You repeated it to yourself like a mantra, a prayer, a reminder to the illogical part of you that wanted to follow the lure of his voice. Why did he have to be such a flirt? It didn’t surprise you, but it certainly left you feeling confused when his actions and words sometimes contradicted themselves.

All it meant was that he was getting comfortable with you again. He was treating you like a friend, and friends teased all the time. Right?

His eyes watched you closely as your hands caressed his jaw, relieving the ache there. You seemed lost in your thoughts and while you certainly didn’t look comfortable, you also didn’t look too be too horribly in pain. You were doing better today. Still, your fingers danced quickly across his skin, skating under his eyes which he instinctively closed, and barely touching his lower lip. It happened far too quickly before the presence of you disappeared, and it left him feeling empty. How badly he wanted to grab your hands right then and put them back onto his face.

When he opened his eyes again, your own eyes were downcast as you stretched your fingers slightly.

“You okay?” he ventured. The question sounded odd coming from him, even to his own ears.

You looked up at him then, and you could see he was concerned. That’s right… he knew about your quirk and your scar now. You clasped your hands in your lap to keep them from shaking. Shaking from the pain you were feeling, shaking from the fear of your own thoughts and desires.

“I’m fine.” You lied. Did he know you were lying with this too?

He knew. In fact, you’d given him the same false words he always gave you. It was like looking into a mirror.

“You don’t gotta do the legs.” He offered. “I’m not dressed for it anyway.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” You chided. “Of course I’m going to do your legs. The better I treat you, the better you can rest. And your body needs rest to heal your burn.”

He noticed that you made no comment on his withdrawal, which a part of him appreciated; it helped him avoid the discomfort of shame that was always associated with it. Still…

“It’s not like I’m going anywhere, doll. I won’t be needing them. Besides, the drugs help.” He replied.

You eyed him for a moment, assessing. “How about I just do your calves then?” you bartered.

He assessed you in return before he gave a small half-smirk. “Deal.”

By the time you’d treated his calves down to the tops of his feet, you were definitely grateful you didn’t have to do any more.

PING……..PING……

You rubbed at the bridge of your nose, feeling the onset of a headache as you skirted just shy of overload. You closed your eyes, hoping maybe the lack of visual stimulation might make the auditory more bearable. Or at least bearable enough that you could actually move your body instead of feeling frozen. But it only made it worse, allowing your brain to hyperfixate on it. You covered your ears against it as you struggled to find your way out of it, to regain control of yourself.

While you lost yourself in your senses, Dabi watched you in displeasure. He’d made sure to have everything ready before you showed up. He even made sure not to light up a cigarette, as much as that had grated on him, since he knew the smell would linger long after. But clearly, something was bothering you. What had he missed?

He watched, waiting, giving you time to figure yourself out or ask for help while he secretly tried to decode the mystery. Your eyes were closed, your hands over your ears. Was it multiple sensory attacks? You flinched again. And again. There was a rhythm. So, it was something you were hearing.

Curiously, Dabi closed his own eyes listening for anything that stood out. Slowly, the quiet sound of water dripping greeted his ears like a whisper. He opened his eyes just in time to see your flinch match with the sound.

That was it.

“It’s the shower.” He commented.

It wasn’t a question – it was a statement. You opened your eyes and looked at him with surprise before giving a nod, your hands still over your ears. He knew his shower leaked for a bit after he used it, but he’d gotten so used to it that he just tuned out the sound by this point. But for you… especially after using your quirk on him…

Why didn’t you just get up and leave? Why stay here if it was bothering you this much? Obviously, you wanted to get away from it…

Maybe you couldn’t. Maybe, for some reason, you were stuck in what you were experiencing, unable to find your way out.

Dabi could relate to that.

And he didn’t like it.

He stood up and closed the bathroom door before returning to sit in the chair in front of you, waiting.

You could still hear it. But it was manageable now, muffled. Quieter. You could feel yourself start to process the rest of what you were feeling. The pain on your back; the feel of your clothes, your hair; the smell of Dabi’s body wash, fresh linen… cigarettes. Slowly, your hands lowered from your ears as you focused on each sense, identifying all you recognized. The world was still loud around you, but at least you could somewhat function again. Slowly, you opened your eyes to see him watching you through an unreadable expression.

“Better?” he asked.

“Much.” You replied. “Thank you. Again.”

“It’s fine.”

A heavy, awkward quiet filled the space, and in that moment, despite Dabi’s kindness, all you wanted was to be back safely in your room. Maybe it was because you were feeling overwhelmed by your own emotions, unable to properly control how your heart pounded around him, or how you couldn’t keep your eyes off him. Or maybe it was the way he kept looking at you, his expression unreadable yet his gaze intense, as if you were all that he was focused on and he was determined to discover all of your secrets.

Either way, you felt an ache grow within you, threatening to drown you. But you couldn’t focus on it, couldn’t dismantle it or bury it, not while your brain fought the senses overwhelming you. You could handle one or the other… but you couldn’t handle both.

You needed the comfort of your room; you needed your safe space.

“I’m… going to go lay down.” You said quietly, as you grabbed your bag. It felt heavy in your hand.

If Dabi noticed the shift in your mood, he didn’t say so. Instead, he stood from his seat and shoved his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants.

“Yeah. Me too.” He replied.

Despite the suddenly aloof atmosphere, he still walked you to his door. After you left, he leaned his back against the cold wood and ran his hand down his face.

So much for not caring…

________________________________________________

Part 10 ________________________________________________

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#dabi x reader #dabi #dabi x you #touch #dabi touch #soft dabi #pining #slow burn #TW: blood #TW: needles #TW: killing #TW: violence

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ecrivant · 3 years

Text

execrated | levi ackerman

(levi ackerman x reader)

he was no more than an object of execration in the aftermath of you;

the one in which levi immerses himself in nocturnal bloodshed to rid himself of you.

c.w. – graphic depictions of violence

word count: 2.5k

In the sink, saliva, sanguine-tinged, a grisly spatter on blanched porcelain. Pain burgeoned from visage’s center as he—with hands shaking and stained red with blood native and foreign—tried to curtail the gore which madly gushed forth, like crimson water from dam awash, made that way through rain-soaked massacre. Body before suffused with adrenaline now felt the seeping agony of ruptured dermis and fragmented bone. The hung mirror before him, begrimed and fragmentary and missing shards from its bottom right, held in it his own demented likeness, from nose down drenched in blood-red coagulate and looking savage as if born into barbarism. This redness pooled in his palms, leaked between fingers. He leaned forward so his head hovered over sink’s bowl and spat up more carmine sputum and removed his hands from his face and with one gripped the bowl and with the other turned the faucet handle and left blood there. The water, weak and cold. He let the liquid run over his hands and watched it coalesce with what was there and trickle down the drain in pinkish amalgam. In the washroom, a pervasive and ferric scent. There were no paper towels, so he impotently stood over the sink with head ducked and perhaps misguidedly let the blood pour from him. Feeling dizzy from blood loss and strong liquor and impacted temples. He winced and contorted his expression, but it only bore another bloom of pain.

In memory he sat on bathtub’s edge and watched you floss and listened to the brush of your shirt sleeves and your open-mouthed breathing and the plucking of floss against teeth. Seeing your face only in reflection as your back was to him. You finished and threw away the thread—pedal wastebasket’s lid slamming against tile wall before shutting again—and asked in a tone of joking condescension when he had last flossed. He replied that he could not remember.

And after he flossed to placate you, he leaned forward—with your body flush to and embracing his—and spat and saw blood in the sink.

He was reminded of you in the strangest of times.

He had migrated from the taprooms downtown that had come to know him as belligerent to the bars of back alleyways and lowdown localities where the population was less made of people and more of nocturnal wraiths of ire who, having long since ceded their humanity, now only knew a lust for blood. These vestiges of personhood fought ferociously and with the desperation of a man who in balled fists held his own life, though they hardly cared if they lived or died, for life means nothing to those who have already forsaken it.

—

The bleeding slowed as if his body grew tired of the exertion. He reflexively wiped at tender features with the back of his hand and felt more pain. Slinking out of a back entrance unnoticed, unsure of whether he killed a man that night. He stumbled off a concrete step into a torrent and had to brace himself on the wall opposite. The nocturne’s deluge—backstreet, flooded. He shielded his eyes from an invisible sun and regarded the pitch swathed in a pall of rain. The rainfall on metal and concrete and the detritus of litter and broken glass unseen created the rhythm to which he blindly walked forward, faltering every other step. Senses overwhelmed, as he did not hear the beat and splash of lumbering footfalls behind him and barely registered the bottle smashed against his head until he was face-down in wastewater and then spitting up fluid from nose and lung as he was lifted by the hair and thrown against the wall.

The rain and the night so thick he could not see his attacker’s face, only the glint of a knife in streetlamp’s diffused illumination. Vaulting sideways he felt the tip of this shining blade swipe his stomach. He ducked to avoid a swung fist and on hands and knees blindly searched for some defense in the remnants of piled scrap which had not yet been swept away by the rushing current. Unfathomable pain erupting in the side of his head as the kick of a steel-toed boot connected with his temple. He laid prostrate and dazed and heard only the deafening surge of blood in his ears and the rhythmic pulsation of his struck skull, and as he kicked weakly and at nothing, he felt the hulking presence of his anonymous assailant above him and found he could do nothing except wonder whether this insensate being would choose to with that knife gorge his eyes or shred his chest or both. By inborn instinct, he rolled clumsily to avoid coming under blade, swiping the man’s legs as he did. The man fell, and with him the sound of bone cracked on concrete cut through the roaring downpour. Levi found the knife dropped and gripped it and sliced the man’s hamstring behind his knee and at once cut up the back of his thigh and plunged the blade into it. The eldritch bellow of a beast now enervated—the man grabbed at Levi’s legs, but he simply sidestepped and avoided those desperate and grasping limbs.

Levi tasted blood and spit and said, “Pick fights you can win,” before backing away from the man and exiting the alleyway.

—

In his wake a bloody trail as he labored up the staircase of his building, heavy and slow and uneven steps echoing against concrete and cinderblock. During this ascent, he passed a flaccid and crumpled human form splayed, drunk or sleeping or dead. He did not stop but in passing softly kicked the body with his good leg, and upon its immediate stirring he continued.

He pulled his shirt over his head in front of his bathroom mirror and could feel the evening’s history in every muscle. His body, battered and contused, and flesh already discolored blue and yellow and inky black; hair matted by rain and gore and falling before visage’s distended and ashen features. His chest was sliced cleanly between pectorals—the mark from that infernal blade—with the layers of skin peeling open like a lipless mouth, inside raw and resembling offal. The grisly lesion coughed and sputtered and spat up blood, and he cried out as he balled up his sodden shirt and used it as a compress, and for a moment his vision reeled. He staggered through his apartment—past the things you had left behind and he could not throw away—and located the means to suture his wound, leaving bloodied handprints behind. He screamed as he poured the alcohol over his chest. His hands shook as he pierced flesh with threaded needle, darkness creeping into his periphery. Upon cutting the final stitch he promptly collapsed to the floor.

—

In a restless sleep he dreamt of the creation of your body by divinity’s hand, of the holy sculptor who limned the corporeal form which housed your eternal soul. At times, those divine hands were his own.

—

With each drop of blood shed he purged himself of you, and he would continue until all his blood drained or from him you were exorcised entirely.

—

He awoke to his body adhered to the floor in a pool of bloodied coagulate. At first unable to move and then taking several minutes to find within him strength to roll to the side and sit up. He thought for a moment of the job he had long abandoned, of friends who had likely forgotten him, and could not remember his last non-violent encounter nor the last time words spoken were anything but vitriolic remarks between hurled fists—he was no more than an object of execration in the aftermath of you.

—

With enough liquor—as if the spirits themselves some heady and greening elixir—previous nights were forgotten. Bibulous and newly invigorated, he prowled the darkened streets, hands pocketed, lusting for the bloodshed he had come to desire in the way he for you once ached. The pavement underfoot slick with mud and effluent like some backcountry swampland through which he waded and searched for violence to placate his id. The night was clear and cloudless but smelled of sewerage and remnants of rainfall, and the stars hung suspended in the firmament’s pitch continuum, supplementing the moon’s light now absent per a new moon. Distantly, a bell tower rung three.

He continued on and watched as the street seemed to come undone—road dead-ending with unfinished pavement, fiercely jagged and potholed and undulating as if there to witness the very shifting of the earth many times over. The roadway’s ceasing was before a collapsing chain-link fence, disfigured and clipped here and there, which separated the road from a lot piled with soil and scrap material. Remnants of some edifice planned but long forgotten. With a running start he jumped and climbed and vaulted himself over the fence with ease, the mesh bending and creaking beneath his weight and clattering after with the tremors of his movement.

The site was one of earthen topography with eminent dirt mounds textured by way of erosion and manmade footmarks, the land entirely devoid of verdure and instead landscaped with metal scrap and waste discarded. Shrubbery of twisted wire and cairns of glass from bottles shattered. He walked through vales between mountainous dirt outcroppings and could not see but for that dim, supernal illumination. Hearing breathing and a rustling near him, he turned around and looked and squinted in that pervasive darkness to make out any movement but could do nothing as the ragged beast who produced the sound descended onto him from above with such speed and force as to bring him to the ground and crumple his neck and knock the wind out of him. He gasped for breath as this hellish face pocked and scarred and seemingly without body levitated above him, eyes wild and themselves luminescent, aglow with a crazed fervor unseen in beings diurnal. How much longer, he wondered, until his eyes would resemble the ones now before him?

“Y’re gonna fuckin’ die here, boy.”

Spoken not as a threat but a gleesome proclamation. He felt against his throat the massive blade of a Bowie knife, no doubt used to skin beings living and dead. Between inhalations he kneed at the air, and his thrust connected with the man’s back, and it was enough to knock the man off balance and cause him to lose his footing in the slick mud underfoot—a falter which Levi exploits, throwing this monstrous aggressor from him. Now free of that savage embrace, he erected himself—looking like some devil from the bogged and muddy earth both born and emerging—and crouched with arms bent for combat. Relishing in his opposite’s struggle to regain footing. Levi could see the man had lost his knife in the fall and smiled. The sounds of squelching and boot-sucking muck and slurred curses were all to be heard. He dashed at the man and in one movement dropped him with a kick to the jaw, and the man landed face-first and unmoving in the mire and seemed to sink. He kicked him again in the ribs and felt them give.

He thought of you and was suddenly suffused with rage and raised his leg to boot the man again but was surprised and let out a strangled yell when the man with uncanny swiftness raised up and caught Levi’s leg in an iron vise and with his other hand drove a broken bottle which he gripped by the neck into that leg he held steadfast. Levi felt an unknowable pain erupt in his calf, and his vision crossed and blurred, and though through haziness, he saw the man’s face—features vague and inhuman beneath a swathe of sludge, save for the feral eyes, now looking even more savage and like those of a fiend from hell, and a bleached smile which shone in the dark—and Levi, with this infernal vision incised in mind’s eye, fell to the ground. The man crawled backwards and looked on as if an artist admiring his magnum opus. The bottle had not broken off in Levi’s leg and instead protruded like some glass tor, and from this wound spewed gore which turned earth red.

He was in and out of consciousness and felt the man approaching but awoke to car’s rumble and was numb.

Climbing stairs with weight supported.

Sprawled on cold tile. Blinded by overhead light. Anonymous hands around his leg, their tender touch. He felt these hands caress his face as a massive umbra occluded the glaring light above. Eyes adjusting. He saw you.

He awoke to a softness beneath him. In your shared bed, head against your chest. He was swaddled in your warm embrace, luxuriating in the feeling of you wrapped around him. You whispered and murmured incoherent nothings but in them he felt your adoration, reassurance, love, unadulterated.

And in some way, he knew he had already died or was a least on death’s brink. For he would never know the pleasure of you unless he was. And with this thought your image dissolved away, and he was again mired in an earthen mess with leg enfeebled and that beastly man atop him. His good limbs pinned to the ground and form incapacitated. Adrenaline and cortisol and all other chemicals in his hormonal amalgam coalesced in his bloodstream, and he found the strength to once again push the man off him, though he could not yet stand. And against his better judgment, he tore the bottle from his leg and plunged it instead into the man’s neck, the blood of one against jagged glass exchanged for another’s. Though still laced with that otherworldly mania, he saw in the man’s eyes fear, and then in those eyes he saw nothing at all. And then the man was dead.

He had not cried since the day you left, but he now found himself wiping at tears which were mostly mud. He dragged himself away from the man as to not touch the soiled blood which from carotid erupted and hyperventilated as he did.

He wished you would rescue him as he had imagined.

But instead he dragged himself through mire and finally came upon that chain-link fence which acted as entrance to the hell from which he came, and even through his abject pain he felt his violent id satiated. He found a rusted and discarded pole and in one hand held it and with the other grabbed the fence and struggled to pull himself to his feet but did.

He would not make it far from the fence, only having crossed the threshold of where the road which once seemed to unwind reconstructed itself, before he collapsed in carnage’s aftermath from exhaustion and indiscriminate blood loss, and again, dumbly, perhaps on death’s precipice, only thought of you. Your unwavering presence outliving him.

—

hi there again! thank you so much for reading!! i’m sorry this piece took so long, school is starting, and i’m adjusting to actually using my brain again. will try my best to keep a consistent posting schedule + i SWEAR i will get to writing the numerous requests in my inbox. much love xoxo <3

masterlist

taglist: @flam3bird, @sakusas-whore

#attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #aot #snk #attack on titan imagine #attack on titan x reader #aot imagines #aot x reader #levi ackerman #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x you #levi x you #levi x reader #levi ackerman imagine #writing!

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inevitably-johnlocked · 4 years

Note

any new historical AUs? anything from the 1150s to the 1950s works for me lol

Hi Nonny!

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh sadly I haven’t read as many historical fics as I would have liked to, unless you count the TAB/Victorian AUs I’ve read, LOL. I’ll give you most that I have personally read (I omitted the majority of the Victorian AUs I’ve read, please check out the link in the See Also section), AS WELL AS stuff on my offline MFL list, and please do check out the “see also” lists for others that people have added, and hopefully some lovelies will add their own fics for us!

So if any of y’all are currently writing any or have some faves (especially regency AUs, I haven’t read any and am interested in trying one out) please let us know!!

HISTORICAL AUs

See also:

Time Travel, Altered Time, or Time Manipulation

Victorianlock

ACD Canon

Victorian Meets Modern Johnlock

WWII AU’s

Pirates

The First Night by TheForerunner (NR, 1,043 w., 1 Ch. || ACD Canon || First Time, Fluff, Non-Explicit, Prose) – When all was over, Sherlock reached to dress again and John reached to stop him. They sat at opposite ends of the bed and one set of eyes surveyed the other’s set of limbs, and they were quiet in the downbeat, melody suspended. Sherlock was sheepish, and this confused John, who now smelled of his companion and felt they were part of one another.

The Trial of Sherlock Holmes by jenna221b (G, 3,015 w. across 3 works || TAB!lock, Metafic / TJLC, Victorian AU / 1895, Christmas, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Oscar Wilde) – Scripts based on speculation that Sherlock will be put on trial in The Abominable Bride to parallel the Oscar Wilde Trials of 1895.

we have never seen a greater day than this by Lediona (T, 36,420 w., 7 Ch. || A Royal Night Out AU || WWII / VE Day, Prince Sherlock, Soldier John, Alternating POV, First Kiss, Bittersweet Ending, Homophobia, Dancing) – Peace. At long last. It’s VE Day and Prince William desires to join the celebrations. It is a night of excitement, danger and the first flutters of romance.

five times sherlock holmes lied to john watson (and one time he finally told the truth) by miss_frankenstein (G, 5,948 w., 1 Ch. || TAB Compliant || Homophobia, Pining Sherlock, Oscar Wilde Trials, Happy Ending) – Set in "The Abominable Bride" universe, this piece adopts a familiar format to chronicle Sherlock's quiet suffering in the wake of the 1895 Oscar Wilde trials and the particular way they affect his relationship with (and feelings for) John.

In A Changing Age by allonsys_girl (E, 15,590 w. || Victorian AU, Virgin / Demi Sherlock, First Kiss / Time, Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions, Mild H/C, Bottomlock) – Sherlock wakes up in the 19th century, with no idea how he got there.

The Curious Adventure of the Drs. Watson by ShinySherlock (M, 40,883 w., 14 Ch. || BBC & ACD Fusion || Victorianlock, Time Travel / Magical Realism, Friends to Lovers, Love and Kissing, Romance, Body Swap) – What if ACD Watson and BBC Watson switched places... “Imposter!” Hands clenching the lapels of John’s coat, Holmes shoved him anew. “Yes!” John agreed, nodding, and then grimacing. “Sort of!”

A Further Sea by i_ship_an_armada & ShinySherlock (E, 125,492 w., 23 Ch. || Historical Pirates AU || Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Doctor John / Pirate Captain Sherlock, Sailing, UST / RST, Masturbation, Action / Adventure, Mild Angst & Peril, Romance, Shaving, Molly/Janine, Bottomlock, Hand / Blow Jobs, Past Drug Use, Slow Burn, Mild Violence, Facial Shaving, Happy Ending) – Here be a tale of adventure for both body and soul, but beware if ye be not of stout heart, for this be piratelock, ya savvy? Luckless ship's surgeon John Watson takes a chance, and finds himself eye to eye with The Ghost, the scourge of the seven seas and a definite thorn in the side of the blaggard, James Moriarty. But when John finds there's more to this most cunning pirate than be meetin' the eye, he has to choose... is it a pirate's life for him?

MARKED FOR LATER

The Right Side of the Wall by MarisFerasi (E, 5,468 w., 2 Ch. || Historical Slavery AU || Sex Slave, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Captain John, Slave Sherlock, Historical Inaccuracy) – Captain John buys slave Sherlock and the smex occurs.

Splat! by Vulgarweed (E, 6,618 w., 1 Ch. || Historical Appalachian 1970′s AU || Dom / Sub, Gunplay, Knifeplay, “Non-Con” Roleplay, Switchlock, Anal, Rimming, Bondage, Hunting Kink, Rough Sex, Object Insertion, Dirty Talk, Comeplay) – Sherlock decides he does want to go hunting with John after all. But not for deer. Part 2 of the The Bone Fiddle series

Silent Night by khorazir (M, 15,060 w., 1 Ch. || Codebreaker / WWII / Imitation Game-Inspired AU || Care Fic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Dev. Rel., Reunion, PTSD John, Christmas) – It’s Christmas Eve 1944, and Sherlock Holmes has received his most precious gift already: after a long, dangerous deployment, Surgeon Captain John Watson of the Royal Navy has unexpectedly returned from the front. As if this weren’t enough, there’s a case. Both events make for a night full of promise, excitement, and the difficult task of getting reacquainted with the man Sherlock hasn’t seen in three years and feared he’d lost forever. Part 2 of Enigma

A Marriage of Convenience by Phuchka (E, 43,116 w., 24 Ch. || Regency Omegaverse || Jealous John, Mpreg, Angst, Whump, Fluff, Smut, Arranged Marriage) – You are cordially invited to attend the wedding of ~The Honourable Sherlock Holmes, Alpha, younger brother of the Earl of Sherrinford with Mr. John Watson, Omega, son of Mr. Howard Watson, chairman of the City Bankers Guild.

Always 1895 by standbygo (E, 45,901 w., 19 Ch. || Oxford Time Travel AU || Time Travel, Friends to Lovers, Case Fic, Victorian, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, First Kiss/Time, First Meetings, Slow Burn, Angst With Happy Ending) – Time travelling historian John Watson goes to Victorian era England to study, and meets detective Sherlock Holmes. He finds himself torn between the work he was sent to do, the exciting life of solving crimes, and the extraordinary Holmes himself.

The Devil At Prayers by always_1895 (T, 50,846 w., 22 Ch. || ACD Canon / Victorian AU || Friendship, Case Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Murder, Politics, Intrigue, Mystery, Historical, Treasure Hunting) – Emily Watson and her twin sister were raised in a peaceful English manor house. But when a mysterious Professor arrives to visit her father, she is thrown headfirst into a murderous conspiracy. Forced to seek refuge with her only living relative, half brother Dr. John Watson, she discovers that he lodges with the infamous detective, Sherlock Holmes. Book 1 follows Emily and Holmes as they begin to unravel her own mystery, when they are introduced to the case of a missing Russian diplomat. The thread connecting the two cases runs deep, and they race against the clock to uncover the politician's whereabouts before political tensions reach a breaking point. Part 1 of the Queen and Country series

Human Nature by delightful_fear (M, 57,585 w., 17 Ch. || Regency London AU || 1819 / Gregorian England, Historical, Alternate First Meeting) – Rich and spoiled Sherlock makes a wager with his older brother that he can take a penniless man and make him presentable in high society.

Long Ago and Far Away Series by lotherington (T to E, 62,765 w. across 27 works || WWII AU || Victor Trevor, Historical, 1940s/50s, Graphic Depictions of Violence) – October, 1937. A chance encounter late one night leads to Sherlock following John home. I can’t really put it much better than Vera Lynn herself: That certain night, the night we met / there was magic abroad in the air.

Dawn Before the Rest of the World Series (M, 65,164 w.+ across 12 stories || WiP || 1920s Historical AU || Romance, Love Declarations, Period-Typical / Internalized Homophobia, First Times, Oral/Anal Sex, Sweetness, Hurt / Comfort, Crying, Frottage, Rimming, Idiots in Love) – In one of the grand houses of England in the 1920s, butler Sherlock Holmes is wooed to pieces by the world's most romantic gardener, John Watson.

The Sweetness Makes the Smoke and Stings Worthwhile by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for (M, 70,032 w., 31 Ch. || Historical 1920′s AU || Unilock, Summer Romance, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, First Kiss/Time, Inexperienced Sherlock, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Drinking, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sexual Tension, Hand/Blow Jobs, Dancing, Secret Relationship, Skinny Dipping, Angst with a Happy Ending, Closet Sex, Hotel Sex, Emotions, Falling in Love, Mutual Pining, Letters/Epistolary, Heartache, Minor Violence, Separations, Reunion Sex, Love Confessions, Victor & Mary in this Fic) – After nearly being expelled from university, Sherlock is banished home to Musgrave Hall for the summer. A friend introduces him to John Watson, a handsome medical student visiting the area. Sherlock and John find themselves drawn to each other, falling into a summer romance that may be as painful as it is sweet. Although they follow different paths, their feelings for each other still haunt them, their love finally coming full circle years later. For those concerned about Mary and Victor, they appear only briefly and as very background characters. My version of Mary is not modeled on the BBC version. She is more of an original character, if anything.

Philia and Eros by distantstarlight (E, 84,660 w., 20 Ch. || Historical AU || Friends to Lovers, Time Travel, Kilts, Possessive Behaviour, Love Confessions, Slow Burn, Implied Rape/Non-Con) – Love is timeless but time isn't necessarily linear. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are about to embark on an unintended adventure that will take them far away from the comfortable confines of 221 B Baker Street. Part 1 of Strange Paths

Welcome Home by itsalwaysyou_jw (M, 81,358+ w., 25/32 Ch. || WiP || WWII / Post-WWII Historical AU || Fluff and Angst, Drinking, Hurt/Comfort, POV John, Mutual Pining, Dev. Rel., Past Viclock, Nice Victor, First Kiss, Romance, PTSD John, Grief/Mourning, Implied / Referenced Drug Use) – In 1938, John Watson was at the peak of his music career, performing original jazz tunes in the hottest clubs to adoring crowds. But now the year is 1945 and Captain John Watson has just returned home from the war. Attempting to cope with the horrors he saw in the Solomon Islands, he struggles to get even a weekday slot performing at the jazz clubs. When he hears a radio announcement for a song-writing competition, he knows this is the opportunity he has been waiting for. He only needs to put a band together that can help him win the grand prize. But first, he needs to face his survivor's guilt to honour his best friend's dying wish: he must find Victor Trevor's spouse- someone named Sherlock Holmes- and deliver a message.

A Matter of Chance by weneedtotalkaboutsherlock (E, 100,631 w., 18 Ch. || Regency AU || Forbidden Love, Slow Burn, Class Differences, No Period-Typical Homophobia, Gay Marriage is OK, Forced Marriage, Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Humour, Angst with Happy Ending, Drama Queen Sherlock, Sexually Naïve Sherlock, Aromantic Mycroft, First Kiss / Time, Declarations of Love, Minor Character Death) – "If it were only for me, I would never marry." "Why so?" "I do not believe in love, Dr Watson. It is a great disadvantage to lose one's head over such a volatile matter."

Enigma by khorazir (M, 289,667 w., 23 Ch. || Codebreaker / WWII / Imitation Game-Inspired AU || Case Fic, Espionage, Period-Typical Homophobia / Sexism, Pining Sherlock, Inexperienced / VirginSherlock, Implied / Referenced Drug Use, Non-Graphic Violence) – It’s the autumn of 1941, war is raging in Europe, German U-boats are raiding Allied convoys in the Atlantic, the Luftwaffe is bombing English cities, and the cryptographers at Bletchley Park are working feverishly to decode their enemies' encrypted communications. One should consider this challenge and distraction enough for capricious codebreaker Sherlock Holmes. But the true enigmas are yet waiting to be deciphered: an unbreakable code, a strange murder, and the arrival of Surgeon Captain John H. Watson of the Royal Navy.

Over Fathoms Deep by bittergreens (E, 397,575+ w., 51/? Ch. || WiP || Historical / Regency / Sailing AU || Sailor!John / Aristocrat!Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Virgin Sherlock, Sailing, Bottomlock, UST / RST, Hand/Blow Jobs, Frottage, Masturbation, Happy Ending, Anal) – When the youngest son of the aristocratic Holmes family is shipped off to sea in an attempt to cure him of his poor temper and bad manners, he fully expects to spend a long tedious voyage as miserable as ever. What he does not count on is having his heart stolen by the strapping young crewman, John Watson.

#steph replies #johnlock fic recs #my fic recs #historical au #Anonymous

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resbangmod · 3 years

Text

Resbang 2016 Throwbacks, Week 4, Part 8

Time to get hype for this year’s Resbang, and what better way to do so than to check out the ghosts of Resbangs Past!

Come say hi to this year’s participants and mods on Discord!

This year’s schedule can be found here: beep

[T] Now the Light Falls [Soul/Maka]

Born with the ability to talk to the dead, Maka Albarn lives in the shadow of two worlds. She grows up reveling in the ghostly company until tragedy strikes. As the last threads of her parents’ marriage rip apart in the fallout, she vows to never speak to a ghost again.Her promise is tested four years later when Maka is struck by a car and wakes up to find herself bound to a strange boy called Soul, who is confused, sarcastic, and above all, very dead.

Warnings: Horror, some graphic violence

by author: LunarResonance @lunar--resonance

with artist: MaddestScientist @drmadscientist

and artist: lbkprincen @lbk-princen

Read it here: [ffn][ao3]

View it here: [maddestscientist: [tumblr]] [lbkprincen: [tumblr 1, 2]]

[G] Resolutions (Part three of the Dead Moon) [Stein/Marie, Black Star/Tsubaki, Kim/Jacqueline, Wes/Liz, Soul/Maka, DTK/Crona]

Crona Gorgon is Dead. The world goes on. (Last part of the Dead Moon Trilogy.)

Warnings: not-really-character-death

by author: jcrycolr3wradc, dead link

with artist: ilaural @ilarual

Read it here: [ao3], dead link

View it here: [[tumblr]]

[E] Wanna Be Yours [Soul/Maka]

"Can you show me how to kiss someone?"

It starts out as a simple request, but the one after it leaves Maka in a sexual mess she wasn't expecting. The sex was meant to help her get over Soul. Not dig herself deeper into a hole and only make her love him even more. Friends With Benefits AU.

Warnings: explicit sexual content, oral sex, porn with a plot, mutual pining, denial of feelings, fluff too

by author: Khaleesimaka @khaleesimaka

with artist: fuzzyfur455

Read it here: [ffn][ao3]

View it here: [fuzzyfur455: [tumblr 1, 2] NSFW, dead links

[G] A Kiss Behind Curtains [Tsubaki/Liz]

When Liz and Tsubaki are cast as the romantic leads in their school play of Cinderella, they realize their relationship might be more than just friendship.

Warnings: none

by author: Hermionesqueen, dead link

with artist: strawberrymeister @strawberrymeister

Read it here: [ao3]

View it here: [strawberrymeister: [tumblr]]

[M] Macabre Records [Kim/Jackie, Soul/Maka, Death the Kid/Crona, Tsubaki/Liz]

There’s one last summer before the employees of Macabre Records scatter to the four winds and everything’s going sideways. Their beloved record store has a dark cloud hanging over it called Gorgon Sisters Music – the owners aren’t just poaching their customers, they’re also pressuring Kid to sell his dad’s shop. The morning starts out badly when Black Star gambles away a desperately-needed chunk of the store’s cash, and things go downhill from there. But it’s Ragnorak Day, and the crew knows if they don’t make it the best damn day possible, they’ll regret it forever.

Warnings: underage drinking, alcohol abuse/alcoholism, suicidal thoughts, depression, anxiety, language, sexual content

by author: kittenintheden @kittenintheden

with artist: Marsh of Sleep @marshofsleep

and artist: thesockswhowearsfox @thesockswhowearsfox

Read it here: [tumblr][ffn][ao3]

Listen to it here: [thesockswhowearsfox: [tumblr]] [marsh of sleep: [tumblr][8tracks][mediafire] some songs NSFW]

[M] Your Soul Is Where I Made My Home [Soul/Maka, side Stein/Marie, implied Tsubaki/Black Star]

The last place Maka expected to be at 27 was single and pregnant after a one night stand. This wasn’t in the cards, and she doesn’t know what she’s going to do. But if there’s one thing she’s learned over the years, it’s that family is what you choose to make of it.

Warnings: one night stand, accidental pregnancy, post canonish compliant, mentions of abortion and potentially of self-harm, temporary angst, happy ending

by author: Victoriapyrrhi @victoriapyrrhi

with artist: thefishywitchy @thefishywitchy

and artist: odettedoodlette @odettedoodlette-art

Read it here: [ffn][ao3]

View it here: [thefishywitchy: [tumblr 1, 2]] [odettedoodlette: [tumblr]]

#soul eater #resbang #resbang 2020 #resbang throwbacks #long post

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belovedarise · 3 years

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What is Gender?

1: GENDER IS A COMPLEX THING. Essentially gender is our internal relationship to societal concepts of masculinity and femininity.

2. GENDER EXPRESSION is the behavior attributes and symbols that indicate and perform one's gender(s).

3. PART OF IT HAS TO DO WITH how you feel, part of it is how people see you, part of it has to do with expectations based on biological sex. Frankly, no definition of gender really gets all of what it is or isn’t.

4. MANY PEOPLE IDENTIFY WITHIN the binary of man or woman, many have a fluid experience within the spectrum, and still many identify outside the spectrum of these two options altogether.

5. CISGENDER PEOPLE identify with the gender society prescribes them at birth based on external sex characteristics.

TRANSGENDER PEOPLE internally align with gender(s) other than those assigned at birth.

Even Biological Sex Is NOT A Binary

The terms “MALE” AND “FEMALE” are used to categorize the anatomical differences in our bodies, but everything we attribute to biological sex— chromosomes, horomones, sex-linked genes, and genitalia— all exist on a complex spectrum. We are taught that XX chromosomes means female and XY chromosomes means male, but someone with XX chromosomes can be born with a penis and someone with XY chromosomes could be born with a vagina. Other chromosomal combinations exist (including X, XXY, XXX), and many people are born with varying degrees of both ovaries and testicles. This diversity has come to be generalized as “intersex” (neither male nor female). Tragically, doctors in many parts of the world perform irreversible surgeries to assign a binary sex to children whose bodies don’t match traditional understandings of male and female anatomy.

//For a descriptive thread on why biological sex is not a binary, visit https://threadreaderapp.com/thread/1207834357639139328.html

Gender vs Orientation

BEING TRANS IS NOT THE SAME THING AS BEING GAY.

Who you are sexually or romantically attracted to is separate from your gender. Many people confuse the two.

“When I first came out as a lesbian in college, my friends assumed I must feel like a man on the inside because they couldn’t imagine two women loving each other.” “Growing up, everyone assumed I was gay because of my personality and how I dressed, but that was because they didn’t have the language for gender diversity. To them, everything queer had to be gay.”

Brief History of Gender Diversity

While most of the western world is only just waking up to the diversity and complexity of gender, many cultures around the world and throughout time have recognized transgender and gender nonconforming people, often giving them spiritual reverence.

Ancient Egyptians identified three genders, man, sekhet, and woman, as early as early as 2000 BCE. Other cultures acknowledge three, four, and even more genders.

THE MODERN EMPHASIS ON GENDER as a rigid binary is primarily the consequence of European colonialism: a Christianity of patriarchy and cis-normativity allowed European colonists to call other cultures primitive and justify violence against them along with other forms of theft and control.

The Importance of Pronouns and Names

There’s so many options for pronouns: he, she, they, ze, or even just using a person’s name, and more. THE WORDS WE USE TO GENDER PEOPLE MATTER.

Calling a transgender person by their birth name, or a previous name associated with an identity that is not authentic to them can be harmful. Often times trans people choose a name that aligns more with their identity. Their previous name is sometimes called their “dead name.” DON’T DEAD NAME PEOPLE.

Using a person’s chosen name and proper pronouns can REDUCE THEIR RISK OF SUICIDE BY 30%.

FUN FACT: the singular ‘they’ has been used as a gender neutral pronoun in English for many hundreds of years!

God is Not a Man

God is infinitely more complex than can be contained within human vocabulary and thoughts (see Isaiah 55:8-9).

THIS INCLUDES GENDER. God’s fullness includes woman, man, non-binary, and being outside of gender. The gender-diverse nature of God is reflected throughout scripture. In addition to masculine terms, God is repeatedly described as a nursing, protective, and comforting Mother who has born us from Her womb (Hosea 11:3-4; Deuteronomy 32:11-18; Isaiah 42:14, 49:15, 66:13; Psalm 131:2; Matthew 23:37; etc). Even Genesis 1:27 says all of humankind was made in God’s image (not just cisgender men).

In the Beginning

The Bible says that in the beginning, God created day and night, land and sea, birds and fish. But have you ever seen a sunset, or a beach, or a penguin? Well, trans and non-binary people are kind of like that. A BEAUTIFUL ARRAY OF DIVERSITY.

So, God created male and female, and we are no less beautiful, diverse, and wild than a sunset or a beach or a penguin. God created people with genders beyond male and female in the same way God created realities in between, outside of, and beyond these others. Trans and non-binary and agender and intersex: God created us. --Adapted from a message from trans pastor Asher O’Callaghan

To see the post in slide guide form, go here.

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sikhyes · 4 years

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scarred | 1

[ AO3 LINK ] a/n: this is the first part of a time travel / reincarnation / soulmates taegi au !! genre: historical / time travel / reincarnation / soulmates pairing: taehyung / yoongi word count: 1,218 summary: Yoongi is tasked by two spirits to assassinate his past reincarnation - a mad tyrant king - to restore the balance between the living and the dead. The mission gets complicated when he meets his ex-boyfriend's past reincarnation as the king's concubine. warnings: violence (not present in this current chapter but will be in later chapters) status: incomplete / in progress NOTE: changed taewon’s name to HANSUNG

Yoongi wakes to a slap to the face.

“Wake up,” the boy says, hands dropping below his chin to grasp at Yoongi’s clothes before shaking him awake. “Come on, wake up. You don’t want Seokjin-hyung to be the one that wakes you.”

A groan slips from chapped lips and Yoongi unwillingly forces his eyes to open, immediately greeted by a rounded nose pressed a little too closely to his face. Sleepy limbs attempt to push the boy away but he only dodges Yoongi's arms and moves to kneel behind him before pushing him to an upright position. Yoongi’s head lolls side to the side, still chasing sleep, but a loud gong breaks through and he snaps to attention.

Now alert, Yoongi takes in his surroundings. Panic starts to bubble inside him when he realizes he isn’t in his crappy apartment, but a hanok of all places. It’s clean and minimalistic, lacking any decor other than the dying plant in the corner. No one else is in the room except the mat he’d been sleeping on, the boy that woke him, and the man that hit the gong standing by the entrance.

“Give it a moment,” the man says, lifting a finger as Yoongi’s mouth snaps shut. “The memories will return so let that sink in then ask me your questions.”

Yoongi opens his mouth anyway, a string of curses ready to be spat, but an invisible force crashes into the forefront of his brain and suddenly, he’s being swallowed by the floor.

“I’m fucking drunk. S’all it is…”

Yoongi brings up a ringed hand to harshly rub at his eyes, as though willing away the image of the two odd, handsome men in front of him. The pub’s lighting isn’t that great, just dimming, flickering bulbs that offer enough light to help any drunkard to at least see the floor. It’s just the soju, Yoongi thinks.

“It’s not the soju,” the younger one — the one with the huge, bambi eyes and teeth that resemble a bunny — rolls his eyes. “We’re real, dipshit.”

“Watch your fucking language,” the other one snaps, delivering a sharp jab to Bunny Boy’s ribs. a yelp sounds before he’s swinging but the fist is only caught by the elder, shoving it down impatiently before both of their attention is back on Yoongi. “But Gguk’s right. We aren’t hallucinations. We’re real and we need your help, Min Yoongi.”

“How… How the fuck do you know my name?” he slurs, words slipping and sliding together without his consent.

“You look just like him,” the older one comments, ignoring Yoongi’s original question. “All except the scar. Do you know him? The scarred tyrant king?”

Yoongi takes a sloppy swing but both men just lean back, easily dodging Yoongi’s drunken attacks. “What the fuck are you two even talking about?”

Despite the silly taunts and insults the two have been exchanging since they entered the bar, something somber, ancient, and absolutely terrifying crosses both their faces as they share a knowing look. “Let’s start from the beginning. I am seokjin. This is jeongguk. We’re timeless spirits that exist beyond all mortal realms.”

Yoongi blinks. “What.”

Jeongguk lets out a sigh reminiscent of an old, patient man and gives his hand a little wave. Suddenly, the cloudiness in Yoongi’s mind dissipates and the sluggish feelings in his limbs fade, giving him a new sense of clarity that he hasn’t experienced in years, sober or not. His feline eyes narrow at Jeongguk's hand then rise up to meet Seokjin’s gaze when the man clears his throat.

“We’re spirits that need your help, Yoongi. Do you know of your heritage?”

Yoongi gives a shrug. “I know I’ve descended from some powerful clan but that’s it.”

“You're not wrong. You’re a… type of descendant of the scarred tyrant king, Yeoeul, and his meaningless wars had brought upon waves of death that even our reapers don’t agree with. Our job here is to keep the balance between the living and the dead and your king doppelganger decided to fuck with that. so we need you to kill the king.”

“But killing that king — won’t that just be killing me and my existence?”

Jeongguk shakes his head. “No. You two aren’t directly related by blood. Trust me, Seokjin-hyung and i already followed through all the possible timelines to make sure we’re choosing the right guy to assassinate the tyrant king with the least amount of rippling effect. That’s you, Yoongi.”

“Why can’t you two just kill him?”

“We can’t directly affect mortals and meddle with mortal affairs. We usually have a patron do our bidding for us,” Seokjin replies. “Now, any more questions?”

“What if I can’t kill him? I've never — I’m not a murderer.”

The two share another loaded look. “You must. I’m afraid if you don’t, this world you know will cease to exist.”

Yoongi’s eyes widen in shock. “What?! What do you — that doesn’t make any sense!”

“Think about it,” Jeongguk says. “The tyrant king took too many lives and we must restore balance. If you can’t kill the king and stop him before he starts another war, we must take lives in another era to balance out the lives lost in the previous one.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Yoongi’s brows furrow but before he could utter another question, Seokjin steps forward.

“Mortal minds weren’t made to solve a spirit’s problem but please, trust us on this. Our bosses are righteous beings whose only role is to keep balance and they’ll do anything to keep it that way. Emotions like sympathy and empathy are associated with mortal flaws so they don’t care whose life they have to take to restore balance. That's why it’s up to Jeongguk and I to take the mortals’ side.”

Perhaps it's the sudden clarity granted by the spirits that has Yoongi nodding his head in assent. “Where do I start?”

“Close your eyes and once you wake, your mission will begin.”

“Wear this,” Seokjin instructs as he places a satgat on top of Yoongi’s dark locks, adjusting it so that it reveals only below his nose. “This is a small village closest to the palace, you’ll already be branded as an outsider even before you make it obvious with your mannerisms.”

Jeongguk directs Yoongi to a mirror propped up by the wall, swift hands readjusting the hanbok that’s hanging comfortably on his shoulders. “Just refrain from cursing. or talking. You can just converse in grunts, okay?”

Yoongi scowls at their reflection before swatting away Jeongguk's fidgety hands before straightening out his own hanbok himself. “How do I even get to the king, let alone get close enough to kill?”

“He rarely leaves the palace grounds which is why Jeongguk and I got you a job as a gardener,” Seokjin reports. “You’ve just received the news yesterday and today is your very first day. You’ll be moving into the servants quarters as well. Don’t worry, you have little to pack so go and get yourself to the palace.”

Yoongi could barely say another word before he’s being ushered out the door and onto the dusty grounds of the tiny village. Carts of produce and trinkets are rolled haphazardly all over the crowded streets, tables and booths set up in front of hanoks similar to the one that Yoongi had just been kicked out of.

There seems to be only one main street, leading to the edge of the village and the other a pathway merging with worn down roads towards the grand palace, with only a few dead-end alleys in between the larger houses. Yoongi doesn’t hesitate to follow the other commoners dressed similarly as him, beige hanboks with a black and red trim that must signify a position above the peasant class but below the ranking officials.

He keeps his head down as he shuffles with the crowds until they reach the magnificent palace gates. The crowd doesn’t stop there but circles around the perimeter where a less grandiose wooden gate is being guarded by a man in a soldier’s uniform, checking the identification forms of each person. Yoongi starts to panic as he watches everyone around him bring out a piece of paper from their pockets as they wait their turn to be allowed entrance.

“Watch it,” a stranger grunts as they shoulder through impatiently, bumping into Yoongi. The movement causes a slight crinkling noise to sound from his pocket and Yoongi quickly digs into the fabric to pull out a form that states his name (Yoongi) and his occupation (apprentice gardener). It isn’t long until the soldier takes the form, deems it authentic, before he’s handing it back to Yoongi and he’s being nudged inside.

The packed line starts to disperse once they're on palace grounds; everyone seems to know exactly where they’re going.

“You there,” one calls out, a menacing and accusing finger pointed right at Yoongi. He’s dressed similar to Yoongi, beige hanbok with the black and red trim, but the sleeves are cut with gold thread. “Are you Yoongi?”

Yoongi approaches with a hesitant nod. “Yes. I’m the new—”

“The new assistant gardener. I'm Jimin and I am in charge of you.”

The man is only a centimeter or two shorter than Yoongi, dark hair thick but controlled in a uniform sleek ponytail with a black band dashed across his forehead. His eyes are sharp and calculating, full lips pursed into one of impatience. Yoongi catches a flash of recognition on Jimin's face but it’s quickly smoothed away, his face suddenly unreadable.

“Walk quickly,” Jimin says and the both of them start to walk swiftly past the open courtyard where handmaidens mill about. They circle around the pagoda where a luscious garden thrives. Yoongi wonders exactly why an extra gardener was needed, judging from the handful of men and women tending to the meticulously shaped shrubs and bushes.

“You see these shapes?” Jimin stops at shapeless bushes; Yoongi doesn’t comment but nods. “Your job is to trim any outgrown twig or leave that compromises these shapes. just continue to do so until the sun sets.”

“That’s it?” Yoongi can’t help but ask.

Jimin nods, small fingers stroking a petal delicately before his hard gaze returns to Yoongi once more. “That is all. Just do not touch the flowers,” he warns as he finally hands a couple of shears for Yoongi to take. “I have other matters to attend to. However, I will return shortly to see your progress.”

And with that, the scary small man departs.

Maybe the biggest inconvenience of time traveling centuries in the past may be the lack of proper time-telling tools. Yoongi isn’t sure exactly what time it is or how much had passed as he continues to circle the garden, holding the shears in his hand like a weapon as he searches for any flaw that could be cut down.

Sweat slides down ivory skin in rivulets, despite the cover provided underneath his bamboo satgat. His clammy hand lifts from his side to wipe away at his forehead and he winces at how damp his skin is.

“Water?” a voice says, a hand holding a wooden cup of water being thrusted into Yoongi’s line of sight.

The voice has Yoongi standing straight, the hairs on the nape of his neck shivering in slight anticipation at the deep timbre that hugs the man’s words.

No, no, no. How is he here? He can't be here.

Despite every alarm in his head ringing, pleading him to not face him, his body does so anyway and it takes everything in him to not drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness the moment he puts a face to the voice. But his body doesn’t do that.

“Taehyung?” Yoongi says instead, his voice barely a whisper. His knuckles are white from how tight he’s holding his shears.

Taehyung’s wearing a white hanbok and already Yoongi knows he’s a man with status here. The blue and silver designs on his chest are not as intricate as the ones he’s seen already but the fact that there are designs are enough to give away the fact that Taehyung should not be offering water to the help. Yoongi’s gaze lifts from Taehyung's attire to the slightly confused (and similar flash of recognition Yoongi saw earlier on Jimin's face) expression.

“No, my name is Hansung, I live here. You must have me mistaken for someone else.”

But the honeyed voice is the same, the sweet bronze skin that Yoongi used to trace for hours on end in a bed they used to share when time doesn’t exist between dusk and dawn. Still, Yoongi forces a laugh and gives a little shrug as he takes the offered water. “I must've.”

“Peculiar,” Hansung muses now, watching Yoongi take careful sips. “I… I almost mistook you for someone else as well.” Before Yoongi could press further, Taewon steps closer. “So are you the new gardener?”

“Yeah — had everyone been expecting me?” Yoongi chuckles dryly, readjusting the grip on his shears as he takes a slight step back. His self control usually disappears when it comes to Taehyung — or at least, Hansung in this era.

Hansung laughs and Yoongi’s heart gives a traitorous jump in his chest. “Well it depends, are you a talented gardener?”

“Of course, Why else would I be hired?” Yoongi brags and gives a snip towards the bush without even sparing it a glance. A familiar cocky smirk rests upon his lips only for it to falter as Hansung giggles behind his hand.

“Perhaps it’s your… odd choice of landscaping,” Hansung manages to say in between laughter. Yoongi glances over at his work to see a rose lobbed off, now rolling in between their feet, groaning as his cheeks flood with a hue of red that could rival the rose.

“I'm new,” Yoongi mutters as he shoves the rose into his pockets before Jimin could see.

“I can see that.” Hansung reaches into Yoongi’s pocket to take the rose for himself, slender fingers stroking the petals. “Can I have your name?”

Yoongi hesitates. “I’ve given you the rose, is it not enough?”

“No.” The firmness in his voice tells Yoongi there isn’t a point in arguing. “So your name?”

“Yoongi.”

Hansung tips his head to the side and Yoongi’s chest ache with a phantom pain; every little word, every movement, is so achingly Taehyung. “Very nice to meet you, Yoongi. Perhaps I'll come by to visit again.”

Both men drop their heads in a polite bow, Yoongi lower than the other, before Hansung takes his leave to join two other men that greet him casually. Yoongi turns back to his favored shrub and snips off the rest of the rose stem to match length with the rest.

About another hour passes by, judging by the sun’s position in the sky, when a sudden call has everyone standing to attention before bowing deeply at an angle of ninety degrees. Yoongi’s quick to mimic everyone else, peeking at the corner of his eye to see if the closest gardener to his right is still bowing.

A sudden marching noise comes from the left of the garden where the entrance is and Yoongi chances a look. An ornate palanquin is being carried by eight men, two for each pole. The chair itself has a tall poster frame that’s similarly designed to the black and red pagoda of the palace grounds with red sheer fabric to veil the person inside, casting only a red-tinted silhouette.

The tiny parade stops in the center of the garden and the eight men lower the palanquin carefully. Two men on the right side of the palanquin lift the veils aside before another two men help the honored guest out.

“Your majesty,” one of the men proclaims and everyone in the garden rises. “We hope the garden is to your liking.”

The king has his back facing Yoongi and the platinum blond hair is a sharp contrast against the black band wrapped around his forehead, matching his black hanbok. His topknot is secured with an opulent hair piece and a matching golden binyeo .

“We will see,” the king says and when he turns to Yoongi’s direction, Yoongi nearly topples over because the king is a spitting image of himself, save for the angry red scar slashed through his left eye.

#bangtanarmynet #bangtanxm #taehyung x yoongi #taegi #kim taehyung #min yoongi #niniwrites.

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ratherhavetheblues · 5 years

Text

INGMAR BERGMAN’S ‘HOUR OF THE WOLF’ “You’re nothing but frightened…”

I kicked off the Bergman trilogy comprising the films, Hour of the Wolf (1968), Shame (1969) and The Passion of Anna (1969), by way of Shame. But one could start anywhere here, inasmuch as all three of them represent a steep ascent toward—not the famous “silence of God”—but the long-hidden finality of death as tempering the farce of advantage. There was the attraction, in Shame, for its fulsome violence and its unspoken (forgotten) heresy, buried by a world-history crazily intent upon becoming iconic, even if tiny.

We’ll pick up from there, by another very humbled figure, namely, Alma, the wife of a rather well-known and admired painter, Johan Borg, in the film, Hour of the Wolf. Unlike the forgetting of that unfamiliar reflection, in Shame, Alma has incorporated a degree of disinterestedness being the gem of the aforementioned film. But, like Eva-the-forgetful, Alma, remarkably warm though she could be, there was about her a striking inefficiency, a decorative tip of an iceberg—while the full accomplishment remained a huge oblivion. Whereas the opening of Shame adopted an almost sit-com miasma, here instead, what we experience, and yet being far from the depths of creative magic and profound joy, is a punishing, but soft, third-degree. “Listen, we’re not quite finished yet… No? Alright…”

“Alright” takes off with Alma’s telling the camera and us, in flashback, of the shocking death of Johan; and her inability to keep him in one piece. She begins by emerging from her thatch-roofed, wood-framed cottage, with head bowed and tired eyes. Having already made to the world the details of her telling, this would be an investigatory journalist’s follow-up, in hopes that the disaster could provide more cogency. “I’ve given you the diary. And you wonder why I choose to stay here? We’ve lived in this house almost seven years. Come winter, I can come to the mainland, work at the store as I have done when money was short. The baby is due in a month. The doctor examined me in May, before the very last time we came out here. We’d planned to stay here until August. We were going to be completely alone… He was afraid… He liked that I was quiet…” Then, on the heels of that jumble of tenses, she abruptly delineates (in flash-back), how they had commissioned a small power boat and driven to their island hideaway. The arrival is shown to be touched by murky light not without a harsh beauty. This positive moment links to the boat of death, in Shame. Ebb and flow of engaging challenge. “We found a wheelbarrow in a shed on the beach. When we got here, we were happy to see the apple tree in bloom. Then we discovered footprints under the kitchen window in the flower bed, but forgot it.” (Long pause, in which the investigator could begin to discern that the quiet ones are also stupid ones.) “Yes, we were happy… Johan was uneasy.” (What sort of logic do they subscribe to? Probably a logic not far from that of Eva and Jan, in Shame.) “He always grew anxious when his work did not go well, and it had not gone well for some time now.” (The same precious and unscrupulous aesthetic, from the violinists’, in Shame?) “And he became sleepless. He was frightened, as if he was afraid of the dark. It had gotten worse in the last few years.” The decisive prow of the thrust of Johan and Alma’s boat brings to the story a baseline of decisiveness which awaits them, and all of us. Johan launches the returning driver with clear-enough decisiveness. He gathers his baggage—including, many frames waiting for successful performances—and grimly moves a pushcart to the cottage over very difficult terrain. In the arrival with its delight in the apple tree, she rushes to embrace Johan wholeheartedly; and receives a half-hearted buss and then a brush-off as he heads indoors distractedly and with a sour visage. Next day, he proposes drawing her; and the precious, nineteen-century proceedings seem to lack the promise of shoring up a tired routine. The white sheets blowing wildly on the line near the exercise to shake things up loom as an embarrassment and a warning. Was the second investigation alert to such matters?

This second cinematic rendition of the lost arts’ “giant,” for the sake of a more candid portraiture of the marriage and the mystery whose highlight brings us an Alma—a name for a circus performer whose highlight was to, briefly, invade the realm of Aphrodite, goddess of love whereby carnal mortals, in the Bergman film, Sawdust and Tinsel (1953), make short-shrift of her reign—alarmingly squelched by the hardness of existence. That night, she’s seen sewing far into the night, a process of mending, becoming a confluence. While she stays with her largely mundane priorities, Johan (a name involving the great musician, Johan Bach, and the uncanny dynamics of music) falls prey to incoherence, stalking about the room and feeling driven to reveal to her and her rendition of coherence the grotesque apparitions which haunt him in dreams and in waking, and which have become the staple of his productions, seemingly unloved and unsellable. (That he may once have concentrated upon the tried and true of a widely popular style of work, may account for his not attracting attention, until now, from the neighbors.) Not content to merely bring to Alma’s attention the disturbing work (never seen), he flogs each piece into her face as he carries out a running commentary brimming of both his supposed great struggle and great fear. “Now look! I haven’t shown them to anyone!… This is the one who turns up most often. And he’s almost harmless. I think he’s homosexual… And then there’s the old lady, the one always threatening to take off her hat. Do you know what happens if she does? Her face comes off, you see…” On to his piece de resistance, “He’s the worst of the lot. I call him Bird Man�� He’s so strangely quick… and he’s related to Papageno of [Mozart’s 1790 opera] The Magic Flute.” As Johan raves on—“…and especially the Spider Man” [Bergman’s 1960 film, Through a Glass Darkly, features a protagonist who becomes convinced that God is a giant spider]—Alma becomes appalled at his grotesque researches, closing her eyes being all she can do.

In a sort of rally, she manages to put aside the aesthetic output in favor of attempting to assuage the insomnia which the ugly visions have produced for him, visions of horrors he prefers, over facing beauties without personal eternity. (As we are about to discover, it’s even more complicated than that.) He demands, “You must stay awake a little while longer…” Alma, a study in contrast, looks into the kerosene lamp and now her eyes are open and clear. He covers his face with his hand, and she resumes, on a steady keel, that modest and promising play upon thread. In contrast, his insomnia and violent rudeness (to come), being traceable to fear of death, the investigation more closely coincides (sews with) the problematic militancy of Shame. Before the night is over, Johan provides to the multiplicity of scrutiny a display of his obsession. “A minute is actually an immense span of time… Wait, here it starts…” Alma draws much closer to this matter than she did about the grotesque figures. “Ten seconds,” he gazes at the watch. She infers where this is going, and she doesn’t like it. “These seconds… you see how long they last? The minute isn’t over yet!… Ah, finally… It’s gone now…” Feeling some kind of poison (plague) in the works, she returns to her sewing (now small accomplishment, in the dark atmosphere. “Say something,” he demands. “Talk to me, Alma…” Changing the deadly subject, she brightens up. “Hey, you, there’s something I’ve thought about for a long time. Are you listening? [his head has been bent over his chest]. We’ve lived together for seven years now… No, that’s not what I was going to say… Now, I know. Isn’t it true that old people who have lived for a lifetime together start to resemble each other? They finally share so much, their faces take on the same expression. What do you think that is?” Getting him to rise to this bid would be miraculous. But Alma does have a theory which, though unimpressive from the point of real delivery, shows us that her heart is bent on the right part of that cosmos miraculously responsive to loving courage from a finite sensibility. “I hope we will get so old that we think each other’s thoughts… and we get little, dried up, identical wrinkled faces…” (“Identical,” being a hopefully possible way of overcoming his cowardice, selfishness and coldness.) “What do you think about that?” (He’s sleeping, just as Albert, the ringmaster, was sleeping through the story of the hell-on-wheels Alma who reached so high that she became an instance of Aphrodite herself. Our Alma here, however, becomes more a person of interest in her gentle weaknesses, than in her fumbling strengths.)

That much said, let’s, however, get fully involved with the rest of the island, in its capacity to reveal how bad things can become, and thereby posit energies Alma cannot muster. The bright morning, following the long, dark night, shows her taking out to the yard their stale white sheets and being addressed by a woman in white, a very elderly woman, the likes of which has been seen in many previous Bergman investigations, where only an oracle can get to the bottom of what’s going on—which is to say, a mortal having, like the first Alma, brought to bear by her courage and wit and grace, a possessor of a rare vision and feeling. Her gambit is, “Can you feel my hand now, my fingers, the veins under my skin?” (That being a similar gambit by Jacobi, the murderous mayor and expert on texture that opens doors, in Shame.) Then she announces she’s 216 years old [quickly amending, and unconvincing, to 76]. Not only does she enjoy a remarkable (but not immortal) age, but she has such a closeness to the ways of Aphrodite that she transmits to worthies, like Alma, how factors of a power, paradoxically indebted to resolved mortals, can be put within apprehension which might result in furtherance of becoming aware of needing a warrior dimension as well as a that of a remarkable care-giver. As with Alma’s almost forgetting the gift (a half-gift, in fact) about a brave spouse lifting the spirit of a cowardly spouse, the uncanny stranger almost forgets to impart that Johan’s diary, under their bed, is must reading! On the somewhat soulmate’s departure, the younger sewer is seen from a pedestrian distance and optics which hobbles her as a candidate for audacious deeds. She gets only as far into Johan’s diary (presented by voice-over), as, “I have recently been ill. Not seriously, but unpleasant enough…” Then we cut to the diarist/ painter (an event already recorded in the first investigation; but open to more deep revelation), at work along the shore being interrupted by the owner of the island, Baron von Merkens, also owner of an ancient castle there (a devout soulmate of Knight Augustus Block, in The Seventh Seal) and also demonstrating an extremely pious side, far less benign than that ancient aristocrat. “Would you and your wife care to join us for a simple family supper?” (Words like “simple,” “family,” and “supper,” being implicit weapons, in the range of a non-simple stranger.) Going through tortures—as yet metaphorical—from this worst luck for a solitary soul, he conventionally replies, “That’s kind of you…” “It will be very simple [or, does that term mean, crude]. But I’ll give you a good wine. And our salmon fishing is renowned [crushing; and hooked?]. I should also say that my wife and I are among your admirers, your… fondest admirers…” [eliciting wild excitement].

That shot in the dark, as thus under arrest (Jan, in the film, Shame, often chooses to hide when anyone comes his way), becomes supplemented by the further reading of Alma’s discoveries from the diary. Near the area where he was ordered to face the [simple] music of the castle, he becomes interrupted by a woman, Veronica Vogler, whom he had been very intimate with for years without Alma’s awareness. She had interrupted the painter’s tantrum in realizing that the work had lost its depths. The striking approach of her liaison—her legs entering the upper area of the frame and then her full and impressive blonde attractiveness—becomes an ironic vignette, in light of the rather witless follow-up. (Moreover, the lust on that second look would infiltrate a fuller phenomenality for the sake of delving into the qualities—pro and con—of the experience.) “Do you see this mark?” she indicates, over her right nipple, where she had exposed that breast. “Be more careful, my love, or it will end in disaster [another implicit warning]. Don’t you remember? I was leaving for a party, and I was wearing my green brocade dress. Afterwards, I had such trouble putting my hair up again. And then I forgot my gloves… I have something I must speak to you about… I’ve received a letter that I must show you. It was sent yesterday: ‘You do not see us, but we see you. The most terrible things can happen. Dreams can become unveiled. The end is near. The wells will run dry; and other fluids will moisten your white loins. This is decided…’ I almost became ill reading it.” (She emits a little laugh in being fondled—the machinery of his imminent murder beyond his grasp.) “Be so kind as to help me with the zipper of my dress…” (Alma is seen reading this with deadened eyes.) In another entry of Johan’s waywardness, he is, while on a walk, waylaid by an intellectual, in suit and tie, who is well aware of the artist’s career. So persistently garrulous is this stranger, that Johan eventually smashes him in the face, bleeding his nose. (The prelude to this blow-up, entails the pest’s rather cutting harangue, “This place must be a painter’s dream or what? I’ve lived here for quite a while [in the castle, as we’ll soon discover]. One returns to the scene of the crime, so to speak, and commits new crimes!… At your age, a certain caution is to be advised… My name is Heerbrand, psychiatric curator… I finger people’s souls and turn their insides out.”) That both Veronica and the pedant are delivering a warning that the floundering radical has engendered a murderous trap, would take a more balanced sensualist to discern. (The Swedish welfare state might be in play here, insomuch as a degree of free thinking could involve a secure tolerance for unconventional ways. Pointedly, I think, the locale is a German island—Germany having a history of intolerance regarding innovative points of view. That a rigorous comportment in face of a skittish normality is urgent, constitutes the essence of this film.)

Welfare-state laissez-faire could be an ingredient in the situation that Alma (lacking the critical fire of the earlier Alma) quite readily puts aside the evidence of her not being a large part of his life, in order to sustain a saintly solicitude transcending the marriage. She’s prepared soup, a bit of everything, and pours it. He spikes his lunch with strong alcohol, and she produces a lengthy report of what she has to buy for their immediate sustenance. “What you gave me this month is almost gone.” (Bergman’s wit always reliable.) He quickly hands over everything in his pocket, but she wants him to hear the details of the shopping to come. “Don’t just shovel over money like that. You have to look at my accounting.” (Is the litany to come—e.g., “You need a new toothbrush. The one you have looks horrible…”—a subtle rejoinder, from a tepid player?) During the lunch Johan devours many slices of bread, as if Scrooge himself were transacting with a generous server. Another itemization is, “Then 50 Kronor for your boy’s birthday.” Eventually he tells her of the simple family supper, on Friday. “I know,” she says. “How did you know that?” he asks. She leaves the table.

From the perspective of von Merkens, this taking custody of our protagonists would be like apprehending elusive desperadoes. The swirl of the initial entry, with hosts, relatives and Germanically academic hangers-on in finery, exchanging pleasantries, recalls, vaguely, the networking parties thrown by Fellini and Antonioni. But, after the shuffle in the greenery, we are confronted with a huge table of food and drink (almost a lab) and massive candelabra ablaze (here recalling the oracle’s dinner, in Smiles of a Summer Night [1955], and her graceful confrontation of a pack of wolves being her daughter’s friends). Alma is virtually invisible amidst the forces making much of their financial wealth and crude audacity. Johan, though he doesn’t faint under pressure, like Jan, in Shame, presents a picture of agony. The host, as if in a signal to attack, prates, “I’m completely incapable of feeling aggression.” Promptly after that, someone (the camera catching diners with confusing close-ups, snippets of seeming monstrous parts of faces and hair) calls out, ironically, “Here we’re used to humiliation. We find it pleasurable, our fangs have remained intact…” Ernst, von Merkens’ brother, relates, “I once bought a painting from a well-known artist and invited him over, along with a lot of people who appreciated a good joke! Then I hung it upside down. What a laugh we had then! My God, how we laughed… What do you say, Sir Artist? Wasn’t that a fine joke?” (In Shame, Jacobi, the militant mayor, roughs up violinist Jan, in a similar way. But Jan eventually gets to shoot Jacobi dead. Here something else occurs. But the animus is worth placing often.) The “family” cruelly laughs out loud, causing Johan to barely swallow his salmon. Panning to Alma finds her in shock. Ernst continues: “… the sores never heal, the puss never ceases to flow. The infection is constant—worse, faster, or slower toward the end. The resistance of the heart decides the outcome…” A lunging pan from that to Johan discloses him close to tears, in having fallen into a trap (a trap, in fact, very hard to circumvent, particularly in view of his chronic weaknesses).

The next stage of “the simple family supper” clearly discloses the heart of the core of the venom. It begins with the hostess’ worry that she’s “constantly losing weight [dying of cancer]…I travel the world over, consulting specialists…” (Johan’s losing credibility is also a mystery of sorts being reversible.) “Sometimes the loss just stops,” she rattles on, “as it did this summer, but then it starts again. My husband thinks its psychological… that it all began when we lost our money. I embezzled the family fortune!” (The dynamics of the coverage of the speakers represents the crucial acrobatics for which the party is missing in action.) Such operatic sensationalism continues as if an overture to the explosive climax. The ruler’s mother exclaims, “I am an old hag. There must be a limit to the hurt.” Someone replies, “No, Madame Countess, I have never heard of any limits at all!” The Countess then pulls her serviette taut and chews on it. Then the subject of Veronica Vogler hits the fan—“I understand you know her. And very well, after what I’ve heard…” The host, who had spoken those words, turns to Alma and asks, “Have you also met her?” In close-up she replies, “No,” and her face is a mixture of hurt and anger and hopelessness. The conversationalist then taunts, “Such hatred in those eyes!” This promptly, militarily, elicits a chorus of harsh laughter. Johan, now onscreen, drinks his good wine without pleasure. The perspective shows three candle flames at his chest, like medals, being what he ironically might have deserved. Someone shouts out, over the carnivorous mirth, “Fredrik, the cacti you planted need to go. I mean, I don’t enjoy them at all.” Pan back to Johan, who has lost a medal of flame. He covers his face with his white serviette. Now the flames have left his chest. He desperately pours more wine. “Actually,” someone remarks, “I am allergic to them” [that is to say, not cacti but efforts to maintain an austere carnal equilibrium and its sensual medium, which the smart money has not only neglected but put a bounty on]. Johan’s flames are off the grid; but, over his shoulders, there are the King and Queen chess figures. Count Block, in The Seventh Seal, had become famous, in that dimension of the film world having an attention span, for challenging Death to a chess match, by which he hoped to be rewarded in the form of immortality. Hold that thought!

After so much spleen in the dining room air, the coffee moment—in the library—might have been expected to ease up. But the sugar on the run was to be the piece de resistance, the drama’s dark resolution. A small prelude of this stage of this world war entails the hypochondriac hostess, at the departure from the table, eclipsing the King feature. Also, there is pedant Ernst putting a non-solicitous hand on Johan’s shoulder, and Sir Artist pushing him away, an infraction causing the wag to become livid. Johan covers his face with his hand, sensing a difficulty to come. He comes up to Alma, still seated. “Help me a little,” he asks. “Yes,” she says. Unprepared for the wolf pack (some also their landlords), there would be some tentativeness; but we remain aghast at the passivity of our protagonists, as if chided for being kinky serfs in the 12th century. (Such a thrombosis also surprises us in watching Shame, where supposed professional violinists, Eve and Jan, losing their position, behave like trailer trash.)

Our two today drag themselves to more abuse, in a precinct of literacy, classical rationalism in all its wits. And though the spotlight falls upon a bemusing puppet stage, don’t be fooled for a second that brass knuckle attack could not coincide with rationality. Soon, after the guests of honor are placed, the lights are extinguished for the sake of a deadly clarity. Performance being a raison d’etre here, the little stage also becomes an altar, with a series of candles to light—the formulaic nature of the distribution being cemented, in contrast with the variable candle flames haunting Sir Artist. That the showman, being one of those experts the castle can’t do without, resembles old-time Hollywood boo, Bella Lugosi, dovetails with the same cheesy hard sell as the fanatical armies in Shame. The master of ceremonies orders, “Music”—unaware that that word covers the logic of his most lethal nightmare. The opened curtain discloses an ancient battlement, with a puppet on a string sidestepping to center stage (perhaps in hopes of sidestepping something that doesn’t agree with him). An operatic baritone, singing in Italian, begins his aria, and the residents produce a warm applause. The camera cuts to the anxious, cigarette-smoking hostess, rivetted to the supposed bravery of the saga. Then we see the grandmother—the host-couple having salted away their children in prestigious schools—galvanized by the sermon-to-come. Another takes off his glasses to meet the forces being evoked. We see Alma, in close-up, struck by the wholesale fascination. Pan to Johan, sweating, morose and looking down to the floor. A cut to the puppeteer produces a close-up of stark lighting on his face and an auxiliary, large shadow of a mouth on his chin. Despite the complexity of the story of the destruction of the Queen of the Night, Bella comes through with some easy listening. “The Magic Flute is the greatest example. [He blows out all the candles but two.] Tamino’s guards have just left him in the dark courtyard outside the Temple of Wisdom. The young man cries in deepest despair, ‘Oh, eternal night, when might shalt thou pass? When shall the light find my eyes?’ The fatally ill Mozart secretly emphasizes these words. And the reply from the chorus and orchestra is also, ‘Soon, soon, youth… or never.’ The most beautiful, the most shattering music ever written. [The puppeteer’s teeth resemble fangs. Cut to the target, Johan and his problematic troubles.] Tamino asks, ‘Is Pamina still alive? [An ancient angel comes to light.] The invisible chorus answers, ‘Pamina, Pamina is still alive.’ Hear the strange and illogical but genial rhythm… Pami… na! This is no longer the name of a young woman… but an incantation, a sorcerer’s formula… But still the highest manifestation of art… Would you not agree, Sir Artist?”

A swift swing pan puts the victim on the spot. A pan to Alma finds her very worried, not able to “help a little” in finessing past a murder. Johan, the born and reckless iconoclast, replies (as they knew he would), “Pardon me. There is nothing self-evident in my creative work, except the compulsion to do it. Through no intent of my own [that last phrase being a half-truth thought to be clever]. I have been pointed out as something apart, a five-legged calf, a monster. I have never sought for that position, nor do so now to keep it. Yet I may well at times have felt the winds of megalomania sweep across my brow. [Alma tense in his apologia, missing the point of his execution.] But I believe myself to be immune. I need only for one second remind myself of the unimportance of art in the human world in order to cool myself down again. But that does not mean the compulsion does not remain…”

Here we’ve just been granted a gift of the high skill of theatrical drama which Bergman often deploys to penetrate a consciousness so salient and so readily missed, at the heart of not merely human history but the history of everything, being an acrobatic and juggling dare which initiates and interplays significantly the uncanniness of life itself. Of course Johan is murdered for his annoying and incomplete nerve in the Gestapo snake pit. And of course Alma comes to reveal to the interviewer how lacking in substance her loyalty amounts to. But the uniqueness of this film—as sharing with the films, Shame and The Passion of Anna—comprises depth of challenge in the mine field of freedom. With respectability on the basis of living forever (full-bore or largely hidden) becoming more pathological by the day, the challenge of the completely new presses up upon Bergman and upon us, in such a way that it is a certainty that very few will take the dare.

The blitzkrieg of the puppet show and Johan’s faux pas, stirs up a gush of faux congratulation. “So speaks a true artist. This is a real confession. Magnificent! What courage! What clarity! I suggest we raise our glasses to our artist—not only a genius but a thinker, too! I’ll be damned, I never would have suspected. A flowering rose for your hair.” (Johan’s drink seems to be bitter to him.) The grandmother, bedecked by an arsenal of rings, broaches, bracelets and sharp fingernails, seeming to embrace the rebel, manages to cut open some facial skin and shed some blood on the prey of the wolf pack. “Our artist is wounded! I’m so clumsy!” Alma rushes to him, tells him to stay calm and tells him he’s had too much to drink. The wolves laugh. She brings him outside for some fresh air; and they’re followed closely. The expert he recently bloodied now goes on an offensive we needn’t pay any attention to. The sense of the saga has run its course. And the dilemma of flourishing there stands powerfully in our face.

Inasmuch as the brutes prefer a long and playful kill, there are reams of bemusement. We’ll keep it short. The artist family shows us how pitifully unprepared, for the phenomena of creativity, they are. The hostess needles Alma about Veronica; and, finally leaving the roast, she has no heart to delight in the inspiring seascape path and supernal moonlight. Instead, she announces that she has read the diary. “It makes me sick with fear… But if you think I’m going to run away, I won’t!” Back at their disappearing house and home, Johan pulls up a supposedly profound idea that an “hour of the wolf,” in the dead of night, involves fateful truths. “The old people” [like him] swear by it. Then he’s on to the subject of abuses from his parents when he was a child, and finding solace from his mother’s “forgiveness.” As if the beatific current, with its caressing, were to be freshly in play, he finds himself able to tell Alma about an abuse he inflicted by this coast not long ago, beating a rude young boy to death by means of multiple pounding with a large rock. (Quentin Tarantino, definitely an aficionado of this work, deploys, acrobatic stuntman, Cliff, in his film, Once upon a Time… in Hollywood (2019), to frequently beat to a pulp annoying entities of every description.) Feeling that tempering would make an improvement, Alma responds, “You said once that what you liked about me was that God made me in one piece, that I had whole feelings, whole thoughts. You said it was people like me… It sounded so lovely. I was wrong. I don’t understand anything. I don’t understand you. You’re nothing but frightened…” Soon after dawn, an emissary from the castle proffers a handgun, supposedly to control wild predators. A second invitation is given, with the added attraction being Veronica. Alma takes umbrage about that, and Johan fires a volley of shots from that security factor. (Prior to that, she insists, “I’ll stay.” Moreover her wounds are superficial, and she escapes; the dribble of the action revealing—for hopefully critical souls—a swing to Hollywood.) Johan, the supposed widower, returns to the fun house. Veronica is placed under a shroud; he takes the cloth away and caresses her, and then the height of love laughs in his face, as do the others. He delivers to his detractors the melodramatic challenge, “The mirror has been shattered. But what do the splinters reflect?” [We’d love to believe that the shake-up has allowed some sense of a mortal being instrumental of two ranges. But that seems to be beyond the forces here]. One of those who sneers is the oracle. She gives us a little clinic as to descending to cheapness. And she deconstructs herself into her constituent parts, as a display of matter being honored to die a spiritual death. An amusing moment in Johan’s pursuit of Veronica involves the latter’s lover, a priest, who, in a fit of jealousy, walks up a wall and then upside down, along the ceiling, like Fred Astaire, in Royal Wedding (1951). The proceedings of killing Johan in the swampy surround are far from royal. But Alma does, partly, raise the tone in her attempt to save a difficult relationship.

She tells us, and those closely tracking her and her misadventure, “I thought it best to follow him. He might harm himself.” She has a question to ask of the investigator (s) of the war. “Isn’t it true that when a woman has lived a long time with a man…she becomes like that man? Since she loves him, and tries to think like him… and see like him. They say that it can change a person. Is that why I began to see those ghosts? Or were they there anyway? I mean, if I’d loved him less could I have protected him better? Or was it that I didn’t love enough? Was that those ‘cannibals,’ as he called them? Was that why he came to grief? I thought I was so close to him. Sometimes he said he was close to me. One time he said it was certainty. If only I could have followed him all the time. There’s so much to keep pondering. So many questions, I don’t know which is which and I get completely…”

#ingmar bergman

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princessvicky01 · 7 years

Text

The Antithesis of Nobility Part 3

Cullen X Kelandris X Annabel OT3 fic co written by me and @inner-muse

Part 3 of 4 - A VERY dark au centring on the two lady Trevelyan’s being held prisoner. Love is tested to its limit as the torture of Kelandris and Annabel intensifies but can the Inquisition find them before they break?

Links to Part 1, Part 2 and AO3.

Warning: This fic contains violence, explicit torture and extreme angst - this is series is for mature readers only.

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Part 3

Annabel wakes groggily from a dead sleep thanks to the churning rumble in her stomach. Her tongue is stuck to the roof of her mouth and she smacks it in disgust before fully remembering where she is. "Kelandris?" Her first thought is for her love, needing to know she’s alive and also there.

Slumped in her bonds, head lolling, Kelandris twitches at her voice. "'M’ here… How're you doing?" she slurs. "Too much t' hope that you're better than me?"

Annabel snorts in relief to hear her. "Been better..." she mumbles, trying to move but quickly giving up. She can just about make out Kelandris’s silhouette cast by the faint glow of the anchor. "Would be better still... if you didn't take your time to reply like that...you trying to give me a heart attack?" she muffles a laugh in place of tears. A basic defense mechanism she had learnt long ago to help hide wayward emotions.

"Don't see what's so funny... At least you get to lie down."

Distant footsteps mark the return of their tormentors.

On the floor Annabel can practically feel them approach. The door scrapes, unbearably loud, making her winch, squinting she hopes against hope to see the guards boots, maybe with more water? But no, the sight of Sid's distinct heavy leather soles drains all the life from her. Light floods the room as the Lord enters behind with several guards.

Tristan smiles down at them both, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Hello, ladies. I do hope you've enjoyed your rest. You'll need your strength today..." he chuckles at his own joke as the guards file in. They cut the rope on Annabel's ankles and drag her to her feet, and carefully untie Kelandris to do the same. Kelandris is too stiff and cramped to put up much of a fight, but they keep a tight hold on her anyway. She's vaguely gratified that Tristan seems wary of getting too close.

Annabel hisses with raw pain as her feet touch the ground. Trying to balance on parts that aren't torn is near impossible. When she sees Kelandris hardly fighting back the embers inside her flare, and she elbows the guard holding her. Thrashing, she flings herself forwards as more guards press in. Kicking out her feet leave useless blood smears on their uniforms, while she screams in rage and pain. "Get your hands off her!"

At her shout, Kelandris tosses her hair out of her face and bares her teeth. She struggles harder, sore muscles protesting violently, but to no avail.

The guards haul the pair of them out into the hallway and over to the next room, with occasional punches to knock them off-balance when they get too feisty. This dungeon is much bigger and much better stocked, crammed full of all manner of nefarious equipment. Torchlight flickers over dark wood and jagged metal; the chains dangling from the ceiling cast ominous shadows on walls littered with blood stains.

Annabel's thrashing stops on sight of the cell. It seemed that things could get worse and her natural cheerful disposition was crushed under the weight of sheer dread. "You can't..." she mumbles. The looming pressure is too much and she roars, lashing out. "I am Lady Annabel of House Trevelyan, the Herald of Andraste and I demand you release us at once!"

The guards wrestle her onto one of the tables and strap her down. Arms, legs, chest – when they're done, she can barely squirm. Tristan gives a deranged little giggle. "I can do whatever I want. Who's going to stop me? Your inquisition isn't here. Is Andraste going to smite me down, ‘Herald’? I don't think so." He finishes securing her himself, tightening a strap across her forehead, and stroking her cheek gently, she replies with a snap of her teeth. An empty gesture but all she can manage.

She pulls the new restraints until she’s physically trembling with the effort. The anchor flares, if ever a human had crossed the line into demon surely this was it, yet it crackles but does no good. "The Inquisition will come and they’ll bring the might of the Maker with them! You will curse the whore who gave birth to you once they're through!"

Undeterred Tristan ignores her to watch Kelandris, fighting frantically, straining to get to Annabel – or maybe just to throttle him. One guard staggers away, clutching at a broken nose; another yelps as a flailing knee connects with his groin. Finally, though, they manage to slam her to her knees against a metal crossbar, locking her wrists in place. She twists to look over her shoulder, snarling, but her eyes widen when she meets Annabel's terrified gaze. "Stay strong, love," she croaks, "We will endure this. We will."

Now Annabel is fully immobilised fear rushes up, clenching her chest and every muscle, her eyes dart to Kelandris. "No matter what just know that we win - because he can't break us!"

Sneering, Tristan digs his nails into the burn on her throat. "Weren't you listening, little tramp? I can do whatever I want. Sid!" The other man is standing by another brazier at the side of the room, a lot grander than the last one and housing a small bubbling cauldron.

Sid equips thick gloves while Annabel watches from the corner of her eye. That can't be a good sign. Whatever is in the pot hisses and spits as he lowers a ladle. Carefully, he walks around Kelandris. Her eyes widen in horror when she sees what's coming, and then the torturer dribbles molten oil onto her shoulders to run in patterns down her back.

At the first touch of scalding liquid, Kelandris keens, spine arching. The pain is like a living thing, pulsing as it burrows deep under her flesh. No matter how she writhes, she can't stop it from trickling slowly down, sprouting blisters in its wake… A single drop rolls down her front, between her breasts, leaving a tiny trail of stinging burns; most, though, cascades over the vulnerable expanse of her back. A thin sheen of oil lingers on her skin, holding in the heat. The agony is ceaseless, inescapable, unrelenting; like claws down her spine. And when his ladle is empty, Sid returns to the terrible cauldron, dipping up another boiling spoonful. Maker, no!

She can hear Annabel snarling like a wild beast behind her. The anger and fear in her lover's voice shake her more than the dreadful anticipation. Were they doing something terrible to her, as well? Or was she, herself, the cause of her distress? “Annabel?” she says, hoping both to reassure and be reassured. I can endure this, I can, she wants to add, but when she tries to glance over her shoulder it pulls at her burns, twisting and stretching the abused skin. Another tidal wave of pain crashes over her, and instead all that comes out is a cracked whimper. She sounds desperate, weak, and Maker, she hates it— No. No, I am strong, I must be strong! I will not break!

Annabel is barely holding herself together, rage and terror combining into an entirely new emotion which she cannot name. Bile stings in her throat as her heart hammers loud in her ears, demanding she act. Commanding her to fight. She thrashes, bounds pulled so tight they cut flesh wherever they hold her. "Kelandris! - I...it..." Her quick tongue has deserted her while her breath comes sharp and shallow. "It's going to be fine." She lies. To Kelandris and herself. She lies, because her mind can’t cope with the alternative. "Though all before us is shadow, the Maker will be our guide..." Another bitter lie.

“We shall not— fuck!— not be left to wander th-the drifting roads of the— of the beyond…” The words help steady Kelandris through blinding pain. A second cascade of oil leaves its marks on her back; it was near impossible to get the words out without devolving into wordless yells – but somehow, she completes the verse. It's a triumph, a tiny victory amidst all the horror, achieved only through Annabel's support. Together, they could get through this.

Annabel recites the prayer along with her love, calming her own heart and lungs as she did before battle, loosening muscle groups in turn until she could hear over her pulse once more. She only hoped the familiarity helped Kelandris.

Focusing on the rhythmic cadences of the Chant Kelandris squeezes her eyes shut. Her rekindled thread of defiance flares a little brighter as they speak, despite the ever-increasing agony. They'd be alright. Just as long as she could stay strong, for herself and Annabel. Pain is nothing; pain would pass. Love is everything.

For all her resolve, though, there's only so much her body can endure. She's braced for another dribbling pour, for seemingly endless torment in slow motion. This time, though, the torturer simply flings the contents of the ladle at her. Boiling oil splashes across her chest and shoulders in a sudden, nigh-unbearable onslaught. For a moment, everything else is overwhelmed by pure, unadulterated agony.

Kelandris screams.

That's it. The scream shatters the calm Annabel had been desperately trying to build. Her mind has returned and she shrieks at the Lord. "You have us, and this? this?! is what you choose to do!? No..." she growls, defiant, refusing to believe it. "What do you really want. Our love? Our devotion? I would treat you as a god if you just stop! Please!" She was not above begging, not when it came to those she loved. Nothing came above those she loved. Not being the Herald, not the Inquisition, not the greater good, not even the Maker himself could trump her loved ones.

Hearing her desperate pleas Kelandris squeezed her eyes shut, tears seeping from beneath her eyelids. The frantic edge to Annabel's voice is terrifying. She should never have to debase herself like that, especially not for her.

Tristan scoffs. "And you expect me to believe your sudden change of heart? When you've done nothing but spit and curse and pine over her?" He gestures angrily at Kelandris and begins to pace. "I want you to regret every second you ever spent mooning over each other when you could have had me instead!" He whirls on Annabel. "Tell her you never loved her. Tell her you love me. Tell her you've always loved me, you will always love me, you'll never love anyone else except me!"

“Annabel...” Kelandris slurs, heart aching, “D-don't give in. S'just pain. Doesn't matter how much I scream... still love you, and C-Cullen— just need t' wait for him…”

“I'm sorry,” states Annabel. She lets it hang for a moment, hoping Kelandris knows it’s for her, and that Tristan's delusions let him believe it’s for him. She buries her feelings as deep as she can to keep her voice steady. “Kelandris was just a little fun. An experiment. I never knew you had true feelings for me. If I had known…” she sighs. “Things would’ve been different. I always did like you Lord Tristan, hence the teasing – I guess… I guess I just never knew you felt the same?” She does her best to look at him.

Below her, Kelandris's heart turned to ice. No, she thought. It's pack of lies. She knows that. She knows it. But hearing the words from Annabel's lips… After all these years together. After so much.

A lump rises in Annabel’s throat as her insides squirm, trying to prevent what she knows she must say. “I never loved her, not truly, or Cullen. If you let her go, me and you could start fresh, somewhere new,” she forces her lips into something resembling a light smile.“I'd like that, Tristan. I love you.”

“Annabel!” Kelandris chokes, feeling like her frozen heart has been ripped from her chest. Her lover had caved, had broken, and it was all her fault. Never blame yourself for what that little shit does, she'd said, but how could she not? Annabel was giving in for her sake. She'd failed her. If she hadn't screamed— if she'd just been strong enough—

Tears have formed in Annabel's eyes and begin seeping down her face. "Just, please, let her go," she begs. Nothing else mattered. He had given her a chance to save her love and she would take it. She would bleed it for all it was worth, for the smidge of hope it presented. Pride was long gone, erased by the overwhelming need to have Kelandris free, happy, safe.

Tristan smiles slowly, coming back over to brush a thumb tenderly across Annabel’s cheek, wiping away a tear. "There, there, my dear," he croons. "I knew you'd see sense eventually." He glances at Kelandris. "Does that make you jealous, Lady Kelandris? Not so enamored of your little slut, now, are you?"

Silence.

Kelandris doesn't trust herself to speak – if she opens her mouth, she'll start begging for Annabel's forgiveness. Take it back, she'd say, We'll be alright, I'll be alright, let me bear this for you, please, I'll do better this time… She's quiet for long enough to raise Tristan’s suspicions. His eyes narrow, nails digging unconsciously into Annabel's face. "I asked you a question, Kelandris."

She wrestles with herself for a few heartbeats, until despair hardens into fury. And then, “I love her,” she says, quiet as death. “I love her more than anything or anyone in this world except for Cullen, and I love him more than anything or anyone else except Annabel. So you can go BURN IN THE MAKER'S FIRE, YOU FUCKING SHIT!” The sudden roar tears at her throat and reverberates around the room.

"Kelandris!" Annabel snaps aggressively, before the echo even fades. It might have been the first time she’s ever raised her voice to her. “Give it up! He wants me…” The next words lodge in her throat, stuck behind a sob. She forces them pass her lips with tears streaming down her face. “...And I want him.” Once she's said those ugly words, though, her eyes dart to Kelandris, burning with love she couldn't fake before returning to him. “Please… now just let her go, let us start again.”

He has no chance to respond, Kelandris is already yelling again. “Tristan, you despicable mewling quim!” Annabel's rebuke had struck her like a lash, but she would rather die than see her lover forced to submit to such a worm. “You can't have her! I don't care what you do to me, if you want to rip my fucking flesh from my bones, I will shove my broken fingers down your throat and suffocate you with your own blighted liver before I let you take her from me!!”

Tristan had observed Annabel carefully as she spoke, his expression flickering from suspicion, through anger and smugness, before finally settling on an ugly sneer as he rounds on Kelandris. “Ripping your flesh from your bones?” He repeats icily. “That can be arranged. And as for you, you sniveling bitch—” he pins Annabel with a furious glare. “You will pay for your lies. If you think I will let the two of you play me again, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Eyes widen as Annabel realises all too late her efforts have failed. She’d degraded herself, she’d spoken the most horrific lies she could imagine and it hadn’t been enough. All her words had done was made things worse. Bitterly she curses herself. How many times had she be warned her mouth would land her in trouble someday? How many times had she scoffed in reply? Would she never learn? It didn’t matter, she realises heavily, she had let Kelandris down, nothing else mattered.

“You’ll never understand,” she mutters, feeling foolish for daring to hope he might. “Our love is unbreakable and you’ll never experience that, because you're not worthy of it,” she says, her voice snide and bitter. Whatever hope residing in her faltered in the wake of despair which now swept through.

Sid moves around the back of Kelandris, in his usual grim silence, uncoiling a leather whip. He cracks in the air by her head, testing it and tormenting her; both women flinch. Blessed Andraste, that was going to hurt. Without ceremony, he snaps it across the blisters of her back.

Broken skin tears away in a brutal stripe; to say it's painful would be like provoking a High Dragon and calling it an inconvenience. For a moment, Kelandris can hardly breathe – and yet, she does not scream. She bites straight through her lower lip, choking on an unvoiced cry and a mouthful of blood… but she will not scream again.

The sound of the whip is enough to make Annabel jolt and curl her toes. She would sell her soul to a demon if it would end this… but there never seemed to be one around when you needed it. “Kelandris—” she cuts herself off. What could she possibly say? What if she just made things worse?

Between strikes, Kelandris whimpers, shaking her head violently at Annabel – if she opens her mouth to speak, she knows her tenuous control will shatter.

Annabel could not bare it. Unable to escape she shuts her eyes tight and turns inward, to happier times, and slowly an idea forms. “We’ll wake, either side of Cullen, panting from this nightmare. He’ll stroke our hair, the way he does, even though his own curls have fallen loose. Eyes full of concern, he’ll tell us it's ok, it was just a bad dream. We—”

Her words are cut off by the whip lashing down again, followed by a desperate sob. Annabel flinches, but continues her litany undaunted. “We will snuggle closer, arms wrapped over each other, warm and peaceful. I’ll tenderly kiss your lips and tell you I’m sorry, I don't know what I was thinking. Cullen will chuckle that I'm apologising for a dream and kiss us on the forehead…”

Another terrible crack. Annabel's voice wavers, tears streaming from behind closed eyes, far beyond caring about showing weakness. “...Warm and soft, I will pepper you with kisses, ignoring the roll of his eyes as he lays back with a sigh. I will whisper my devotion to you, to him, to no one else. You will wipe away my tears and I will squeeze your hand. I will joke we should’ve known it was a dream when I shouted at you – as if I ever could!” She chokes back a stifled laugh that's more like a sob. “And the three of us will pray: though all before me is darkness, I will not be left to wonder—”

Tristan interrupts her stream of comforting words with a snarled “Enough!” He’s staring at Annabel, fists curling and uncurling, practically green with envy. "Leave her," he barks at Sid. "I want to shut this whore up." Kelandris twitches at that, letting out a strangled noise of protest. Better the torment be hers than Annabel's...

A jolt of fear opens Annabel's eyes and sets her heart racing, but, stubborn as a druffalo, she sneers. “Fuck you!”

Tristan smiles nastily. "I wouldn't waste your breath if I were you. It will be in rather short supply soon." Behind him, Sid has coiled up his whip and stalked across to the counter again, busing himself with something unseen that makes a sloshing sound.

The noise is new and unwelcome. "What—" Annabel's words are cut off abruptly, as a dripping cloth lands on her face with a wet smack. Spluttering, she tries to shake her head, but her restraints make it impossible, suddenly panic begins clawing up her throat.

Kelandris has sunk deep into a haze of agony, but her lover falling silent mid-sentence is alarming enough to rouse her. Unclenching her jaw with a whine, she rasps, "Annabel?" There's no answer from behind her, just the splatter of falling water. Heart pounding, she wrenches her head around to look, despite the pain. Sid is standing over her love, slowly emptying a jug of water over her face... "Annabel!" Kelandris cries out again in anguish.

Water floods down Annabel’s throat, filling her empty stomach. Within moments she begins to gag, spluttering on bile and water. She writhes against the bonds, panic consuming her. There’s no air! Her lungs demand she breathe, but she can't. Every nerve inside her screams. Overwhelming primal instinct sends her body into frantic spasms. Her heart runs wild, pounding blood resounding in her head – she has to to hold on! Her chest heaves as she coughs, throwing liquid out only for it to be forced back in. Her lungs burn as she chokes, retching; the world darkens, fading to black around the edges, until she finally goes still, unconscious.

When Kelandris hears Tristan snap, "Don't kill her, you fool!" she slams hard enough against her manacles that something goes snap in her wrist. The horrible sounds she'd been making— Blessed Andraste, please let her be alright!

Sid lifts the cloth from Annabel and punches her in the stomach, winding her hard enough to force the water from her saturated lungs. Coming to she throws up water in a violent gush. Nothing has ever felt sweeter than her first drag of air. Coughing she spits out even more, her lungs jagged but grateful.

She’s only given a few seconds of respite before Sid covers her airways again. Annabel slams her mouth shut this time and tears at the bindings. Squirming her face she wishes she could close her nostrils, but she can't and water stings as it trickles in.

Terror grips her core once more. Gagging, coughing, struggling, she thrashes, pulling muscles and breaking skin. She can't breathe and nothing else exists. A voice in her head is screaming - she must breathe! The demand resounds in her skull, until finally she can't resist any longer – but her desperate gasp brings water instead of air. The way her lungs burn, it may as well have been fire.

When Annabel starts to choke in earnest, they remove the cloth. Tristan strokes her arm soothingly while Kelandris flinches as she sputters, whispering her name once again. "Maker, though darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light..." she grasps at another verse of the Chant, hoping desperately that her love will hear and be comforted, the way she herself had been.

Tristan casts her an annoyed look before easily talking over the weary mumble: "Nothing to say, Annabel? Now you see the price of your lies..."

Annabel's throat is raw, pain radiating from deep in her clenched chest, still retching, eyes watering as consciousness struggles to return. She can faintly hear Kelandris and the familiarity brings a degree of comfort. She can barely speak but knows her love must be worried, she must say something. Tristan is looking at her, almost adoringly; she manages two croaky syllables. "Fuck...you..."

He huffs, sickeningly soft expression instantly turning hard. "I think we've heard enough from you, slut." He grabs the wet rag and stuffs it roughly in her mouth. She protests as much as her restraints allow, not that it does any good. She stares Tristan down with seething look so cold it could kill, though her streaming eyes diminish the effect.

He glances at Kelandris, smirking at the bloody welts and blisters coating her back. "I'll let you enjoy the quiet. Leave the lying harlot with some entertainment, won't you, Sid?" said Tristan before he sweeps out of the room.

Sid looks between them, considering, then grabs a pot and hangs it from one of the dangling chains above Annabel which she carefully watches with dread. He empties another jug of water into it, where it promptly starts beading from a crack in the bottom. He adjusts it until drops land squarely on her face and then follows his master out.

The first drip of water jars her with panic, her lungs greedily sucking air in response. Maker not again. Her mind whirls, threatening to spiral into panic, but it's merely an annoying drip. Frowning, she sets about trying to loosen the gag. After considerable effort she manages to shove the rag out of her mouth. Immediately, she sucks in a ragged breath, deeper than she ever knew possible. Every drip on her face makes her flinch, still, but at least she can breathe properly, now. Once her chest is calm enough, she hoarsely calls out, "Kelandris?"

Her lover jerks in surprise, then hisses in pain. "Love?"

Relief floods Annabel. "Praise the Maker—" her body cuts her off with a wracking cough. "I… I'm so sorry..." she whimpers. She tugs against the restraints, only bringing fresh pain – she needs to hold her, to look her in the eyes and make sure she knows the truth. "I saw a chance…" she murmurs. "I tried… I'm so sorry— I love you. I had to try..."

Kelandris swallows, struggling with tears of her own. She's so exhausted, and she hurts so much... Never do that again, she wants to say, to beg: Please, I love you so much, I would bear anything to never hear you renounce me again... It would be so easy to just let go, to let Annabel comfort her. The thought fills her with self-loathing – her lover was in far too much distress already; she would never forgive herself for adding to her burdens like that. So instead she shoves aside her pain, locking it away with all the rest. She couldn't afford to be weak anymore.

"I know," she mumbles instead, "I love you too."

The words ease Annabel’s guilt a little. The dripping is becoming increasingly aggravating but at least it washes the tears away. She is exhausted to her very core, she has torn muscles she didn’t know she had and has ripped open the bloodied ribbons of her feet. After an extended silence there is only one question on her weary mind. "You will forgive me, won't you? I had to try..."

The only acceptable answer to that question is 'Yes, of course,’ but Kelandris can’t force it past her lips. Not without some sort of reassurance. Not with ‘I never loved her, not truly’ still bouncing around inside her head.

"I... I want to, I will, but I need a promise— I can't stand to hear that again. I know you were just protecting me, but I c-can't— I'd rather take the torture—" She bites her tongue to stop the flow of words. It seemed she wasn't strong enough to reassure Annabel properly, after all.

"You know I would never...could never... mean those things I said. I love you and Cullen more than anything. I would do anything...that’s the point. You have to understand - I had to! What choice did I have?!" Annabel demands.

"I know! And I know it hurts to watch me suffer... But you have to trust me when I say I can bear the pain! What I can't bear— even knowing it's lies, is to hear you talk like that. Promise me you won't do it again. Please." She closes her eyes, tears leaving tracks down her face.

Annabel's eyes sting with the effort of new tears. "He might have let you go..." even as she mumbles it she knows it’s stupid and wrong. As if he ever would. "... I lied for you Kelandris! I'd tell a thousand lies to save you...I'd...."

She’d heard the strain in Kelandris tone and bitterly realises she is trying just as hard to convince herself as her love. Two parts of her lunge and lash out, ripping chunks from each other and almost tearing her clean through. Truthfully she would say the worst things imaginable and degrade herself further still if it might save Kelandris. Equally she couldn’t bare to be the one to hurt her.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't ask; if I wasn't so s-selfish..." Kelandris whimpers.

“No, don't be sorry! It’s my fault for being fucking stupid, grasping at anything that looks like hope...I promise. I won't fall for it again. I won't hurt you like that again - I won't say those things ever again."

"Not stupid! Never stupid..." Kelandris can feel herself losing consciousness as her injuries catch up with her. "Thank you... S'alright. Love you. Will always... forgive you..."

"I love you too. I'll make it up to you, when we get outta here," Annabel murmurs. "I always do." Kelandris is silent. She can just barely make her out, slumped in her chains with blood running down her back – passed out from pain and exhaustion. Annabel's eyes flutter closed as well, only to snap back open as another wretched drop plops down onto her nose. It takes far too long for oblivion to finally claim her.

Skyhold

“We found them,” Leliana said without preamble, stalking into the war room. There was no need to ask who she meant. “They're alive.”

Cullen relaxed for the first time in days. “Thank the Maker!” he exclaimed. At the sight of the spymistress’s bleak expression, though, he sobered, his burgeoning smile fading before it began. Trepidation replaced his relief, settling cold and heavy in the pit of his stomach. “...But?”

“There's no way to say this kindly,” she began, shadowed eyes hard beneath her hood. Bracing himself, Cullen nodded, and she gave voice to his worst nightmare. “They're being tortured.”

He heard Josephine gasp, but it was distant, barely audible over the pounding of his heart and the echo of phantom screams in his ears. No. No! Someone said his name. There was a bang; he realized he'd punched the table when his hand started throbbing.

“Where?” He grated. His voice was harsh in his throat. He didn't like that voice – it was the way he spoke on the bad nights, when he woke up from dreams of blood, tasting bile and demon ichor, shouting Kill them! at the top of his lungs— He shook his head, violently, as if he could dislodge the memories from inside his skull, and forced himself to take a breath. Falling apart wouldn't help. He tried again, a little steadier. “Where are they?”

“A hunting lodge in the foothills of eastern Orlais. My agent got close enough to eavesdrop on a patrol, but it was too well-guarded to infiltrate alone. With a few more scouts, though—”

“I'm going.” He would hear no alternative. He glared from Leliana to Josephine and back in open challenge, daring them to question him. The spymistress hesitated, drawing a breath as if to speak, but Josephine stepped in before she could do so, dark eyes flinty.

“If there were ever a time for excessive force, Leliana, I believe this is it.”

She acquiesced without complaint. Ambassador and Commander exchanged a tense nod of understanding, and the three advisors bent over the map to plan their assault.

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Thank you for reading - Is it dark enough yet? Likes/comments and reblogs welcome although we know its not for everyone!

#The Antithesis of Nobility #part 3 #cullen x annabel x kelandris #dark au #co writing #me and inner muse #torture #violence #angst #swearing

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therearemonstersinthedark · 6 years

Text

Astronautical || Ch.1

A Guardians of the Galaxy Fanwork

Pairings: n/a

Genre: Adventure, general

Word Count: 4k +

Rating: T to be safe, minor violence and swearing

Links: Fanfiction.net || Ao3

Summary: When Thanos finds himself losing ground in his war he steps outside of the timestream and rewrites himself a better universe. Somehow Peter seems to be the only one who recognizes the wrongness and he's determined to find his friends and set it right again. The problem is he has no clue where they are. Now he has to track them down and rally them into a family again, all while dodging bounties on his head and trying to avoid being strangled by Nebula.

Author’s Notes: This is my first attempt at writing fanfiction so helpful reviews and any support would be very appreciated! It started as my trying my hand at NaNoWriMo by getting down a story idea that had been bouncing around in my head for a while. Although due to technical errors I only made it to 10k words by the end of the month, I am still planning to finish this somewhat ambitious project. I am also planning to have this posted on Ao3 once I get my account set up there.

Something in his knuckle popped and shifted as he dragged himself forward. Yup. It was definitely broken again. A haze of dust and smoke, and a few things that were much less pleasant to think about stung his eyes and burned in his already aching lungs. The crazed thought filled his head that he would somehow drown in it out here in the open air. A giggle bubbled in his throat at the irony but he swallowed it down. No. It was just the concussion. Ignore it. Focus. What was he doing again? Oh yes. Through the film of smog and tears he could just make out his destination; a small form just ahead of him crumpled up like a discarded child's toy, grey fur tinted red in the harsh glare of this unforgiving lighting. His other hand reached out and he dragged himself another foot closer. At least, he hoped it was the lighting that was flooding his vision so red. Nails dug into the dirt as he heaved away another piece of the distance between himself and his target. Almost there. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the battle raging on without him. Screams, crashes, explosions; all so far away, swirling in and out of focus like the smog. Gamora was somewhere out there. The flash of her sword and the ice in her eyes somehow the only thing his mind could see clearly. She had vanished in a swell of soldiers with Nebula close in pursuit and he hadn’t seen her since. She was alive. He had to believe that. The most fearsome woman in the galaxy couldn’t fall here. Closer. Closer. He realized the horrid rattling he was hearing was not the sound of a failing ship as he had thought, but his own ragged breathing grating in his ears. That could not be a good thing. He’d lost track of Drax almost as soon as the fight had started. A battle cry the only warning he gave before diving headfirst and weapons drawn into the fray. It was an act so stupid, so reckless, so brave and just so… Drax, that Peter could hardly find it in himself to be mad even as he cursed the impulsive fool. He could really use him right now. Four feet had never looked so impossible, not in any of his wildest benders or worst bar fights – and oh, there had been plenty of both. He’d give his right arm to wake up on the floor of some unknown tavern- all of this just a horrible dream brought on by too much of a strange liquid Yondu had warned him against (which, of course, would have only made him down that much more). But Yondu had left to fetch help, And help had never arrived. And now he crawled through the dirt and debri, trying not to focus on how the world tilted and swayed even under his prone form. The twig in his jacket pocket dug into his bruised side as he slid across the dirt. Groot's parting gift. The thought was almost enough to give him pause. He couldn’t focus on that now. He would be okay. Like Gamora, Groot was tough. And while he might be naive, he wasn't stupid. Either the smoke was getting thicker or his vision was failing him as the light distorted futher, spots dancing at the edges and patches mysteriously missing. It didn’t matter. He was almost there. One thought playing over and over- like his tape player playing on repeat in the background- as all the other thought drifted in and out at their own accord. He would not let Rocket die wearing that god damned muzzle. His annoying, infuriating, impossible best friend would not die like an animal. Caged and chained. Like the experiment 89P13 that he had always so feared becoming. Panting and gasping, he reached out, stretching desperately across the distance, his fingers brushing against the smooth metal that covered his friend’s face. Was he even still breathing? He couldn’t stop to check, his arm already trembling and going numb from the strain. Slowly, haphazardly, he searched blindly for the strap. Why couldn’t he see? Had he closed his eyes without realizing it? He should open them but he was just so tired. Unconsciousness was calling in the sweetest siren song he had ever heard. There! His fingers brushed across a thin strip of the same metal. That had to be it. A surge of hope gave him the adrenaline he needed to drag himself another inch forward and search down the strap for the clasp. His concussion must be worse than he feared because he couldn’t find it. More tears gathered in his eyes, not entirely due to the smoke and pain as he desperately grabbed at where a clasp should be, only to lose it entirely in fur. No. Nonono! He was so… so close… blood rushed in his ears, deafening, as light pierced through the veil of blackness. Was this it? He was dying, and he couldn’t even do this one last goddamned thing.

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Time is a funny thing. From the perspective of most mortals it was an inescapable part of reality; Imperceptible, uncontrollable, marching on endlessly. Trying to hold back time was much like dipping your hand into a river in hope of halting the flow. No. Stopping time was the pipedream of madmen. It could be diverted, though. One could pull themselves from the river entirely, climb onto its bank and dig their own channel, suited to their own liking, and guide it to the destination of their choosing. And that is just what Thanos was doing now. He was building himself a new reality, another chance. Too much had gone wrong in this reality. The orb had been lost, by none other than his own general turned traitor. His daughters had both been disappointments in turn. Too many battles had been lost and too many foes grown bold. But he could fix this. Here in Limbo, in a realm outside of time, he strode in no particular hurry along the timestream, looking for the moment that would best suit his means. There would be work to do along the way. Players to rearrange and redraw. It would all work out in the end. Of this he was certain. The orb would be his again, and then the rest of the Infinity stones, and everything would be in place. Ah, here. This would do. The titan dipped his hand into the stream, and began digging. It happened one trickle after another and all at once. Without the passage of true time, perspective was skewed. Digging the trench and dragging the time onto another course took an eternity and a blink of the eye. Time screamed as it was ripped and torn apart. The many threads came undone and rewound into the new stream, the better stream. A smile split the Titan’s face. All would be as it was meant to be.

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“…when the grass got a little greener on the other side I'd just tear out that page But then I fooled around and fell in love…”

With a strangled gasp Peter shot out of bed. Dirty laundry and trash was sent flying around his room as he flailed and hopped about, the blanket clinging stubbornly to his legs. His arms pin wheeled, grasping for anything to keep him upright, but he only succeeded in catching a small shelf and taking it down with him, sending the items crashing down on top of him as he landed with a heavy thump. In the stillness that followed he could hear the jubilant voice of Elvis Bishop as “Fooled Around and Fell in Love” played from the headset still miraculously wrapped around his neck. Well, good. At least nothing important was broken. Slowly, Peter uncurled, groaning out a string of curses as he checked his limbs and probed carefully at the back of his head where the corner of something particularly heavy had struck. No blood, but he would have one heck of a goose egg for a while. Satisfied that he was relatively alright, and honestly he had woken up in much worse states after a night of a little too much fun, he rolled over and began carefully peeling the blanket from his legs. As he worked he tried to think back to the dream he had been having, but all he could recall were glimpses of a blinding light and a lingering sense of urgency and wrongness that clung to him like a layer of sweat. It was somewhat akin to suddenly remembering that you had left the oven on only after you were lightyears away with no way to fix it, but worse. So much worse. Trying to calm his hammering heart, Peter stood and stretched dramatically before switching off his Walkman and placing it neatly on his now empty bed. In the resulting silence he was met with only the calm steady thrum of the Milano’s engines. Still the sense of wrongness would not leave him. Perhaps a shower would help. That was usually a great way to reset himself after a particularly nasty nightmare and this was no different, even if he couldn’t remember enough details to say whether or not it was, in fact, a particularly nasty nightmare. Opening the door to the rest of the ship, however, only left the alarms in his head screaming louder than ever that this was WRONG WRONG WRONG. The Milano looked exactly as he had last seen it. That is. It looked EXACTLY as he had last seen it just before being destroyed on Xandar, being rebuilt as a gift for saving the galaxy, being nearly destroyed again on Berhert, and being again painstakingly rebuilt from the rubble. Suddenly the undercurrent of surrealism on his bedroom floor made sense. He hadn’t noticed at first, perhaps because of the years that it had spent in that state, or perhaps because he was not known for being a particularly observant person when first awakening, but it was his old room, from before the first crash had mangled it. Burned up so much of his already sparse belongings that all of Dey’s efforts couldn’t truly replicate it down to every haphazard detail. For a long time he stood in his doorway and tried to process what was going on. He was still dreaming right? That must be it. Whatever he drank last night had one hellova kick. But it felt so real. And the details were so perfect, right down to that same old soft rattle in the Milano’s engine- that he was totally going to get looked at before it exploded!- which was never present in the remade Milano. So not a dream, then. A hallucination? Maybe, but why would a hallucination be so… mundane? A trick of the mind? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d pissed off a psychic, but this was hardly the kind of punishment he had become so very unpleasantly accustom to. Well, staring at the empty core of the ship wasn’t providing him with any clues. If he wanted answers he’d have to find them, and that’s just what he intended to do. A quick scope of the ship’s compartments only confirmed his initial theory that this was somehow a version of his ship from before the other Guardians had come into his life. No extra lofts or beds, no sunlamps for Groot’s pot, no bombs rolling dangerously around the floor, threatening to blow them all up at any moment, no tools for sharpening weapons, or strange heady aromas of Drax’s attempts at cooking, though sometimes one had to use that term very loosely. “Okay guys,” He called out to no one in particular. “This isn’t funny, come on out.” Silence, save for the distant k-thunk k-thunk of the old Milano’s engine. “HAHA! You got me! You really pulled one over on old Starlord there! Now why don’t you show yourself so we can all laugh about this together?” Still nothing. “Come on Gamora,” He appealed with what was definitely not a crack in his voice “You’re better than this. Don’t stoop to their level.” K-thunk… k-thunk… k-thunk… Disturbed, Peter made his way up to the cockpit and slid into the pilot’s chair. Through the windshield only empty space greeted him. So he wasn’t docked on a planet. Peter wasn’t sure if this made things simpler or not. A quick check of his navigation system didn’t help much either. He was drifting through a star system that was familiar enough to him. He had passed through here plenty of times delivering liberated goods, looking for jobs, and even just stopping by one of its many rest locations for a little break. The problem was… he couldn’t recall how or why he would have come here now. Turning away from the navigational readings he pulled up a new screen and sent a hail to the Eclector. Since the repairs had been finished on his beloved ship (again) the Guardians had unanimously moved back into it. The old Ravager’s ship had its larger size, but the Milano was home. Emphasis on was right now- what the heck was going on here!? Peter didn’t have long to puzzle over this before a series of beeps alerted him that his call had been accepted and all thought vanished from his head. A long silence reined over the Milano as Peter stared, slack jawed and wide eyed at the screen before him. Slowly a cold indignant rage boiled up from somewhere deep within his gut. Oh this was too much. He could take a good prank as much as the next guy but there were LINES. And those lines hadn’t just been crossed, they’d been trampled and spat on and…. The arm rest creaked under his white knuckled grip. “Lookee here boyo.” The dead man leaned into the camera, every perfect detail becoming even clearer. “If you just called me as another one of yer damn pranks I'll have you thrown out of the airlock of that damned ship of yours!” “I-I, uh...” Peter swallowed thickly, struggling to find a single coherent thought. “Speak up boy! You get yourself paralyzed again? I told yah to stop-” “You're alive.” Just a whisper, and suddenly the damn broke and the words were spilling out in a desperate jumble. “How are you alive!? I saw you-you-In my arms and I-Your funeral! How are you not dead? Don't get me wrong, I am so happy! But. But HOW?!” Peter slowed to a stop, panting, and wide eyed, and grinning like a fool. Yondu, however, seemed less than impressed by his ramblings. In fact, this cold expression looked startlingly similar to the look he'd worn whenever he'd lost patience with what he referred to as Peter's tall tales and 'exaggerations.' “Boy.” He deadpanned. “I don't know what your playing at here, but you better quit wasting my time with this nonsense.” As Yondu reached for a switch to end their communication Peter panicked and leaped foreward. “WAIT! Wait! I swear I'm not messing with you! Just ask the other guardians! Where are they, by the way?” He'd almost forgotten after seeing the dead man's face, but his friends were all still missing. “The who now?” The ravager captain still looked nonplussed, but his finger was no longer hovering over the disconnect button so that had to be a good sign. “You know, the Guardians of the Galaxy? My friends? We only, you know, saved the galaxy twice now.” Any trace of patience was lost in the captain's scowl now and Peter rushed to stop him from leaving before he got any answers at all. “Come on man,” He pleaded “You have to stop messing with me. Did Rocket put you up to this? The Guardians. You know – Drax, big, scary, walking thesaurus. Groot, galaxies most personable houseplant. Rocket, biggest asshole you've ever met, and Gamora, most feared woman in the galaxy! We stole the infinity stone, Kicked Ronan's ass and saved all of Xandar. Does any of this ring a bell?” “THAT'S ENOUGH!” Peter's jaw snapped closed so fast there was an audible click. Yondu's expression had morphed into something dark and serious. “Whatever game you're playing at here I think it's best that you stop right here and now. And watch your damned tongue. Those kinds of jokes are liable to get you into all kinds of trouble in these quadrants, and I don't want you dragging me into it, ya hear?” “But I-” Peter stammered, thoroughly confused again. “I said no more. Now you best knock these silly games off and let me get back to work.” With that yondu pressed down on the button and the screen winked out of existence, leaving Peter once more staring blankly into the empty space beyond his windshield. Somehow he was even more confused now than before he'd made the call. What was going on? Yondu was somehow here, but his crew was missing. And what the flark did he mean 'in these quadrants'? Sure it wasn't exactly a hubble of law and order, but this was hardly what a ravager would consider a dangerous area. And anyways, what did it even matter? Ronan was DEAD. Peter groaned and rubbed at his temples. This was all just giving him a gigantic headache and he was no closer to figuring out what was going on. For a while he just sat there letting his ship drift through space on autopilot as he mulled over his options. He didn't dare risk hailing the Eclector again. One of the very first lessons he had learned after leaving Earth was to never bother the Ravager captain once he was in that state. Not unless he wanted to spend the next month scrubbing every toilet on the ship between some very one sided battle lessons. Just the memory left him wincing and wanting to rub at imaginary bruises. Eventually his stomach made its own priorities known and he settled for heading to the nearest establishment which offered a hot meal and the chance to pick up on some local gossip. If his friends had been through here he was sure somebody would be talking about it- after all, where they weren't known for their heroic deeds or mercenary work, there were still a couple smaller bounties on several of their heads. This was usually enough to catch somebody's interest. – The establishment he chose was loud, dark, and just a touch chaotic; exactly what he was hoping for. He slid into a booth near one of the busier corners of the bar and made his order with an easy grin and a wink that sent the pink hued waitress blushing and giggling back to the counter. Oh yeah. This would do just fine. As he waited for his food and feigned interest in a little mini menu displaying today's specials he listened to the chatter around him. For a long time he caught nothing much of interest; old friends catching up on family stuff, arguments over some upcoming game or tournament or whatever, some old guy complaining about new taxes on his wares, yadda yadda. The food came, with a flourish and a 'here you are, sugar,' and for a time he was happy enough to just eat and relax into the familiar chatter surrounding him. “Is there anything else I can do for you, hun?” The clatter of his dishes being gathered eventually brought him back to his own booth. His food had been finished and whatever they were passing off as coffe had been drunk, but he hadn't overheard a single useful thing. “Oh uh, yes... Lenna.” He drawled, leaning forward to read her name tag. “I was hoping you might be able to help me find my friends, they seem to have gotten lost.” “Well that's just too bad.” She had an answering gleam in her silvery eyes. “I'm sure if you stick around they'll show up. Seems like everyone comes through here nowadays.” “I'm actually hoping they might have come through already. They're hard to miss. Big tattooed mountain of a man, hot green lady who looks like she could kill you seven times before you hit the floor- and she could, trust me!-, trigger happy raccoon, and a very friendly tree. And ah, oh yeah, you may know them as the Guardians of the Galaxy.” He finished with a wink and a finger gun. “I'm sorry, the what?” The look on Lenna's face was not the one of awe that he had been hoping to inspire. “You know, the Guardians of the Galaxy.” Peter leaned even closer earnestly. “We battled Ronan the Accuser and saved the galaxy.” “Wh-what?” She gasped, pulling back and eyes darting around as though he'd just told her he planned on robbing the place. “Ronan.” He repeated. “Angry guy with a flare for too much eyeliner. All like 'I am your judment day' yadda yadda. Carries around this giant hammer like he's compensating for something. And oh yeah, dead. Got blown up by me and my friends?” “That's not funny!” She hissed, snatching the rest of his dishes up now. “You shouldn't talk like that, you're going to get yourself into a lot of trouble.” With one final glance around herself she turned and swept away with a flick of her short skirt. Peter groaned and leaned back in his seat. So much for getting answers out of her. And they had such a good thing going and everything. His pouting was disrupted by the realization that something had shifted in the atmosphere. It was a subtle shift, but years of frequenting some of the worst corners of the galaxies with even worse populations had left him with a kind of sixth sense for these kinds of things. Right now that sixth sense was screaming at him to make a quick and quiet exit while he still could. Without looking up he slipped the units onto the table and slipped out of the booth, walking casually towards the exit. He could feel eyes on him as he went, but no one seemed to follow him out of the bar and he made it back to his ship without incident. A gusty sigh left him as he slumped back into the pilot's seat. Well that was... disturbing. And if he didn't get some answers soon he was probably going to start pulling his hair out. Without bothering to straighten out of his slump he pulled up a screen and typed in a search for “Guardians of the Galaxy.” Nothing. Nada. Just a big empty screen with 'No results found' glowing in the center. He tried again. “Starlord.” Just the same old pile of old police reports and witness accounts that had always been there even long before the standoff on Xandar. A search for “Gamora” was met with a big [CLASSIFIED]. This was hopeless. It was almost like... Like the Guardians had never existed. Like they had never had their standoff on Xandar, never traveled across the cosmos and formed into a tight-knit family; like they had never met at all. A cold and heavy dread settled over him as he considered this possibility. How was this possible? Who could possibly have the power to do this and why? And if the Guardian's had never met, what had become of Xandar? With renewed energy and a destination in mind, at least for now, Peter quickly departed the not so helpful outpost and sped towards Xandar's co-ordinants. - “Oh no.” Where the Nova Prime capitol should have been, he was met with only a blackened and burned up husk of a planet. Peter checked his coordinates for what must have been the hundredth time, but the screen remained unchanged. This was the correct place. Without the Guardians to protect it Ronan must have made it to the ground. After that it was only a matter of touching the infinity stone to the planet's surface and it was all over. The Milano pulled closer, details along the scarred surface becoming a little clearer as he circled the planet. He was pretty sure he could make out places where the land dipped drastically lower. Even the oceans had been burned away. Bile rose in his throat as he thought about all the Xandarians he had met after the battle. The tentative friends he'd made with some of the Nova Corps, Commander Dey and Nova Prime, and the smiling faces of the civilians that had come out to cheer the Guardian's and show their appreciation for all the lives they had saved. Except now they were gone. Bodies probably scattered among the blackened ashes down bellow. Peter floated silently among the stars for a long time. They looked so much colder now that he was the only one watching them. What was he supposed to do now? He was too late. As he pondered his next move an alarm signaled the hailing of another craft. What now? “You are unauthorized to enter this zone,” The voice snarled across the communication line. The cockpit darkened slightly as an unmistakably Kree kraft loomed over his ship and blocked out the stars. “State your business and prepare to be destroyed.” “I'm just passing through, no trouble here!” Peter replied quickly, “and um, wait, don't you mean 'or'?” “Identify yourself.” Peter gripped the weapons controls and sized up his options. It would be okay. There was just one puny little Kree ship. He was an excellent pilot and could definitely take them on in a one on one fight. “Peter Quill,” His fingers moved to the triggers as he took aim at the kree ship's weak points. “But you may better know me as Starlord.” There was a pause as Peter gave them a moment to let the name sink in and then he pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. “What?” He squeezed the trigger again, jiggling the joystick a bit when it produced no results. Seriously, could just one thing not go terribly wrong today? “IDENTIFIED: Star-Lord.” Came a booming mechanical voice. At the same time the empty space behind the Kree fighter kraft vanished, replaced by the hulking form a much much larger vessel. This new ship was also clearly Kree built, and it had an active tractor beam pointed squarely at the Milano. Well, shit.

End Ch1.

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