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happysaddca · 10 days

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I'm gonna pretend this isn't as good cause I am feeling off today and not because I crammed like four different ideas into two scenes here and didn't flesh anything out as much as I would like normally.

There is some very, very mild suggestive flirting that goes nowhere.

I think I've got things worked out for Constellations Redeux now so drabbles like this will slow down in favor or working out other AUs/the actual story. But I'm still gonna need a beta reader :')

Oh, and your nickname from Sun is introduced here, so we're 3/4 on DCA nicknames. I'm not sure if it's noticeable, but I personally struggle if a fic overuses nicknames or explicitly says y/n or reader. So I avoid that as much as possible lol.

You barely make it three days before start worrying that Sun is angry with you. Moon’s reassurances can only work so long, especially since you have to work and sleep and sometimes even go home so your roommate knows you’ve not died and been turned into pizza. And with Sun and Moon back, your usual coping mechanisms only go so far. Still, you’re able to keep the seed from taking root for nearly two weeks.

“How are they adjusting to being online again?” You’d been sent to fetch more flour from the main kitchen, where Anika is currently fussing with the pizza ovens. You’re avoiding going back upstairs, sneaking pepperoni slices every time her back is turned.

“Okay as can be expected. Moon is still fronting every time I see them, even when it’s bright out.” Your mouth twitches and you rub at it absently, massaging the scars out of habit. “They haven’t Eclipsed at all since the restart, and Moon is mostly avoiding people. I think he’s nervous.” You pop a pepperoni in your mouth as Anika turns around.

“Dude, don’t eat the product!” She rolls her eyes at you, going to wash her hands. “Between you and the other gremlins I work with, it’s amazing we have any food at all.”

“You love us,” you say sing-song, but you pull away from the food, trailing after Anika. She turns and flicks you with water for your trouble. “Hey! You know I’m a witch. I’m gonna melt now and what are you gonna tell the Attendants?”

“That I defeated the evil that eats all my pepperoni.” Another flick of water, and you give an overdramatic hiss, moving to hide behind Anika instead.

“Cruelty, abuse, harassment. I should call HR on you now.”

“Nah, I’ve got too much blackmail on you.” She shakes her hands dry and turns to lean against the sink and look you over. “You look less like a witch and more like a ghost. When’s the last time you’ve gone outside?”

“A couple days ago?” You are used to being stared at, but Anika has this uncanny way of making you feel like she’s not just looking, she’s peeling back the layers, clothes from skin, skin from fat, fat from muscle. Looking for something, something you decidedly don’t have. “I’ve been using the employee showers. Shockingly okay if you give them a good scrub first.”

Her nose wrinkles anyway. “You know you have to go outside at some point. Your Sun and Moon won’t like you neglecting yourself for their sake. Neither will our Attendant for that matter.”

“I haven’t even seen Sunny lately,” you complain, and a muscle twitches in your cheek. “I haven’t seen either Sun. What if they’re both—”

“Stop.” You open your mouth, but Anika holds her hand up. “Stop. I know this mental trainwreck far too well. Stop whatever oh they actually hate me mind game you’re playing and go talk to them.”

“But the daycare is still open,” you protest weakly. Anika gives you a look. “I have to work?”

“Then why are you down here eating all my pepperoni?”

“Because you’re my friend and I was supposed to be getting flour,” you say slowly. “And friends let you avoid work to talk about relationship stuff?”

Anika rolls her eyes, walking around you and grabbing the massive bag of flour, shoving it in your arms with a grunt. “As your friend, I’m telling you not to let this fester. Talk to your Moon and Sun, and go see Sunny after work. And tomorrow, get the fuck out of this building. Sleep in an actual bed for eight hours and get some vitamin D.”

You nod slowly, resisting the urge to pout, physically biting it back. “Okay. I will.” You pause before nodding again. “I will. Thank you Anika.”

“You’re welcome. Now shoo. I have to test the oven and if it blows up I’d like to limit the casualties.”

You do return to work, but it’s hard to concentrate when you want to skip the rest of your shift and find Moon. You text them, a quick reminder when you’re off, and proceed to overbeat your icing. You have to dump the ruined buttercream, starting over. It’s only a couple hours, but your attention is splintering fast, and by the time you can clock out, you’re itching to go.

“See you Alex! Sorry about dropping the fondant!” You get some mumble for a reply that’s completely missed as you open the back door and step out, directly into a hard exoskeleton and metal arms that catch you and wrap you in a hug. “Oh!”

“Hello to you as well. Where are you going in such a hurry?” Moon sounds amused even as it pulls you out of sight. “Did you have an appointment to get to?”

“I wanted to see you.” The unpleasant twinge in your stomach isn’t from getting dragged along. You reach up to flick the bell on Moon’s nightcap. “And Sun too, if they’re…”

“She’s still resting.” Moon’s tone is apologetic even as you both stop near the back wall, out of sight of any but the nosiest of plex patrons. It cups your scarred cheek, leaning down for a kiss. “Starlight, you’re crying again.” A finger curls under your eye, catching a tear.

“Sorry. I don’t mean to.” You try to wipe your eyes clear, but it just happens again as you chew on the inside of your cheek. “Can’t Sun come out, for just a little? I’ve not seen her since you were eclipsed. I know she’s there; the diagnostics are all fine and you wouldn’t lie b-but…” Shoot, now you were really starting to cry, and you tried to hide it, ducking your chin and covering your face with your hands. Moon’s fans have started alongside a click click clicking noise as it holds its hands out, servos popping. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Moon. I know it’s been a lot for you two, but I miss… I miss both of you.”

“Star,” Moon’s voice peters out as you can’t seem to slow your tears, or your words.

“I’ve not seen Sunny from the daycare either, and I know it’s because I’ve been spending so much time with you — and that’s not complaining! If I didn’t have to work, I’d always be with you. But it feels like both Suns are avoiding me now and I get it’s dumb but… does Sun hate me?”

Moon’s hands settle on your shoulders featherlight, pulling you into a hug. “It’s going to be okay,” it says, and a shiver goes through its frame. You pull back in time to nearly get poked in your good eye with one of Sun’s rays. You stare blankly, voice gone as Sun straightens, one hand checking everything was in place before turning that blank, unmoving smile on you.

“Sun?” you say in a small voice, and she nods, something clicking inside her headcase. You’re immediately reaching out, ignoring the sharp edges of the rays, feeling for any irregularities you’d missed before with Moon. “What’s wrong? Can’t you speak?”

“I’ve missed you.” She speaks so softly you nearly miss it. “I’m sorry Sunflower. I don’t hate you. I’ve never hated you.”

“Sun!” You hold her tightly, her rays digging into your arms before she can retract them. Their hands flutter over you before settling lightly on your back, barely touching you. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t. But we’ve been so worried about you.” You squeeze her more tightly to make up for the lack of a hug on Sun’s end. “Let me look at you. I want to see…”

You pull back, hands sliding down Sun’s arms, curling into their sleeves just above their wrists. Sun watches you, but she holds still, rays remaining half retracted, an impression left from you. You have to wipe at your eyes again, realizing you’re still freely crying. “It looks like you took over easily enough. We don’t have the fiber optics in your clothes hooked up yet but—”

“Flower,” Sun says softly, and you quiet down, blinking hard. Sun’s hands shift, longer fingers tracing patterns on your inner forearms. “How can you tell anything when we look like this?”

“Huh?” The confusion snaps you out of the lingering fog of upset. “Sun, it’s still you.” You reach forward, noticing Sun’s flinch before she holds still, letting you press your hand against one of the stuck rays. It pops out, nearly cutting your hand. “I know this isn’t ideal but… it’s. It’s still you in there.” You repeat the process twice more, until Sun is able to test them, ticking them in and out in a wave without them getting stuck. “We should oil those so when you come out they won’t get stuck like that.”

“Flower.”

You attempt a smile, playing with one of Sun’s rays, making it spring back and forth until Sun withdraws it completely. “I told you, your rays have always been your giveaway. We got to take care of them so they can keep giving you away.” Your giggle is a little manic, but a big hand covers your mouth and part of your jaw. You stare at Sun blankly, biting the inside of your cheek again.

“How are you sure it’s us?” Sun asks again, her voice soft, nearly devoid of emotion. Her rays are half withdrawn, and you can tell they’re avoiding looking at your face. At least until you lick her palm. She jerks back in shock, staring at their hand, then you. “Sunflower, why! You don’t know what Moon’s been up to or the last time we washed our hands. You’ll get sick!”

You smile and this time your laugh is far more genuine. You wipe at your mouth. “I’ll brush my teeth in a minute. How am I supposed to answer your questions when you won’t let me speak?”

The rays pull back further in her head, and Sun looks away, wiping their palm clean on their pants. Your smile fades, and you lean forward, touching their knee.

“I was worried we might’ve picked up the wrong chips,” you admit softly, scooting forward, wanting to touch as much of Sun as possible. “Anika had grabbed a bunch of different parts for Gemma to scan, but we were scared of waking you too early and giving you false hope. So there was this chance that something could go wrong. Gemma knew the spare body was safe enough but it wasn’t until you both came online that I really knew it was you and Moon. My Sun and Moon.”

“But how? Other than our software, none of this is us.” Sun gestures vaguely at herself. “The clothes are close now, but we’re smaller, our faceplate is wrong and empty, our programming doesn’t map properly across these new actuators and servos.”

“It feels bad, doesn’t it?” You aren’t able to properly smile, but you try anyway, lifting Sun’s faceplate to meet her eyes. This close, you can see the barest amount of light denoting where she’s looking. It’s not at you, but it’s close enough. “I’ve gone through the same thing. After the accident,” you ignore her flinch, “I had so many surgeries. Some of this skin on my face is from my thigh, you know. And some isn’t even from me.” You reluctantly touch the worst of your scars, the one that cuts over your eye. “I have metal pins in my arms and legs. Even my brain got damaged. I still don’t really know all the changes to my personality yet — hey, don’t look like that. This isn’t your or Moon’s fault.” You grab her face with both of your hands, squeezing it tightly, shaking her very gently. “Neither of you are allowed to blame yourself, okay? I’ll come in there if you do.”

There’s a bubble of laughter from Sun, a hand catching and holding yours while her rays slowly extend. “And how will you manage that Flower?”

The laughter is infectious, and you giggle despite yourself. “I know you’ve not been fronting much, but I’ve made friends with some super smart people. We’ll upload my brain on the mainframe and inject it into your headspace so I can give you and Moon a proper chewing out. So unless you want to be stuck with me for all of eternity, you’ll get the idea this is your fault out of your mind.”

“How horrible would be to be trapped with you for all of eternity.” She pulls your hand over to her mouth, teeth pressing lightly against your palm. When you curl your fingers, tracing the length of their nose, her rays tick back and forth once again, fans whirring deep in her chest.

“A nightmare even Moon won’t be able to save you from.” You take advantage of the moment, moving to crawl into Sun’s lap, back against her chest. If you lean back, you can watch her rays shift back and forth. Her arms settle slowly around you, still barely holding you. You have to tighten her arms around you yourself. “I know it’s a lot right now Sun, but Gemma is going to help make it easier. New pieces for your exoskeleton, better silicone. She’s currently working with another technician to recreate your old face. Anika’s other scavenged pieces are helping create some new code so you will control this endoskeleton more easily. It’ll be new, and it won’t quite be the same as before, but you’ll be in control of your body again. You’ll look like you again.”

“You’re saying we will be like you? But there won’t be scars.” You shiver as Sun pulls her hands from yours, touching over your arm, pushing your sleeve out of the way. “We’ll look like our old selves.”

“You can ask if you want to see,” you say, pulling Sun’s hand free. “Between the two of you I’m not sure if you’re trying to satisfy some morbid curiosity or get into my clothes.”

“Sunflower.” She sounds scandalized, but there’s no true attempt at denial.

“Besides, I think there will be scars. Maybe not as visible as mine, but… this isn’t easy.”

“No.” It comes out like a sigh, and for the first time Sun hugs you tightly. “I don’t like feeling so lost Flower. We’ve lost everything.”

She’s not entirely wrong. Her daycare, her body, the children she’d basically helped raise. They were all gone.

“But you have Moon again.”

Quiet except for the sounds of Sun working away inside, the pitch of her insides indicating a second opinion from Moon itself. “I do,” she finally says, her face dipping into your hair. “And we have you.”

“And you have me,” you agree. You sigh, the sound dragging out all the tension from your shoulders and back. You ragdoll against Sun, and they hold you tightly, concerned until you give a smile. “We’ll figure it out. I promise Sun.”

Sun is quiet, and when you look up, her rays are withdrawn again. They look away when they catch you staring, hands dropping away.

“Sun,” you try again. “It’s all right if you don’t feel better.”

“You can read me, even like this.” Sun’s chuckle is sad. “I don’t hate you. But I hate this. I hate being this.” Her hand lifts and drops again. “Moon is handling it a little better. That’s why it has been center stage.”

“I understand,” you say. There’s a pang of pain deep in your heart and you gather her arms around you again. “If Moon is comfortable being in control, then… then I understand. But please don’t hide away all the time. I know, I know you don’t hate me but it can still be hard. Is that too much to ask for?”

You can hear and feel Sun shift, rays extending as her neck cricks to one side, thinking. “I think it’s all right,” they say finally. “I think Moon will appreciate the break too.”

“Have you two been all right?” you ask, leaning your head back once again to watch Sun’s rays. She nods and then gives a little, uncertain shrug.

“We have been talking. It’s so good for Moon to be itself again, but there’s still pain. And distance.” Sun’s voice flattens and cuts off before the end of their sentence, making her rays pop in and out in surprise. “Oh. That’s new.”

“I think Moon disagrees with you.” You move slowly, pushing Sun’s legs wide so you can kneel between them and open your arms. Sun stares, rays still clicking in and out as a circle. “Come here.”

“I’ll stab you with my rays. They aren’t flexible like my old ones.”

“Don’t care.” You wiggle your fingers at her. “Come here.” Sun does eventually move into your arms, rays withdrawing so you can rest your chin on top of her faceplate. You squeeze her tightly again as her arms wind around your middle carefully. “You’re not going to break me,” you promise. “Everything’s all healed up now, even the brain stuff.”

“You’re not as funny as you think you are.” Sun’s voice is muffled in your shoulder.

“I’m hilarious. I learned from the best after all.” There’s a little giggle. “I’ve been working on my gymnastics too,” you add. “I can almost do a back flip.”

“Oh really?” She sounds bemused. “You’ll have to show us sometime.”

“You’ll need to hold my legs.” That got a proper snort, Moon and Sun overlapping.

“I love you Sun,” you say softly. Sun’s arms slide further up, gripping the back of your shirt. “I’ll miss you. You should try texting me back sometime. Just to say how you’re doing.” Her grip tightens. “And I’ll try to say sooner if my thoughts start spiraling out of control again.”

“Okay.”

“Mm?”

Sun straightens, and you have to lean away to avoid knocking against her head. “I’ll text. If you promise to take care of yourself.”

Ah. You feel your face go hot and it’s your turn to look away. “I’m fine, really! I just sort of spiraled with that one thought and we’re working on it now!”

“You’re pale and you haven’t been sleeping well.” Sun’s fingers trap your chin and force you to look up. “Have you eaten any fruit or vegetables recently?” You grimace, and their thumb taps over your lips. “Have you been outside the pizzaplex at all this past week?”

“You’re a bully,” you complain, unable to escape. “I wanted to stay with you and Moon.”

Sun’s hand slips from your chin to your apron pocket. You make a very undignified sound until she fishes out your phone, holding it up. “You will be with us. In our own head, in a way.”

“Right.” Your lockscreen is an old picture of you and Sun, clearly taken by the animatronic. You take your phone back, holding it to your chest. “You won’t be able to escape me so long as I have this.”

“How terrible,” Sun’s smile is in his voice.

“The worst,” you agree.

#fnaf daycare au #fnaf daycare attendant #daycare attendant #daycare attendant moon #daycare attendant sun #fnaf moon #fnaf sun #daycare attendant fandom #fnaf dca #sundrop #moondrop #seriously how many tags are there in the world that focus on the dca #constellations au #dca ocs #my writing #I'll be backtagging my writing soon

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bokutoslittlebird · 3 years

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一徹

Oikawa x reader x Iwaizumi

Author’s Note : 一徹 means “dauntless” and “obstinate,” which is what you get by combining Hajime and Tōru. ; this is supposed to be a fic but it’s more like a drabble honestly ; this is the spreader bar I used as reference

Warnings : noncon, somnophilia, sex toys [spreader bar, cuffs, mentions of a collar], mentions of pregnancy, breeding, drugs/drugging, yandere themes, implied cum eating, dacryphilia, choking, asphyxiation

Your unconscious body happens to be heavier than Oikawa expected, yet still manageable as he places you on the mattress. It’s below his house, in the cold basement, but it’s the only place you can go without suspicions arising. Most of the basement floor was empty, save for the mattress and the spreader bar that would keep you nice and spread. Leaning back and admiring you had his adrenaline levels lowering, the thrill of dragging you here slowly seeping from him.

Watching you, Oikawa focused on the rise and fall of your chest, the steady rhythm calming himself down. It was an effort to get you unguarded, your instincts telling to avoid him. Ever since his eyes locked with yours the first day of his high school days, something told him things would be different. When you became the manager of the volleyball club, you got to learn about the real side of him, never acting like his other fangirls. This made his heart twitch, his longing for you fester into something dark and sinister the day you rejected his advances.

Yet, his less than innocent desire for you was joined by a dear friend of his. Iwaizumi also had a small crush on you, but he could never confess to you. How could he? When you turn away Oikawa, it put a damper on Iwaizumi’s own longing for you. Oikawa knew his best friend better than anyone and Iwaizumi knew Oikawa better than anyone else. Together, they were a force to be reckoned with; their goal was obstinate, nothing could come and stop the gears from the motion they’ve begun.

A groan from your form had Oikawa almost jumping out of his skin, too lost in his own memories and thoughts. The memory of his talk with Iwaizumi is fresh in his mind, the thought of finally fulfilling his dark desire and getting something even more out of it having his restraint withering away. Iwaizumi wouldn’t be able to join you two for quite some time, his own university classes already have begun. Oikawa would take the semester off, focusing on honing his volleyball skills until his trip to Argentina was due.

With you unconscious, Oikawa took it upon himself to strip you out of your clothes. He wasn’t a fiend, he wouldn’t leave you bare in the shivering cold basement. No, he has a recently bought dress, baby blue and silky, specifically tailored to your size. The dress is a halter top, easy to slide on you and it gives easy access to your chest and the goods between your legs. Having the dress situated on your body, he gets to work with putting your wrists and ankles in the spreader bar. He thought about getting a collar for you, but he decided he’d have another way of claiming ownership over you.

Looking at you, completely knocked out thanks to the drug and vulnerable, your puffy cunt exposed to his darkened eyes, it finally shred the last bit of his restraint. He’s sure Iwaizumi wouldn’t be too mean, he should be able to understand the overwhelming desire that Oikawa holds for you. Moving himself between your legs, he notices how dry you are. Despite taking advantage of you and drugging you without consent, he isn’t as mean as to stick it in dry. He wants your cunt absolutely drooling over his cock by the time he sinks into you.

Putting two fingers into his mouth, he coats them in his saliva before pushing them past your folds. You’re so tight around him, even in your sleep, he momentarily wonders if you’ll take him in. Soft moans come from your lips, whines following them as he continues to pump two fingers into you. Once he finds your juices coating his fingers, he pushes in a third one. The stretch is almost too much, his fingers spreading and pumping into you as you fight the effects of the drug. He’s not stupid, he’s well aware that you’ll probably be waking up soon. He doesn’t plan on having some bullshit excuse, he will be completely honest with you.

Removing his fingers from your heat, he laps at the juices coating them. It’s not as much as he was expecting to get from you, but he just shrugs it off. That’s not the focus, it’s just to help ease the pain. His eyes watch your face, the scrunch of your nose as your eyes flutter open, most likely blurry and hazy as he frees his cock from his pants. The exercise pants don’t hold his erection back very well, it is quite obvious. Watching confusion run across your face and then horror and fear replace it as your eyes land on him... he finds himself enjoying it much more than he should.

“Oikawa, what’re you-”

“You should get used to calling me Tōru, dear,” he cuts you off, a sickening grin stretching across his face. “After tonight, we’ll be much closer than before,”

“No, stop!”

“You don’t get to decide that. I’ve waited three long years for this, I’m not going to stop now. I’ve listened and respected your boundaries, but now,” he rubs his cock against your folds, a shivering going up his spine once he does, “you’re all mine. You’ll be all mine, forever. Iwa-chan will be joining us soon, so let’s have some fun together, hm?”

Pushing into you is easier said than done. Even with the added slick that his fingers created, you’re squeezing him so tightly. A whispered ‘fuck’ escapes him, groans following as he rocks his hips into you. Your screams echo off the walls of the basement, but they do little to stop him. It’s painful for now, but he knows you’ll find pleasure in it soon enough. He stops halfway in, letting your walls spread to accompany the rest of him as he runs his hands over the skin of your thighs. Tears stream down your face, whimpers telling him to stop, but he just finds you even more beautiful than before. His momentary stillness has you relaxing a bit, possibly because you think he’s listening to you. Another sinister smile and he shoves the rest of him into you, eyes rolling back as he bottoms out.

More screams come out, tears steady as a stream sliding down your face, but the momentary pleasure and adrenaline from hearing and seeing them has passed. A small growl comes from his throat as his hand latches onto your throat. The sudden movement has you gasping, the pressure too much as you find your oxygen limited. “Shut up, why don’t you? Nobody’s gonna save your ass.” He gets more tears in return, but he doesn’t care.

Rocking his hips, he finds your walls easing up around his cock until your juices have coated it. Another grin paints across his handsome face as he rears his hips back and slams them into you, you gasping from the force and intensity of the thrust. It’s only the beginning, however, as he continues to move his hips back and forth and slam his hips into yours. The skin slapping sounds join in with his grunts and your moans, gargled as well as your screams from his hand. More pressure is put on your throat as he picks up his pace.

The rocking and rolling of his hips against you has your toes curling, your body losing itself in the pleasure. His grunts fill your ears and mind, only focusing on those two things as he chases his own end. The scruff of shoes against the concrete floor doesn’t even register, your eyes rolling as Oikawa comes to his end with a moan. A small whine comes from his throat, a warm liquid filling your insides and a haze filling your mind. The afterglow only lasts a moment, your senses returning to earth once the sound of clapping echoes around the room.

“A great show, Oikawa, but I could do better,” Iwaizumi says, his signature frown in place. His words quickly shatter the hope you had of him helping you, finding that your old friends are darker than you ever thought possible.

“Well, then show me, Iwa-chan,” his voice pitches in tone, almost mocking like, as he uses Iwaizumi’s nickname. A quick flick of his head has Oikawa removing himself from you, a soft whine as he leaves you. His seed oozes out, plopping onto the mattress below. Iwaizumi takes his place, but he keeps his eyes on yours as he does. Sticking his tongue out, he slides it along his thumb and fingers, keeping his gaze locked with yours, making it more sensual than it should.

“You should focus on the pleasure of her, not yourself,” he says to Oikawa, even though his focus is still on you. You find yourself unable to break the trance, only able to do so as your eyes roll back. The orgasm that was never gotten starts again, the buildup as Iwaizumi’s fingers thrust into you. Oikawa’s sopping mess of his cum makes it easy to slip three fingers in, his thumb pressing into your clit and rubbing the sensitive bundle of nerves. A scream is ripped from your throat, but it’s not one of fear nor pain — it’s of pleasure. It’s not long until you’re gushing around Iwaizumi’s fingers, Oikawa’s seed gushing out as you do. His gasp sounds so far away, your high of release finally letting your walls relax. Iwaizumi smiles at that, fingers rubbing against your walls.

“See, look at that. She’s more at ease now because of the orgasm. You should take this as a learning experience, Oikawa,”

“Oh, Iwa-chan. For a virgin, you do know a lot about sex,” Oikawa giggles, hand over his mouth as Iwaizumi’s face blares red. He pushes down the embarrassment, turning back to you laid out before him.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want my first time to suck,” his murmur is so low, you barely hear it over the pounding heartbeat in your ears. The sensation of something once more nudging your entrance has your toes curling, knowing it’s Iwaizumi’s cock this time. Pushing his head in, the flared mushroom tip stretches you farther than Oikawa’s did. The pain has you screaming once more, tears screwed shut as tears slip out. “Watch closely,”

“Yes, sir!” Oikawa practically bounces over to the two of you, leaning over to watch Iwaizumi sinking into you. Oikawa’s cum gushes around Iwaizumi’s cock, the girth of the appendage being too much for you. But he doesn’t solely focus on that, instead he pushes his thumb against your clit once more, rubbing it in circles and flicking it. The rattling of metal fills both their senses, Oikawa’s hands moving up to stop you from accidentally hurting one of them.

It’s almost a miracle, watching your eyes roll back and tongue loll out with a brief roll of Iwaizumi’s hips against you. You’re so sensitive now, Iwaizumi shows Oikawa, before he begins to thrust into you. While Oikawa holds onto the bar and your leg, Iwaizumi’s free hand moves to your other leg. The position has him able to freely see your face while also being able to see your body. Each jolt of pleasure has you shivering, your breasts and body bouncing with each thrust. Although he can’t pin you down and drill himself into you, he finds himself picking up the pace as grunts and groans slip from his mouth.

The way Oikawa practically humps your leg has you wondering if he’s unable to have patience for his turn or if he wishes he was you. Unable to think properly for long, your mind soon focuses on how well Iwaizumi fills you up and the feeling of his heavy balls slapping against your ass, slick with cum and your own fluid. A much more ferocious growl from Iwaizumi has you mewling, legs tensing and a shiver running through you as you squeeze around him, another orgasm ripped from you. The feeling of being full fills your walls once again, Iwaizumi’s groan accompanying it as his seed fills you up. It’s just as heavy and hot as Oikawa’s, sputtering out around the sides of his cock and out of your hole.

A groan, softer this time, comes from him as he pulls out. His limp cock is still as impressive as it was when it was hard, thick and long. Oikawa smiles at him, his own milky fluid splattering across your leg and stomach seconds later as he finishes with a moan. Heavy breathing fills the room, the only thing in the room, until Iwaizumi breaks it.

“Eat it out of her. Then, you can try again,”

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vanderlindemorgans · 3 years

Text

Mr. Perfectly Fine

Rating: Teen

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader

Word count: 5.2k

Summary: Two weeks after breaking up with you, you're picking up the pieces of your heart that had been broken by your now ex-boyfriend Javier Peña. You want answers, a clear reason as to why things fell apart. The only problem is that Javier refuses to even acknowledge your existence

Warnings: A little bit of period-typical sexism, but not much, Javier being an asshole, mentions of prostitution, some low level typical Narcos themes

Authors Note: So this idea has been swimming around in my head ever since the song was released last week. I already had a Bad Breakup fic for Javi planned but I’ve decided to extend it into three parts! Also reader speaks in English bc I do not understand a word of Spanish other than that one line in Ultraviolence. None of this is beta read, so there’s bound to be a few mistakes - if I get anything really wrong then let me know.

Part 2 | MASTERLIST

The tension in the room was so thick that you could cut it with a knife. From the moment someone walked in they could feel it, the stifling air of awkwardness surrounding every single person in the room as they pretended to carry on with their work, averting their eyes to the spectacle presented in front of them, a war of agitation rife between two agents sitting across the room from each other as well as the unfortunate Steve Murphy who just happened to sit between you two. From your end it was simple silent fury, directed right across the room to where your partner, or rather, ex-partner, Javier Peña was seated at his own desk, casually leafing through mountains of paperwork and suspect photos as if you weren’t practically shooting daggers at him from across the way.

He wasn’t doing anything, and that was exactly the problem - you wanted him to do something, say something, anything, if only it would show that he even gave a damn about the situation at all. But he never did. Every morning when he walked into work carrying a black coffee in his hands, his top shirt buttons hanging loose as they always seemed to be and his hair mustled as if he hadn’t been sleeping properly, he said nothing. He walked past you as if you weren’t even there, ignoring your stares and crashing down at his desk, ready to continue the endless chase for Pablo Escobar. And it infuriated you. Oh lord, how it made you burn. With every refusal of acknowledgement he gave, you became even more tempted to march right over to him and strike him across his stupid handsome face. You never did, of course, and you never would. Physical confrontation just wasn’t your style. Nevertheless, the mere thought of such did bring you a small bit of joy to your broken little soul.

Things had been going like this for two weeks now. You hadn’t expected much on the first morning back in the office after what had happened between you. A part of you wanted him to come grovelling to you, insisting that he’d made a mistake and begging for you to take him back. That in itself was nothing more than a fantasy: Javier Peña was too proud to grovel. If anything, his behaviour shouldn’t have surprised you in the slightest. He was the one who broke up with you over a 27 second phone call, after all.

Despite taking that into consideration, you thought by now you would have heard something from him. He’d have to talk to you eventually since you two were working the same case. Apparently no, because it appeared that he went out of his way to deliver every piece of correspondence meant for you through to Murphy, letting him act as a sort of unwilling middle man between the two of you. You knew that Steve already felt awkward enough having to be in the same room with the two of you whilst this was all going on, so your sympathy for him deepened when he was thrust into the even more awkward position of messenger. Sometimes you swore he made up fake meetings with Messina to attend to or new leads to investigate just so he could get away from the suffocating air of hate around you and Javi. And really, who could blame him?

You felt your nose twitch in annoyance as you trained your eyes forward to him, periodically looking down at various files of intel to keep up the facade that you were indeed working, though you eyes were across the room for most of the time, searching for any sign of emotion on his face. Nothing, zilch, not a single trace, his expression only showcasing general indifference, as if nothing were wrong at all. You gripped your hand tightly around the edge of your pen, thinking of everything you wished you could say to him. How’s your heart after breaking mine, Javi? For your information, ever since you pulled that bullshit on the phone, I’ve been miserable as all fucking hell. Before all that happened, I wanted to try. I was even ready to try to forgive you after that stupid fight, but you just had to make that call. You know what? I’d actually hate you less if you just acted like you cared a little that we broke up. But noooo, you’re just Mr. Perfectly Fine, what with your ignoring me and your casual cruelty, your always showing up at just the right time, and your insincerity, and the way you think everything fucking revolves around you. Well, I’ll tell you something Javi - I’m done! Absolutely done with you and your shit. Jump off a cliff for all I care!

“I’ll be back later on, gonna go follow up on a few leads” your thoughts were cut off by Javier’s abrupt announcement, your eyes gracing themselves upwards to watch him hastily scoop his jacket off the back of his chair and skulk his way out of the office. Every bitter word you wanted to say to him burned on your tongue, though you only managed to settle on a simple yet seething glare while his eyes glazed over you, rushing himself out of the room as quickly as humanly possible. You noticed Murphy look over his shoulder like he was about to say something but it was too late - Javi was already long gone.

_______

Letting out a low groan of frustration, you slammed the door to your car shut and threw your head back against the seats headrest, the stress of the job and the emotional weight of the day combining to make you even more tired than you would usually be at the end of a long day. Javier hadn’t been back to the office since he left, leaving both you and Murphy to pick up all the work he’d left in his absence. If that wasn’t infuriating enough, the thought of him running around all of Bogotá just to avoid seeing you brought your anger to new unreachable heights. It was annoying - him not being around should have left your mind to be free to do some actual goddamn work but instead, just as before, every single moment he occupied your mind, living there permanently as if it were his right. How much more infuriating could that man get?

Thankfully, the drive home wasn’t any more of a nuisance than usual, since the apartment complex you shared with the others wasn’t that far from the embassy, so that was a small positive at the very least. Once you’d pulled up to the lot you were feeling a lot more level-headed than you did before, and were mainly looking forward to kicking back in pajamas and watching whatever was on TV with the leftover pizza from the night before. It wouldn’t do much to take your mind off everything with Javi, though, you knew that much. Still, a small bit of bliss was still bliss.

Your apartment was down the hall from Javier’s, which had made it easier for you two when you were together but now felt like another sore reminder of what had been. Sighing heavily to yourself, you kicked the door to your car shut and stuffed the keys into the pocket of your jeans. A minor annoyance, sure, nothing you couldn’t handle though. You wondered if he would even be back right now. He had to be, right? An idea started to creep into your head at that thought, taking root and festering until you had practically talked yourself into doing it already, descending up the stairs with a sense of purpose behind you. Maybe if you showed up on his doorstep you could force him to confront you, make him look you in the eye. Any sort of acknowledgement to what you two had would be nice at this point, and if you had to take action yourself to get him to do it, then so be it.

The closer you got to his door the more you felt you should turn back, a feeling of uneasiness beginning to form somewhere deep in your chest. This might be a bad idea. What if you two got into a fight again? As much as you wanted nothing more than to hurl some carefully crafted insults at Javi and his stupid gorgeous face, you weren’t exactly up for a full on battle that could result from it. Would it be better to simply go home and ignore your problems a little more?

Once you were only inches from the door was when you started to hear it. At first it sounded muffled, on account of the fact that there was a physical barrier between you and them, and you weren’t quite sure exactly what you heard at first but when you pressed yourself closer to the door you could hear it all clear as day - a woman moaning loudly on the other side, whimpering out Javi’s name and betraying exactly what was going on within the walls of the apartment. You felt your breath hitch in your chest, the world feeling like it was collapsing around you from the very second you realised why he had left early for the day. Unable to stop yourself, you tore yourself away from the apartment door and ran down the hall to your own place, tears falling at a rapid pace that refused to stop. You didn’t know if the woman in there was an informant, or a prostitute, or some random chick he’d picked up in a bar after ditching work for the day. In the end none of it mattered though. All that mattered is that it wasn’t you in there with him, like it used to be, like it should be, and that fact made you hurt all the more fiercely.

Fumbling with the keys to your apartment, you choked on a low sob working your way through the waterfall of tears in your eyes to try and wrestle the key into the lock. Through your haste, you accidentally let them fall loose from your palms and onto the ground, prompting a loud “fuck!” to ring out from your throat, loud enough for everyone in the neighboring apartments to hear. Not like you really cared about that, to be honest. With your hands shaking, you finally managed to throw the door to your apartment open, slamming it back closed with a thud and leaning back against it with your head in your hands, slowly descending to the ground to finally give in to the wave of sorrow threatening to claim you.

You’d known his reputation before you started seeing each other, that he slept with all his informants and chased every woman who crossed his path in Colombia. Actually, it had made you hesitant to get involved with him in the first place but once you two had bitten the bullet and finally admitted your damn feelings for each other, Javier had ceased with his wild ways, becoming solely dedicated to you and you alone. And sure, you two weren’t together anymore, there wasn’t anything stopping him from being with other women. It felt like a deeper twist of the knife though, what you’d heard from behind that door, and it practically confirmed the sickening feeling that had been building in you since the first day back in the office after your breakup, when Javi refused to even look you in the eye and acted as if you’d vanished off the face of the planet. He doesn’t care about me anymore.

Moving on had been that much easier for him. While it took everything in you to get up each day, he was doing absolutely ok. More than ok, if the sounds coming from his apartment were anything to go by. He was even already settling back into his old reputation. You should’ve known it was too good to be true - the manwhore of the DEA, Javier Peña actually wanting to settle down with one woman, actually caring about a girl beyond what she could be in bed. You remembered the raised eyebrows when you two had first gotten together: for most, it just seemed so out of nowhere. You’d ignored them all, remembering all the times you’d be tangled up with Javi on the couch, his head nestled into your neck while your heart raced a mile a minute, hearing every sweet nothing and praise he’d whisper to you. Stupid girl, you should’ve known.

_______

After such a huge revelation, you thought things might’ve changed. In what way they would, you didn’t really know. Maybe the change would be sudden, such as you finally working up enough of a resolve to actually go confront Javier on his shit. Or maybe you’d take a leaf out of his book and start trying to seem like nothing was wrong at all, maybe go out on a few dates with some other guys. One of the Search Bloc guys had been eyeing you up every time he came over with Carillo to talk strategy, maybe you could go out with him. Though you knew it wouldn’t help - unlike Javier, who was actually more than happy with where you two had left things, you weren’t, and acting like it was just to throw it in his face wasn’t really going to work if he didn’t care enough to look over at you in the first place. And even then, the idea of falling into bed with some random man that you didn’t care for all that much in the name of moving on didn’t seem right to you.

Nevertheless, you expected some form of change to happen the morning after when you came into work to see Javier sitting at his desk, on the phone to someone you couldn’t care less about. But nope. Nothing had changed. You sat down and stared across the room at him, just like you’d done every day for the past two weeks, and he ignored your stare to continue with writing something down on his notepad, just like usual.

Maybe the change would be gradual, you thought, staring back over at the man in the midst of your ire with one of your coldest glares. And sure enough, around midday Steve had come up to you asking to retrieve something from the evidence room for him. Apparently he needed to look over something but was too busy with his own work to go fetch it - you knew on some level that his excuse was bullshit as it had been a pretty slow day for all of you but sure, whatever, if it got you out of that room and away from Javi for at least a few blissful moments that was fine by you.

Reaching out for the door to the evidence room, you pushed it open and admitted yourself into the crowded space, twisting around to slam the door shut firmly behind you. Before you were rows of shelves containing every bit of evidence the DEA had accumulated against Escobar - there wasn’t as much as there probably should have been due to the fire that had broken out at the Palace of Justice years before yet the amount contained in that small room was still impressive in size. Moving between the shelves, you scanned the rows of boxes looking for the one Steve had asked for in particular, taking your time with it as there was a small sense of serenity to being in that room. For once it felt like you could breathe. You didn’t have to sit at a desk across from your ex, you didn’t have to go home to your apartment that was literally across the hall from his, you could be alone and not feel suffocated by his ever-present shadow over your life. Though, in some way you supposed, your own memories could still prove just as suffocating as Javier’s own godforsaken presence.

As if by thinking of him you’d magically summoned him, the man himself strode through the door to the evidence room, appearing to be in quite a hurry however once he noticed you were there he stopped, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second before returning to their usual stoic glare. You could barely contain your own disappointment at his sudden appearance, letting your face twist into a low scowl as you watched him walk down the aisle you were standing in, his eyes dashing from row to row searching for any place to look so they could avoid landing on you. Anger bubbled within you, a thousand different sarcastic or otherwise snarky remarks coming to mind that you could throw out at him, every one of them becoming increasingly more scathing the more you thought about it. Letting out a small sigh, you forced yourself to push all those delightful insults to the back of your mind, not wanting to become caught up in any more personal drama than you had to. Get the box and go. It’s that simple. There doesn’t need to be anymore to this.

A minute later your eyes landed on the fabled box you’d been searching for, shoved into a corner and so out of the way you almost missed it completely. You thought of asking Steve what was in the box that he needed so bad when out of nowhere you heard a familiar voice speak up from behind you.

“Listen, I...about what happened on the phone a few weeks ago-”.

So, it seems Mr. Perfectly Fine has finally decided to break his silence. In an instant you twisted yourself around to face him, quickly taking in his serious expression and stiff stature before your eyes met for the first time in two weeks.“Oh, so you’ve finally decided to speak to me now? That’s a first. I thought you were steadfast gonna ignore me for the rest of my life” you spat, not allowing him any form of politeness or decorum in your reply. Why should you? He’d ignored you for weeks. He deserved this.

You watched as Javier tensed at your words, clearly not expecting the bite back that you had given to him. There was some part of his expression that almost looked sheepish in a way, as if he wasn’t quite sure if he really wanted this conversation to happen at all. “I wasn’t ignoring you, I was just-” he started with you rolling your eyes and cutting in almost immediately. “Save it for someone who actually gives a shit. Shouldn’t be hard since you don’t seem to care all too much yourself” you snarled, an action which only made him even more tense.

“I do care, and I kind of always have fucking cared so if you could calm down a little and stop getting yourself worked up we can actually talk about what happened. Can you do that for me at the bare minimum?” he retorted, a harsh edge appearing in his tone that indicated he was already becoming frustrated with your attitude. You knew Javi’s emotions like the back of your hand - he wasn’t a patient man, and he had no time for snark or sarcasm, though only if it was directed at him. When it came to himself, he was more than happy to indulge in a small bit of pettiness. You didn’t much care at that moment though: as far as you were concerned, he lost the right to a civilised discussion when he broke up with you over the phone and then pretended you were invisible for weeks. It’s not like things can get any worse than they are now, right?

“Oh, sure, sure, we can totally talk. How about I start then?” you fired back, every word simmering with venom and dripping raw with sarcastic edge. Crossing your arms, you leaned back against the shelf to take him in, from the creases in his tie to his tired eyes staring straight into you. Wait, tired? You didn’t realise it until then but he had been looking pretty tired lately, almost like he hadn’t been getting enough sleep. Then again, his sleep schedule had never been quite stellar, so that wasn’t totally out of the ordinary. And he was probably up all night with that woman I heard him with, you reminded yourself bitterly. “Look at you, so dignified in your well pressed suit, so smug and self-involved, so far above me in every way, so far above that you won’t even look me in the eye or acknowledge my presence. Tell me, Javier, has it really been that easy to forget about me?” you taunted. “Though I supposed when you’re seducing every whore in Colombia into your bed it would be easy, wouldn’t it?”.

Javier was caught off guard by your remark, not anticipating that you would go so far as to accuse him of returning to his old ways. “First of all, she was an informant, and I had to leave yesterday to go meet up with her. Things ran into overtime and that’s the reason I wasn’t back. I thought you of all people understood that gathering intel is a vital part to the fight against Escobar?” he replied, that last line at the end being delivered with only a little more underlying snip than the rest yet it was more than enough for you to feel around thirty percent more pissed at him.

You scoffed at his lies, your lip curling into a snarl at his attempt at patronising you. “Don’t patronise me. I’m well aware of the ins and outs of this job, in case you’ve forgotten I’ve been working with the DEA for eight years now, which is why I’m calling bullshit on your pathetic excuse for a lie. You do realise we live in the same building right? I know you were doing more than having a friendly discussion with her in there, in fact, I quite literally heard you two through the goddamn walls on my way back home. And before you try to spin some shit about how it was necessary for the case, you and I both know that fucking the informant isn’t a standard part of procedure. You don’t see Murphy bedding any of his sources of intel, do you?”.

“Murphy’s married, princesa” he deadpanned, throwing in that little nickname he had for you that two weeks ago would have made your heart flutter but at this time and in the context he used it only soured your mood further. “That’s besides the point. You’ve been acting like I never even mattered to you at all, and it’s honestly making me wonder if I ever did? Especially since I apparently didn’t deserve the dignity of a proper breakup and got a 27 second phone call instead. Tell me, when did you change your mind? I thought I was supposed to be the one you were waiting for all your life. Guess that was pretty easy to change, wasn’t it?” you snapped.

“Hermosa, can you just fucking listen for one minute?! God, you’re impossible sometimes” Javier shouted, that infamous temper of his rising towards the surface at a rapid rate. It was only a matter of time before he spat something out that he would no doubt regret. In your own haze of anger though, that fact didn’t register with you at all - you only saw red. If you had to scream back at him to finally pull some answers out of the man, then so fucking be it.

“No, how about you listen for once! I know we had that big fight but we could have just talked. The next day when you called me up I was ready to forgive you for being a complete ass. And what did I get instead? ‘I’m sorry, I think we should stop seeing each other’ and a dead dial tone after that. I can tell the only reason you’re apologising today is just so you don’t have to feel like the bad guy in all of this. So what’s the truth? Why were you so ready to throw away a whole relationship over one night of terse words?” you screamed, not caring that you two were at work and anyone could pass by outside and hear you two argue. With the way you both were shouting, you wouldn’t be surprised if the entire building could hear your screaming match with Javier. None of that mattered to you though. The only thing that mattered was the truth.

You weren’t the only one refusing to hold back in any of this: any lingering spark of politeness had vanished in Javi, his eyes turning dark with searing anger you had only seen in him a couple of times before. “You want to know why? You want to fucking know why? It’s because you’re a fucking pain to deal with. You may be a fantastic agent but god you can be so stupid sometimes. You’re too reckless, you throw yourself into danger too willingly with no consideration for anyone else. Did you ever stop to think what would happen to the people who cared about you if you died? Do you even give a shit about the people trying to protect you?” he confessed, fury burning with every word that came out of his mouth, his admittance making you flinch. It was just like he said during your last fight, the one that led to him dumping you in the first place.

Everything he said from that night came rushing back to you, remembering how furious he’d been at you for what had happened during your last raid together. You could see that underneath it all he was concerned for your safety, a gesture that was usually sweet but frustrated you that night as you felt something more akin to a porcelain doll than a capable agent in his eyes. Just because I’m your girlfriend, doesn’t mean you can treat me like I need to be protected. I can handle myself just fine. That was what you’d said to him that night, which should have been the end of it but somehow as the argument went on things got more and more heated that by the time he’d stormed out of your apartment neither of you could remember what had started it all.

What took you by surprise was that apparently he was still stewing about this, for some reason not wanting to believe in your capabilities as an agent and that alone made you more pissed at him. “I don’t need to be protected, Javier. I’m a woman, a DEA agent for crying out loud, not a flower! I’m more than capable of handling myself, I was literally trained for this! Nobody else here seems to have a problem with how I approach things so maybe the issue isn’t my method of attack but the fact that you’re a paranoid asshole?”.

He raised a single eyebrow back at you, looking somewhat skeptical of your claim but more so angry that somehow you two had managed to circle back around to the very thing that had started this whole mess.“Really? Because our last raid you were throwing yourself into the fray as if it were a suicide mission. It was a miracle you only ended up with a minor sprain to the wrist. Those men, the sicario’s, they don’t fucking hold back, one wrong mistake means the difference between life and death” he snapped.“And you know what? After constantly stressing over your safety every minute I was done. If you wanna end up with a bullet between your eyes, be my guest”.

The second those words slipped from his lips, he knew he’d fucked up. As the tears started to form in your eyes you could see him freeze up, his burning temper that had caused him to be so hateful before starting to slowly seep back, replaced with remorse and a hint of panic if you squinted. Although that didn’t matter much right now - his venomous words were rattling around in your brain, acting as a metaphorical hammer that took the final swing towards your damaged heart. Apparently what you heard through the walls the night before hadn’t been enough to break you completely, since there was still enough left of your heart for the rest of it to be shattered by his callous cruelty.

Forcefully swallowing down your cries, you wanted so badly to disappear from the room. You wanted to melt into the floor, to run away and go find one of Escobar’s men and gloat about all you’d done to try to stop him so you could feel the mercy of a fatal gunshot wound to the head. All the pain you had felt previously paled in comparison to the knife that cut you then, the tight feeling of your throat closing with every word you forced out. “So you were lying. You don’t care about me at all. You...you think I’m stupid. And reckless. And...not able to handle being here…”.

“Shit, princesa, that’s not what I meant, I-” Javier started, desperately scrambling to fix the mess he’d caused, however, you weren’t going to let him. He’d made his bed, now he had to lie in it. Any hope he might have had of making things right was now thrown straight out the window. No more chances. Not anymore.

“I think that’s exactly what you meant, Javi. Well, you got your wish I guess. I’ll get out of your life for good” your voice wobbled as you spoke, the next few minutes becoming a blur from when you’d pushed past him and ran out of the evidence room, hearing him call your name behind and not bothering to turn back to face him, running through the halls past different agents and members of the DEA, your hand shielding yourself in a pathetic attempt to save face. Somehow you’d managed to make it out to your car, throwing yourself into the driver's seat and jamming the keys into the ignition, your mind going in a million different directions. Your first thought was to go back home, though you knew that you’d have to hear Javi come back later, probably with yet another woman he picked up. You didn’t exactly have any friends in Colombia - with your line of work there hadn’t been exactly a lot of time to sit around and mingle with people, and truth be told you wanted to avoid people at all costs right then. Without any idea as to where you might be going, or what you were going to do, you pulled your car out of the parking lot and slammed on the gas to get you out of there, the world surrounding you not registering to you anymore and every sound becoming a rush against your ears that you paid no mind to.

One thing was for sure - you weren’t going to give Javier a single drop more of you. Your time, your mind, your energy, your tears, nothing. He’d already proved himself to be a lying sack of shit who didn’t care about you, so as it stood, you wouldn’t care about him either. Like the end of a tragic tale, everything had crashed and burned, and now that you thought about it more, maybe that was how things needed to be.

Goodbye, Mr Perfectly Fine. I’ve been Miss Misery for the last time.

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167 notes · View notes

jerrylevitch · 3 years

Note

Do you think or know whether Jerry ever regretted all of the affairs and sleeping around? Or if he looked back on it differently later on? I know he'd talked about it kind of jokingly, which i'm sure was a default/defense mechanism. I also get all the factors that contributed to that behavior so I don't really judge him for it, and he wasn't the only one doing it by any means...I was just wondering if you had a take on it or knew anything. Still love him, that horny little bugger lol ;)

He did feel guilty and for awhile, and he tried to be faithful to Patti in his own mind by not finishing inside the woman he was with. According to Jane McCormick:

"Jerry was almost bashful when it came to having sex, but he thoroughly enjoyed it. Still, he had a quirky way of dealing with his loyalty to his wife. He would not climax inside me, no matter what kind of sex we had."

Of course you'll see Jerry boasting about his sexual escapades and other crap like he didn't care when he was older like on E True Hollywood Story or Playboy, and GQ Magazine, but I always go back to this passage that Jerry wrote to himself and consider this the truth, because here he didn't have to put on a show for anyone, or try to look macho by saying he had all these women.

From Patti Lewis' book:

“Jerry was a master at candidly acting out personal vignettes about three areas of real life: relationships, situations, and predicaments. They form the backbone of his comedy. He nurtured many relationships and wrote volumes on how he felt. I tried to understand what he was saying, beyond the words, when I read the notes he sent me; the “I luv you’s” written across my makeup mirror at home; and the longer messages I found on my desk.” ”At times I found him five parts philosopher, one part humanist, ten parts deep thinker, one part spiritual, fifty parts comedian, twelve parts unpredictability, and twenty-one parts everything else. In 1966, one late summer afternoon, I found the following and took it to the garden to read:”

”To ask how deeply I feel is like asking, ‘Where is God?’” ”We can answer with nothing more than “if’s” and “maybe’s.” “In other words, the answers are really intangibles, yet I’m going to attempt to answer one of them to the best of my knowledge and awareness.

My feelings, where my wife is concerned, are very deep and very sacred…She is the very reason I live…for she is the only reason I know that makes living worth anything…and the boys that she produced for me are equally worth it, but one day they’ll leave and then there will be only us…

She is the first human thing that has ever cared about me or for me…Oh, there were little dogs, and little boys and a few beings that cared, but not enough that I could have survived.

It was only when she came into my life that I realized I had a life to live…I was always made to feel that I was given a case of breath out of pity…It was as though someone said, “We have plenty, give him some.” Then I knew I had to make good and be someone, or something a little better than those that gave me an occasional handout… As I got older, I didn’t much care about being better than them anymore…I just cared about staying alive and getting some degree of respect as a human thing on God’s Earth…I knew he didn’t mean to have anyone just exist…but he meant fur us all to have a meaning and a purpose. I have to try to get my thoughts put in the proper place so I can put things down that really count! Now then, if my wife was the first to care and to really treat me like a human being with love and warmth and the like…the big question is, “How could I have treated this special being as I have?” My answer that I find coming is… After so many years of being made to feel like nothing…I guess I worked on being something so much more than nothing…that I found myself making the real somethings around me nothing in the haste that drove me to be something…The responsibility of taking care of the loves I had always had made me feel like, “Why should I care for what one day will discard me anyway?” I don’t know if that’s the case, but it sounds right…and coming from someone who loves those tremendous loves as I do, it certainly confuses me, too… My constant silence, I think, has been fear…of what my love would think of what I’ve done…fear of doing the wrong thing…and losing the respect I have always felt I got from her…to be placed in the position of being disrespected and disregarded again has always knotted up my insides so badly that silence seemed the only way to avoid the possibility of rejection…very often my hiding was part and parcel of that fear…The feeling of being nothing again, or being looked at with disdain, has, for as long as I can remember, been tearing me up inside…And those tears have come out looking like torment…Well, tormented I am, and have been, and pray one day soon I won’t know the feeling anymore… My wrapping myself up so completely in my work helped for a while, but the “ego” that came across was never there…I have none. But I work desperately at displaying “ego” to cover the real emptiness I know inside… As a director I have found infinite peace…because I am to so many…an authority, a man who knows, and not someone who is treated with “pity” or “charity”…That’s the biggest reason for the love of creativity I have, for a man is free when he is creating. Not just creating “funny” by way of the mask I wear, but by making others the puppets…and making them stand out front for a change…The feeling of “behind the camera” feels safe, and warm, and special, and certain…”Out front” has been very hard and trying for me…and for the first time in my life I think I can honestly admit…I hated doing it and I still do…The happiness that seemed to appear from standing “in one” was nothing more than getting a general acceptance from a lot of people who care at the moment….But “at the moment” isn’t enough for me anymore… I need all the care I can get all the time…and I only seem to be able to get that from my love, my wife… I don’t ever want to appear “indifferent” to my wife…but that appearance, too, I think is just hoping not to be a burden and an annoyance to her...I just can’t remember ever being anything but an annoyance…and when I’m told I’m not, I can’t seem to recognize that is possibly the case. I don’t like to hide and run…I want to be free to go and do as any other man does… I know I need help…but I really believe the help will come from within…as soon as I can place things in their right positions… Admitting to “hating performing” might help me adjust sooner…Admitting the love I have for writing and direction will, I’m sure, take me out of the depths of my depression…and will ultimately take me into the realm of peace and contentment. I want to talk more, I want to communicate more…I want

to say so much, and get help from her, I want so much to scream the things that tug away at my heart and my soul…And when I try, the hurt is so strong, and deep, and festered that I clam up, and the relief I want doesn’t come… Now to bury that grief…I find someone who has equally as much or more than I so that I can be the helping hand…For if I can help, then my hurts can’t be so bad…How much trouble can I have, if I’m listening to someone else’s? And for years I made that a practice…to give of myself only to forget I needed more giving than anyone… I don’t think I have always been aware of that fact…I really wanted to share and give and be charitable…but there’s that word again…charitable…I should have known better. For “charity” was the one thing that started my life wrong.. I wasn’t entitled to charity by those people when I was so very young…I was entitled to all the love and care all little lives should get…But how long did I have to wait to realize “charity” shouldn’t deal with the ones we love…They should only get the real “love” and nothing more…and give “charity” to strangers in need…Period! (And they should be picked carefully!) I’m trying to feel “God” in me and maybe with his help we can push out the torment…and place the “alive” of a being, back where it was taken from… With it all I am a very lucky man…to have found the real, right, and perfect human being to spend my years with. I want so much to do the right thing to keep her straight and happy and healthy… When she is ill, the reaction to it isn’t any different than when the spike is forced into the vampire’s heart…it’s the only emotional thing that can kill me, and that’s when she hurts…or when I’ve caused her pain…but my intentions are never to hurt her, never to do her a moment’s pain…Never to create a frown on her lovely face…Why those things happen are a complexity to us both…And I will serve myself from here on in as a student of care and concern and caution as to how she gets treated and how I allow much of my feelings to affect her… I can only answer “God” honestly, and he knows my worth and my intentions, I have no fear of his wrath…for I know he knows I’m basically good, and fine, and honorable when it comes to my love and my soul for her… I have no guilt about what I have done thru my blindness…I only have guilt for the things I might have avoided doing…If I had just put…”First things first.” I will try! And “God” knows my heart is talking, not the typewriter.”

#Jerry Lewis #anonymous

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rainbowshawn · 4 years

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Prove It

A/N: I’m fiiiinally back! Sorry it took so long for me to finally post again. My life has kind of hit a low point and I lost pretty much all motivation to write. The past month has been an absolute shit show for me but y’all have been so so so supportive so thank you! Hopefully this isn’t too bad, my writing skills are real rough lol.

Warnings: smut, spanking, dom!shawn, language

Summary: Shawn’s stubble. That’s it.

Word Count: 4.2k

The sound of the door clicking shut was the first thing to break your attention away from your book all night. Your eyes quickly dart up, watching your boyfriend stumble into your shared space for the first time in a few weeks. Shawn had been in New York, attending some not-so-fun business meetings regarding his new album and you could just sense the stress rolling off of him in waves.

You watch as he tosses his keys on the counter and kicks his shoes off haphazardly, leaving them in the middle of the floor to your dismay. He looks exhausted, that much is evident by his messy hair and sunken in eyes but it’s only when he sits next to you, pulling you into his lap that you notice the stubble decorating his defined chin.

“Hey there, handsome,” you sing, cupping his face in your hand as your other arm drapes around his shoulders.

He leans into your soft palm, moving his face briefly to press a kiss to it before quietly responding, “Hi, beautiful. Missed you.”

Your lips meet his, lingering only for a moment before breaking apart again. His eyes are half-lidded, riddled with sleep. You brush your fingers through his hair, ghosting gently against his ears knowing how soothing he finds the action. The two of you catch up for a few minutes, talking about the past few days since he didn’t have too much time to call you. You smile at him softly while he talks, biting your lip as you thumb across the prickly hair on his chin.

“Gone for a week and now you’re all grown up on me, hm?” you tease, watching him blush bashfully as he giggles.

“What do you mean?” he asks, oblivious as ever, looking at you with a confused expression.

“This stubble!” you sing, giggling at his unawareness.

“Ahh,” he hums, suddenly aware of the prickly hair he’d been ignoring all week, “Didn’t feel like shaving, been too tired. I kinda hate it,”

He fiddles with a stray thread on your sweater, avoiding your gaze as you keep petting his curls. You kiss his warm forehead and breathe in his intoxicating scent for the first time in days.

“Mmm, I don’t usually like facial hair but it looks so sexy on you,” you hum, threading your fingers into his locks and tugging teasingly.

His breath hitches at the sensation and he feels his member immediately plump up a bit in his tight jeans. His lip sneaks between his teeth, turning the pink skin white with pressure. You watch it slowly snap back into place and decide they’re ultimately too inviting to resist. Your lips move in sync, sliding and nipping.

His body aches for you after days apart. His soul yearned for you in your absence and he felt unimaginable relief and desire flush his veins as you sat atop of him. His strong palms grab your hips, helping you sling your leg across so you could straddle him. The back of the couch supports him as he leans his weight back, tugging you with him. The kiss is dizzying and you giggle as you feel his stubble begin to scrape down your neck as he dresses you with kisses.

He hums against your skin inquisitively, not bothering to stop his affection.

“Mmm, you’re scratchy,” you hum, craning your neck back as he gives you occasional little nips.

His head pops up instantly, lips resting under your chin as he stammers out, “Want me to go shave? I’m sorry, baby, I’ll get rid of it and then we can keep kissing. Wanna love on you,”

You only giggle more as you take in his concerned expression as he’s trying to lift you off of his lap and stand up.

“No, no, bubby! I like it!” you assure, grabbing his face and ghosting his lips with your own once again, “You look like a man.”

His eyebrows knit together and his palms squeeze your hips tightly as he shoots you an offended look, “I am a man!”

You can tell he’s only half offended but you decide to tease him further; curious as to where you could take the night.

“Mmm, yeah?” you hum teasingly, twirling a stray curl that had fallen into his eyes around your finger.

“I am.”

“Prove it then,”

He practically growls, leaning back into your plump, waiting lips. Your hips rut against his as your mouths work together. The kiss is urgent and most definitely overflowing with passion. The air is stolen from your chest as he presses his stiff member into you. The kiss falters slightly as you gasp into his mouth while your fingers tug at his curls. His hands leave shrill goosebumps in their wake as they trail from your waist down to your hips where they assist your movements against him, gripping so tightly you wouldn’t be shocked if they left tiny little bruises under your skin.

His hands rock you back and forth against him, pulling your centers as close together as he can possibly get them. You groan into his mouth at the delicious friction and it’s only seconds later that he has you flipped onto your back. The kiss breaks for a moment; Shawn pulling away to get a good look at you for the first time in days. His eyes have a deep hunger festered inside of them and you shudder against the couch you’re laid out on. His greedy fingers peel off your top, discarding it to the side and then loop into your pants, leaving you with only panties underneath him.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he pants, worked up from the steamy moment, “You don’t even realize.”

A smile breaks across your face, imperfectly perfect and he swears he feels his heart do a flip deep in his chest.

“You gonna stare at me for the rest of the night or are you gonna make me feel good, big boy?” you tease, blushing madly as he returns to kissing your bare skin.

“Gonna be a brat or do you want to cum tonight, babygirl?” he tuts back without missing a beat; stopping to flick his tongue against your hardened nipple. Your back arches and you bite down on your lip as you feel his stubble scraping against your delicate skin, leaving the most delicious burn behind. If he wasn’t slotted between your legs, you know his words would’ve made your trembling thighs clench together.

His attention goes to the other side for a moment before his lips kiss down your sternum, to your bellybutton, and soon to the top of your panties. The feeling of kisses lingers longer than normal from the added sensation from his stubble and you can’t say you mind one bit. Your body is riddled with goosebumps and you feel your arousal pooling between your legs as he gazes up at you.

His fingers loop into the sides of your panties but his eyes are searching for your consent. It’s only when you mutter out a small ‘please’, that he tugs the fabric down your legs. His large hands quickly grab your shins, folding you up and spreading you open for his greedy eyes. His plump lips hang open at the sight of you; wet and needy beneath him.

“Fuck,” he whispers, mostly to himself, “look at you, babe. All this for me?”

His honey eyes are somehow darker at the sight of you. The dim lighting in the living room only accentuated his sharp features and he could faintly see the deep crimson blush adorning your cheeks. Your breath hitches as you watch his tongue slide over his bottom lip while his eyes bore into yours.

Your blood is laced with desire and you have to fight like a dog to hold yourself back from pulling him to where you need him the most. You know you poked the bear and you’d do anything for him to give you what you want. Your body was aching for him and you decide you don’t have time for any games.

It’s only seconds later that he’s laid out on his stomach, peppering kisses to your thighs. You whimper lightly as his lips tease your sensitive skin; kissing everywhere except where you want- no, need him.

His eyes are fixated on you, watching for every reaction to his trained touch. His lips ghost up your thigh, sucking teasingly on the spot where your leg meets your core. Your thighs clench around his head for a split second before a smack against your bum pulls you out of your haze.

“Sit still,” he asserts, moving closer to your dripping heat. You sigh, trying your best to relax into his embrace. “Be a good girl.”

His lips finally press kisses up your slit and you hum with satisfaction. You feel his tongue poke out, sliding against your bundle of nerves slowly. You’re aching for more, this much he knows. But he’s gonna make you pay for your teasing.

“Ah-” you yelp as his teeth nip at your clit, tugging gently before soothing it with his tongue. Your legs try to shut but his hands are still planted on your shins, keeping you opened up for his taking. He shoots you a warning with his eyes while a smirk makes its way across his lips. Little shit.

His wet tongue stays at a slow pace for a moment- he likes it when you get needy. Your little choked sighs are making his member ache in his tight pants but he’s too fucked to care. He’s too busy savoring the taste of you to even notice. His tongue picks up its pace, swirling around your bundle with ease. His lips stop occasionally, sucking on your plush center before picking back up with his skilled tongue. His coarse hair rubs at your sensitive button, making you groan at the new feeling.

“Shawn, fuck-“ you blurt, reaching for his hair out of habit. Your hand jerks to a stop, falling to your side instead; not wanting the pleasure to stop in case he punishes you.

Your eyes fall down to where he resides between your legs and you moan at the sight of him. His eyes are closed, lashes softly lying atop of his rosy cheeks. His lips are swollen and pink, covered in your juices. The sound of your moan prompts his eyes open, softly fluttering until they meet yours. A smirk sneaks across his lips as his tongue flicks at you.

“Feel good, baby?” he whispers, breath fanning across your core, “Like how my tongue feels?”

“God, it's so good,” you mutter, head falling back against the armrest of the white couch.

You don’t notice his hand sneaking up until his fingers are threading between yours. His warm palm envelops yours, squeezing tightly as he continues his attention on your throbbing center. You take it as an okay to touch him; sneaking your fingers under his soft tee with your other hand and tracing illegible patterns on his back.

He hums, vibrating against you and you buck your hips against his face. His free hand moves and you gasp when you feel two of his fingers prodding at your entrance before slowly slipping in. The feeling of your tight walls tugging on his digits has him aching; rutting against the couch for any friction.

“So tight, babylove,” he grunts against you, mostly to himself. “Got your pussy all wet for me, hm?”

His fingers are pumping in and out of you, assisting his tongue in pulling you closer to the edge. Your skin burns against his stubble but you welcome the sting. The feeling is different but so fucking addicting.

“Shawnshawnshawn,” you pant moments later, creeping towards the blissful edge, “don’t fucking stop,”

He doesn’t, he only picks up his speed as he feels your walls getting impossibly tighter around him. Seconds later he takes in your demeanor; arched and breathless, before he sits back on his knees, replacing his tongue with his thumb. He flicks at you ruthlessly, watching your center pulsate as you explode.

It’s in this moment that he realizes how hungry he is; how selfish. How he wants more, more, more. He wants to please you over and over.

“Fuck that was beautiful, lovey,” he whispers against your lips, shifting to lay his body weight on top of you. Your legs wrap around his waist tugging him closer to you. Your lips meet in a sloppy kiss and it’s on minutes later that he’s got you worked up once again.

“You ready for me?” his voice is low and rugged in your ear, begging for more. Your eyes flutter open, swimming with desire from your last orgasm. You nod quickly, pulling his t-shirt off of his sculpted body. He stands up, making quick work of his jeans and boxers. You whimper at the sight of his member springing up against his stomach, smacking against it with a dull thud.

“C’mere, love,” he says, extending his hand out to help you up. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you to his lips quickly before turning you around. “Want you on your knees.”

His hands rest on your waist, assisting you in situating yourself on the couch. You're knelt on the plushy cushion with your elbows propped on the back of the couch. You spare a glance behind you, shooting him a lustful gaze as he presses his hips into your bum. Chills trickle down your spine as he palms your cheeks, spreading you open for his taking.

“God, look at this fuckin’ ass,” he grumbles, landing a smack against your right side, “You look so pretty bent over for me.”

With all the hormones pumping through your system, you’re left speechless. Wordlessly you wiggle your ass around for him, making him groan at the way your plush bum jiggles. Another slap lands across your ass, leaving a red, blotchy print behind.

“Behave.”

You whimper, pressing your face into the white cushion. He takes his time behind you, admiring your physique. His heart is pounding in his chest as he takes you in. All of you. The curve of your spine. Your hair swung over one shoulder. The smoothness of your skin.

Your pull on him leaves an ache in his bones. Somehow always satisfied, but he just can’t seem to get enough of you. You make his knees weak. His heart race. And he knows he’ll never be the same.

Your back arches further as he takes his member in his hand and presses into you. You yelp briefly at the stretch of him sinking inside you. He watches with hooded eyes as his length disappears in your velvety walls and shudders at the feeling. Whimpers falling out of your chest signal to him that you’re still adjusting so he gives you one tiny thrust before he gives you a moment to stretch out.

“Man enough, babe?” he mutters cockily; pressing sloppy kisses to your bare shoulder.

“Mmm, not sure yet,” you tease, turning back to watch him.

Shawn isn’t one to get his ego hurt, really. But something inside him is itching, clawing it’s way out to prove himself to you. He knows he always leaves you satisfied- he was hyper-aware of your pleasure at all times. But tonight is different.

Your words encourage him to deliver another pointed thrust deep inside you; pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. His hand comes down on your thigh- hard.

“Oh fuck,” you choke out, knowing you’re really in for it tonight.

“If I wasn’t man enough, you wouldn’t be dripping down your fucking legs, princess,” he whispers casually in your ear; voice dripping with lust. At his words, your hips rut back into his; signaling that you were ready for him. With that, he’s off for the races.

Although you know what to expect, you’re still taken by surprise when his hips slam into you. He sets a brutal pace from the get-go and you can only whine in response.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ wreck you,” he moans, throwing his head back.

“Fuck, Shawn, please.” you pant, rutting your hips back against him.

He knocks the air out of your lungs as he thrusts deep inside of you. Your moans are muffled by the cushion you’ve buried your face in and his cock swells impossibly thicker than he ever thought possible at the sounds. He delivers a series of deep thrusts, making dull harmonies of skin against skin ring through the air.

“Being so good for me,” he blurts, smacking your ass again, “my good fuckin’ girl,”

A fire is being lit deep in your tummy as he rails into you. It’s only when his skilled fingers sneak around you and press into your clit that your moans double. Your body jerks forward but his strong hand grips your hip and yanks you back to him.

“I’m yours, Shawn,” you whine, trying to stabilize yourself on your shaky thighs.

“That’s right, babe. Who makes you feel this good?”

“You do,” you reply quickly, craning your neck back as pleasure envelops you.

Your neck is further extended as his hand gets a grip of your hair, pulling you back to look at him.

“Say my name.”

His tone creates butterflies deep in the pit of your gut. It’s darker than usual; raspier and deep. It makes you wanna do anything he asks. Makes you wanna scream out your lungs for him.

“S-Shawn,” you stammer, “you make me feel so fucking good,”

Your praise goes straight to his dick, making him throb inside of you. He’s a pleaser, that’s for sure. Now is no exception as he collides into you, pulling sweet melodies from your chest.

“You’re taking my cock so well, baby. Takin’ me so well in that little pussy,”

He watches as his length disappears deep inside of you. Watches your walls wrap around him, getting tugged with the motions. You’re getting tighter and tighter around him as his fingers still swirl against your sensitive button. You feel his veiny cock dragging in and out as he pounds into you at a ruthless pace and clench around him.

“Gonna cum for me? That pussy wants to cum, doesn’t it?” he teases, speeding his fingers up.

“God, please let me cum Shawn,” you beg, “please.”

“Cum baby, cum on my cock” he pants, preparing for the throbbing feeling, “give it to me.”

It’s only seconds later that the coil in your stomach snaps, clenching repeatedly on him. You throb uncontrollably around him, tugging his cock beautifully. His breath hitches at the feeling and he keeps up his pace, fucking you through your high. Your quiet moans reach a boiling point, now echoing through the room and mixing with the sound of your bodies colliding. His eyes practically bulge out of his head as he watches your cunt squeeze him.

“Feel so fuckin good. Gonna make me cum, babygirl,” he blurts out, stammering a bit. His pace is choppier now, faltering a bit as your walls pull him closer to his high.

“Cum in me Shawn, I’m all yours” you whine, trying to get him there, “Fill me up, baby, I wanna feel it.”

His head tosses back as he pounds into you, feeling heat creeping up from his toes. His breath is ragged as he collapses into you, still hammering away at your center. Only seconds later he’s cumming; thick globs inside of you. Your core flutters around him at the feeling, furthering his pleasure.

“Fuck, princess,” he grunts, slowing his hips down gradually as the bliss becomes too much.

A few moments later, he’s tugging his shaft out of you. You shudder as your body releases him, feeling suddenly empty. You collapse back into the couch, chest heaving as you pull your mind back together after your second earth-shattering orgasm of the night. The last thing you’re expecting is to feel his hands prying your legs apart again.

“Shaaawn,” you whine, eyes popping open to gaze up at him in disbelief. Fuck, he’s insatiable.

Your thighs clench when his long fingers slide against you, scooping up some of the cum that was oozing out of you. He only smirks in response, extending his hand out to your mouth, prompting you with his eyes.

The scene is filthy; him slipping his fingers into your waiting mouth, licking up your shared juices like you can’t get enough. And really, you can’t. The simple action already has you throbbing and wanting more. You hum around his fingers, eyes fluttering shut.

“Want you to give me another one. Think you can give it to me, lovey?” he inquires softly, contrasting his dominant demeanor.

You nod slowly with his fingers still deep in your mouth. He pulls them back quickly, moving to prod them at your sopping wet entrance.

“Look at that pretty cunt,” he whispers, “Dripping with my cum, hmm?”

He hums as he spreads the cloudy liquid up to your sensitive clit. You cry out as his calloused fingers start playing with it once again; swirling effortlessly. Your face is burning red and your chest heaves as he plays with your overstimulated center.

His eyes are fixated on your pink slit, dripping wet. All for him. He watches as he sinks two long fingers deep inside of you, hooking them to find the spongy spot deep within your walls. His pace starts off slow, working you back up after two beautiful orgasms. He’s amazed at his effect on you. Amazed that you’re his. It’s pure devotion. Forever. He couldn’t ask for anything more.

“So fuckin wet,” he whispers, rubbing your thigh with his free hand.

“Shawn, oh my god,” you whine as he picks up speed again.

His fingers coax in and out of you, curling perfectly every time. He hits your spot with ease, getting deeper than you ever could. He sits up a little straighter, using his free hand to start playing with your clit again. Your chest is burning with fire, mumbling out incoherent words as he works you back up.

“Come on baby, give me one more,” he murmurs, focusing his eyes on your center.

You’re gripping at your breasts aimlessly, trying to hold onto any bit of this world as you hurdle towards another orgasm. His fingers jam into you roughly, tugging beautiful whines out of your pink lips. Your thighs are shaking and his wrists ache but fuck, he’s lost in you.

His efforts only need to go on for seconds longer before you finally explode for him again. Your body shakes against the couch, overwhelmed with bliss. The feeling is almost too much but the way his eyes are trained on your fluttering center rids your mind of everything else. He watches in amazement as your tight walls clench around his fingers, pushing out more of his cum. The sight is filthy and he can only hang his jaw in response.

He fucks you with his fingers until you’re pushing his hand away, overstimulated by his passionate treatment. He unsheathes you and crawls back up your body slowly before pressing kisses to your sweaty hairline.

“Did so good,” he whispers into your ear, brushing your hair softly, “So good for me, sweet girl.”

Tears leak down past your temples and into your hair as you take deep breaths. His expression shifts and he thumbs at the wet streaks, clearing them off of your blushed face.

“You okay, baby? Too much? Did I hurt you?” he stammers out quickly, suddenly concerned.

You shake your head, giggling softly, “No, just felt so good,”

He smiles down at you, blushing wildly before he presses his swollen lips to yours. You share a brief passionate kiss before he breaks away, pulling you into his lap.

“So,” he starts, brushing his fingers up your spine, “Did I prove it?”

“Mhm,” you nod, smiling softly as you brush your nose against his.

You’re typically quiet after sex, especially after three rounds. It’s how he knows you’re satisfied. He just breathes you in, taking in your embrace after spending too long apart. His lips press against your burning cheek, stamping little pecks of love across your skin as you fiddle with his curls.

“Missed you so much,” you whisper into the still air; finally feeling safe in his arms again.

“Missed you too, lovey. We get a few weeks together now. No interruptions,” he replies softly, leaning his forehead against yours. You giggle in response,

“Maybe we can have more nights like tonight,”

“Oh, believe me,” he insists, raising his eyebrows, “we will.”

You sit together for a few more moments, just re-familiarizing yourselves with each other until he speaks up again,

“How ‘bout I run you a bath?” he pitches, searching your tired eyes for a response. His lips trail across your face, still pressing occasional kisses there, leaving a slight sting behind as his prickly hairs rub against your skin.

“Mmm, sounds lovely. Would you wanna join me, maybe?”

“Of course, sweet pea,” he chuckles, picking you up with ease and carrying you off to the bathroom.

“Maybe I can throw your razor out while you aren’t looking,”

“What?!”

#Shawn mendes #shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes x you #shawn mendes x y/n #shawn mendes fic #Shawn Mendes fanfiction #Shawn Mendes blurb

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godkilller · 3 years

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@shirenui144

A more sombre question, but had me wondering... Has Gin ever cried / what would it take to make him cry? I imagine it would be verse dependent, but could a man this guarded ever visibly show such emotional hurt?

out of character. Why must you hurt me.

But it’s an excellent question, and as you say too -- Gin has become such a guarded, numbed, and twisted man. He has, for lack of better wording, killed off that part of himself long ago. He is also one of the topmost guarded characters in Bleach, even Ichigo’s little trick of ‘reading his opponent’s heart’ during battle did not work on Gin. Gin was empty. Gin wasn’t even ‘looking at Ichigo’ with his heart when fighting. They did not reach each other. Gin is so utterly closed off from others and himself that there’s an eerie absence of self present in him, a swallowing abyss, intimidating and oppressive. Gin has also spent his entire existence isolated, he joined Aizen extremely young and thus his centuries-long otherness began. He cannot show emotions akin to Toshiro, who is often used in ways alongside Gin to show what happens if one shows emotions and weakness to Aizen Sousuke via childhood friends. Renji and Rukia, too, are used in ways that contrast Gin and Rangiku subtly in the background. Gin’s interactions with Rukia about Renji, and his interactions with Toshiro about Momo are to make Gin more of an other. He is removed, unlike them.

So Gin does not despair openly like they do. He doesn’t shout or cry for the audience to see. He’s a villainous cold-hearted bastard.

This is on top of the potent sense of cultural toxic masculinity and military way of avoiding / “dealing with” emotionally charged moments, not speaking of trauma, and the whole nine yards of suppression which channels into self-worth issues and a tendency for violence. Most characters in Bleach, and especially male characters, aren’t allowed to really stop and think about what they’re feeling, doing -- Ichigo being able to do a decent amount of that, yes, with his protagonist badge, but even then ? It’s pathetically insufficient, barely a taste of what Ichigo actually should be experiencing, and no other characters are allowed to mourn losses or suffer long-lasting consequences for their actions, for injuries, for mistakes, for harmful words or acts. It’s an action / fighting series, the audience is here for big flashy swordfights and cool abilities, not emotions. Certainly not darker topics of PTSD and the like.

You can slice it any which way, but Gin grew up as a child soldier. It can be contrasted by the fact that the majority of the Gotei 13 / Shinigami characters are shown, in flashbacks, as entering the Academy whilst in adulthood, becoming Shinigami once adults, with the exception of people like Toshiro, Momo, Hiyori, who all look / are perpetually young.

Gin is a little older than Toshiro, for context, by the way -- and he is younger than Byakuya. Because Tite doesn’t know how the ages of his own characters work, it can be argued that Gin and Hiyori are possibly within the same ballpark in terms of ages. But like. Look at her. What the fuck. ANYWAYS, the point is ? Gin’s young, and his trauma is fairly fresh. From the Winter War -- and then 110 years into the past to the Turn Back the Pendulum arc -- Gin spends the majority of his childhood either playing caretaker for Rangiku, who is actually a little older than him, and then killing; first, the three Shinigami that attacked Rangiku, then the Third Seat of the Fifth Division, and then many more likely during his career of observing failed projects at Aizen’s side, witnessing horrific Hollowification experimentations, and many more things. The crucial period of development for things like higher level empathy ( Gin showcases it by sharing his food with Rangiku, a stranger, and then we see the absolute absence of it from then on ) and Gin swiftly enters into the midst of Erikson’s industry vs. inferiority stage of development; what does he have to offer the world ? What can he become ? Will he be good enough ? This is the stage in which Gin makes the connection as well as makes peace with becoming a monster; this is what I’m offering, this is what I’m becoming, this will be good enough.

He flipped a switch. It’s questionable whether or not Gin has the ability to cry once he’s an established Third Seat. It’s gone, it’s been swallowed down a hole so deep and dark Gin doesn’t want to go searching for it. He doesn’t want to cry. Gin already has a negative connotation connected to crying given his quote “I’m gonna become a Shinigami, change things for ya, so that you don’t have to cry anymore, Rangiku.” Not crying = good. Not crying means better. Rangiku crying over what was done to her was what embedded into Gin that he needed to be stronger. No crying allowed. None. In his mind, obviously, Gin doesn’t actually make that connection that ‘because Rangiku did this, I’ll do this’ no, he’s not so meticulously aware yet, but there’s certainly an imprint left on him from those earlier years in the Rukongai, dreading her tears, hating them, hating those men, and so crying = murderous intent. Crying = anger.

If Gin cried as a child, he didn’t realize he was doing so. I can see him crying in his sleep from a dream, a nightmare, a jam-packed series of emotions hitting him whilst vulnerable, whilst unable to smile and swallow it all down. I can see him waking from it and wiping at his face, feeling utter detachment like an ache in his chest, an otherness, like that wasn’t even him crying, that wasn’t him. Gin wouldn’t think more of it, he wouldn’t dare linger on the thoughts. Conceal, don’t feel, don’t let them know.mp4 and all that jazz.

Gin is more likely to lash out in anger than let himself cry. I have a headcanon / drabble somewhere of Gin screaming into his inner world, clutching at his hair, feeling so terribly close to crying but he can’t, it literally will not happen. He’s too bottled up and frustrated from that that when he actually has an opportunity to cry and it doesn’t naturally happen because he’s become so suppressed, it just outright angers him. Because he has latched everything up, lock and key, by the time Gin’s an adult -- if he were to cry as an adult, it’d be during a flurry of explosive emotions. He cannot just casually let loose, no, that door’s jammed shut, it’s been coiled tight in him. A pit of despair by the time the Winter War rolls by. Gin admits to feeling anxiety, dread, during that conflict -- a sign of slowly coming undone, no longer able to keep himself from hesitance, doubt, insecurity, and anticipation hovering around him like a dark cloud. Gin cannot cry, though, not now. Not when he’s so close to making all the pain worth something...

So it’s no surprise that Gin really only starts getting the actual opening to properly cry in my canon divergent verses. But the catch !!!! Gin has failed so thoroughly and so brutally that he feels he doesn’t deserve to weep about it. That this is merely a fraction of the karma he deserves. He experiences suicidal ideation, daydreaming of how it’d simply be easier if he hadn’t survived at all. He feels too hollow to cry, then, at the start. He feels too heavy, too much, it’s too much to cry about. He ruined himself and Rangiku for nothing. He did all of this for nothing. And now Rangiku wants answers, still waiting, watching him, and he can’t cry in front of her. IT’S STILL INGRAINED IN HIM FROM CHILDHOOD: she’s the one who cries and he’s the one who comforts. The audacity of him to cry in front of her after everything he put her through, as though he were the victim and her the one needing to comfort him. Gin may be morally gray, but at times he truly sees the world in black and white. No moderation, no give and take.

It’d hit him later, when he’s learning to become more vulnerable. When he’s trying to open up to Rangiku about something he has to rip from himself, his heart holding onto this sorrow for so long Gin has to surgically remove the truth from himself. AS A CHILD, WITNESSING WHAT HAPPENED TO RANGIKU COUNTS AS A TRAUMATIC EVENT. Not talking about it for 110+ years does a number or two on you when you at last, FINALLY, tell her the fucking scoop. Gin repressed what happened to Rangiku because he recognized that Rangiku did not fully and properly remember, recollect, what happened to her. He knew. Gin saw.

Compartmentalizing her trauma on top of his own, as though a keeper of it, a sin-eater, Gin would feel absolute despairing relief at finally telling her. Despairing because he’ll be inflicting upon her something he’s been holding back, holding that door shut, for the entirety of their knowing of one another, and to finally let go of the door and let that beast of trauma go charging at her undeterred ? There’s immense guilt attached to this entire affair. Gin feels childlike guilt; why her, and not me ? I wish it could’ve been me, we could’ve traded places and I’d be fine, I’d live, we could live happy together. Akin to survivor’s guilt, Gin wishes those men had found him and taken a piece of his soul rather than Rangiku’s. The ‘why’ of it haunts him. Why her. Why didn’t I stop them. Why didn’t I show up sooner. I could’ve bitten at them, kicked and hit, we could have escaped together -- or at least you could have. Gin also feels guilt at a base adult level: why am I keeping this from her ? No, it’s too late to tell her, she’s happier now, there will never be a good time to tell her.

There are so many things, feelings, thoughts, that Gin has never shared with Rangiku due to it all being tied to the unspoken secret he’s let fester inside of him.

SO WHEN GIN FINALLY TELLS RANGIKU WHY HE JOINED AIZEN, WHY HE TRIED TO KILL AIZEN, WHY HE SAID THOSE WORDS TO HER DURING THAT BLIZZARD AND BECAME A SHINIGAMI ... GIN’S GOING TO BREAK DOWN.

The truth is tied to vulnerability in Gin’s mind. Telling it means ripping himself apart at the seams. Everything he crafted himself out to be was made around this secret. It’s going to be bloody, it’s going to hit him like a fucking train. Gin’s going to feel it coming, rumbling on the tracks, he’ll hear it even, that approaching storm, he’ll know by the prickle at his eyes and the closing of his throat, but still nothing’s ever prepared him for the absolute choked finality of the truth, and he’s going to do his best to hold it back -- it’s instinctive, it’s in his blood by now to mask it, stop it, divert and drawl his way out of it. But this time he can’t just stop halfway and distract her, talk about something else. No, Gin’s cornered himself and it’s high time Rangiku got the truth from him, he can’t run away any more. He’ll have to grit his teeth and talk through it, swallow it back just enough to speak, to tell her what he’s done to them both and for what, for why, it’s the worst possible conversation they could ever have, but one they need. And Gin’s going to find himself incapable of holding back a sob the more he discloses, the more that slips out and escapes him the more the emotions tied to that sunken anchor come up too. He will feel simultaneously lighter and heavier for it.

There are numerous ways Gin’s thought about wording it. He’s thought about the numbed approach, MISSION REPORT style: Aizen Sousuke harvested souls from the 64th Rukongai District, they took a piece from you. Perhaps not, no, not like that. Maybe... back when y’were a kid, there were three Shinigami assigned to the 64th District to collect souls to fuel Aizen Sousuke’s Hogyoku. They took somethin’ from you. I saw it. I saw them hoverin’ over you, I saw it in their hands. I saw’em offer it up to Aizen in the forest, collectin’ firewood. I saw him.

WHY DIDN’T I STOP HIM, WHY DIDN’T I ATTACK THOSE THREE MEN THEN AND THERE IN BROAD DAYLIGHT WITH YOUR COLLAPSED FORM A FEW FEET AWAY, MAYBE I COULD HAVE TAKEN THEM ON AFTER ALL. I COULD HAVE CRUSHED A SKULL IN WITH STONE, I COULD’VE STOLEN HIS SWORD BEFORE THE LIFE FULLY FADED FROM HIM AND MADE IT VANISH, I COULD’VE CARVED THROUGH THE SECOND, SLICE THE TENDON AT THE THIRD’S ANKLE AS HE ATTEMPTED TO FLEE, WARN OTHERS. SLIT HIS THROAT AS HE CRAWLED AWAY. YOU’D HEAR IT, OFF TO THE SIDE. YOU’D SEE ME COME UP TO YOU WITH BLOOD SPLATTERS. YOU’D SEE ME LEAN OVER YOU WITH NOT A PERSIMMON OFFERED, NO, YOUR OWN FUCKING SOUL THEY PLUCKED FROM YOU. SHAKY HAND. BLOODIED HAND. TAKE IT, TAKE IT BACK. I FIXED IT --

Just tell her. JUST TELL HER.

DO YOU REMEMBER THE DAY WE MET, RANGIKU ... ?

#[ headcanon ] fresh snowfall; fading footprints mark his path #[ verse: redemption ] i am healing by mistake; rome is also built on ruins #me: i wanna cover more but also i. oof.

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jjmaebank · 4 years

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wish you were gay - jj maybank

A/N: So I wrote this based off my own first heartbreak haha fun! Yeah fr, this all comes from the heart and I literally poured my real emotions and experience into this so it’s really special to me. The song ‘wish you were gay’ by Billie Eilish just reminds me of it cuz I listened to it on repeat getting over it and I related to it. If you haven’t heard it I highly recommend! Also italics are flashbacks!

Summary: you and JJ had something you thought was real, you fell for him and you thought he’d fallen for you too, but this becomes an evident lie as he makes a rash decision that ends in disaster.

Warnings: angst, heartbreak

Words: 1,802

Heartbreak. Heartbreak is a perpetual feeling that something bad is about to happen. It’s grief, fur-lined with fear that joy has forever escaped you, that there will be no happily ever after for you. Heartbreak is a tightness in your chest; it makes air feel like razor blades moving through you. It’s waking up in the morning and having three seconds where you don’t remember, and those three seconds will be the only part of the day where the dread doesn’t sit and fester in your gut.

Heartbreak was what you were feeling. After a full day of acting alright, like everything was fine and going back to normal, you’d go home and cry. You’d cry until your body was physically exhausted, to the point where you had no tears left, to the point where your face was sore. You’d cry until you felt physically and emotionally drained and then you would just lay in your bed staring up at your blank ceiling, basking in your own self-pity.

What had gone so terribly wrong? You couldn’t wrap your head around it even weeks afterwards. It kept you up at night, gnawed at you incessantly, played in the back of your mind constantly. Were you unlovable? Were you never going to be good enough for anyone? Why was it that everyone you let in pushed you away, abandoned you as soon as you let your guard down?

You and JJ were lying on John B’s couch after a night of partying, the both of you still a little drunk. You were wrapped up in his arms as he stroked your hair and placed sweet kisses on your forehead. You looked up at him in adoration and placed your hands on his bare chest.

“(y/n),” he said nervously, meeting your gaze.

“Yes?” You smiled, his anguish causing your heart rate to quicken.

“I’ve just been thinking, like…we’ve been messing about for a while now…and I guess I uh don’t really know what we are, but I know that I um…like you, like a lot…” he blabbered, removing his hand from you waist to scratch the back of his neck.

You continued staring at him, your mouth curling up in a smile as you felt him squirm underneath you as he tried to pluck up the courage to say what he’d been meaning to for weeks now.

“I guess…I uh guess this is me asking whether you wanna go out with me?” He asked, avoiding eye contact, too scared to see your reaction.

You grabbed his chin gently and tilted his head down to look at you.

“You want me to be your girlfriend?” You smiled. You’d wanted to hear those words for a while now.

“I- uh, yeah,” he replied nervously.

“Well then, yes,” you grinned, watching his eyes widen and his cheeks go crimson.

“Yes? As in yes you want to be my girlfriend?” He stuttered.

“What else would I be saying yes to you dumbass,” you chuckled, making him go red.

He pulled you into a tighter embrace, his whole being consumed by joy.

“Thank god,” he gasped, “that shit was scary.”

You remembered that night clearly, you’d never been so elated. The confusion and uncertainty between the two of you completely erased as you finally confessed your feelings for one another. You’d never felt so good in your life. You loved him, you hadn’t told him that yet, but he wanted you to be his girlfriend and that was enough for you at the time. You finally got the clarity you needed, that he was yours and you were his and nothing would change that…or so you thought.

It didn’t take long for things to go south between you and JJ, perhaps a little over a month. One of the best months of your life soon turned into the worst, all in one night.

“What is up with you?” You yelled at JJ. He’d been ignoring you all week, coming up with excuses not to see you and avoiding your texts and calls.

“I’ve just been busy, alright!” He yelled back, his voice laced in frustration. He was keeping something from you.

“Bullshit, J! You’re not too busy for John B, for Pope, for Kie! You’re apparently only too busy for me!” You shouted. “What aren’t you telling me?”

JJ sighed and sat down on John B’s couch, running his hands through his messy hair.

“Did I do something?” You whispered, sitting down across from him.

“No…no…” JJ shook his head, staring down at the wooden floorboards.

“Then what is it?” You pleaded, your voice threatening to crack at any moment. “Why don’t you talk to me anymore?”

“I fucked up (y/n)…” JJ said, finally looking up at you. His eyes showed pity, guilt even.

Your heart felt like it had sunk to your feet. What did he mean he fucked up? Had he cheated? A million thoughts raced through your mind as you processed his words.

“W-what do you mean?” You stuttered, your heart now beating at a speed you didn’t know to be humanly possible.

“I lied to you (y/n),” his lip trembled; he was holding himself back from crying. You’d only seen JJ cry once, after telling you about his father, so it scared you that he was showing signs of it again.

“You lied? What do you mean you lied, JJ?” You asked, your voice raised yet still shaky.

“I told you I wanted you to be my girlfriend,” he stated, his eyes still glazed with guilt.

Your breath hitched as you took in his words. Out of the million things that had crossed your mind, this was not one of them.

“I’m so sorry, (y/n), I really thought I wanted this…” he continued, his voice strained. “We had a lot of fun and I really like hanging out with you, but I just…I can’t do this…us…”

You felt sick. You felt a sob making its way up your throat as you felt your heart breaking, shattering into tiny pieces.

“So this was all a lie?” You choked, “I never meant anything to you?”

You could see the hurt in his eyes seeing what he’d done to you.

“I’m so, so sorry (y/n),” he shook his head, “I never meant to hurt you.”

“Bullshit!” You stood up from your seat, tears streaming down your face. “You don’t just fuck with someone’s feelings on accident!”

“We were drunk (y/n)!” JJ stood up. “I thought I knew how I felt, but I didn’t and I’m sorry! I was wrong okay? Fuck! I was wrong!”

“Alcohol doesn’t give you feelings for someone out of the blue, JJ,” you cried, “so you must’ve lied that night. You must’ve lied right to my face when you told me you liked me! When you told me you wanted me to be yours!”

You could barely see through your tear coated eyes and the taste of salt stung your lips.

JJ simply stood there in silence, shame overcoming him. He knew he was an idiot and he hated himself for it. He cared for you, he really did, but he knew leading you on anymore would just hurt you more than he already had.

“I just don’t think I’m a relationship type of guy (y/n)…I’ve tried but I can’t be the guy you want me to be… I’m sorry…” he sighed, sticking his hands into the pockets of his cargo shorts, biting his lip and sniffling.

“To think I was going to tell you I loved you…” you muttered, wiping your tears with the back of your hand.

JJ’s eyes widened at your confession, “(y/n)…I-”

“Save it, JJ,” you interrupted, “You’ve made it very clear how you feel.”

“I’m so sorry, so fucking sorry,” he mumbled, letting a single tear slip down his cheek.

“I really hope you are,” you cried grabbing your stuff, “and I hope that you never do this to anyone ever again.”

JJ Maybank had broken your heart, that was a fact. The first boy to make you feel wanted, worthy, was the same to absolutely ruin you. You spent countless nights crying yourself to sleep, blaming yourself for what had happened, convincing yourself that you could never be loved. You had to spend time away from the pogues at first, you couldn’t bear to see JJ, you wouldn’t let him see what he’d done to you just. For him to pity you.

You were so embarrassed by what had happened that you longed to blame it on anything other than the truth, the truth that JJ simply didn’t love you and he never would. But what hurt the most was thinking that he could have. The time you spent together felt so real that you couldn’t comprehend how he could discard it with such ease, just pretend like it had never even happened. He’d given you a taste of the happiness you’d craved so dearly and then ripped it away from you in the blink of an eye, that’swhat hurt the most.

What a fool you were, thinking a boy notorious for one night stands and meaningless hook ups could ever settle down permanently with the likes of you. You dreamed of being the one who he came to when he was sad, of being the first person he confided in after a beating from his father, but that’s all it was, a dream. He hardly let you in, despite your many efforts. The truth was you weren’t the first thing he thought of when he woke up, or the last thing before he fell asleep. He didn’t fantasise about your lips and the way it felt to kiss you, or how it felt to hold you or hear you laugh; he took you for granted.

You wished you could have been that girl in the movies, the girl that gets the player to change his ways and fall for her, the girl that makes him never want to be with anyone else ever again, but you weren’t her and you never would be.

A/N: whoooosh I haven’t written in a good 2 weeks or something so idk there you have it

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mattzerella-sticks · 3 years

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⭐2020 Fics in Review ⭐

Happy New Year’s Eve! 💫💫💫 2020 sure was a year... between everything that was happening on the macro (the pandemic, elections, etc.) and on the micro-level (shows delayed, some ending - disastrously, so much drama, etc.), the past 12 months felt like a blur. Especially since we’ve been inside and realized time is an illusion!

But, there were moments where I was able to ground myself in the present and not be swept away by the tide. Most of them were because of fanfiction. Whether writing or reading, fanworks became a soothing balm. And I’d be remiss (and breaking tradition) if I didn’t reflect on my past works of 2020!

I’ve written 43 fics across a wide array of fandoms - the most being Supernatural, with 9-1-1, DC Comics, Marvel, Boku No Hero Academia, Stargirl, Star Wars, Hollywood, and RWBY sprinkled in. I really branched out this year, and am looking forward to what I will write in 2021. Maybe new fandoms? Maybe an original work? Who’s to say!

Thank you to all those who’ve read my works, and am grateful for both your support and continued engagement - can’t wait to see you in 2021 with me 😁

Here are my works!

9-1-1 (TV Show)

Caught (Evan ‘Buck’ Buckely/Eddie Diaz, side Athena Grant/Bobby Nash, side Maddie Buckley/Howie ‘Chimney’ Han)

Photobooths are prime for catching special moments and making them last forever, even if they are less both and more open spaces with a backdrop. When Athena, Bobby, and Michael stumble upon one such moment between Buck and Eddie, what will they do?

And how will it affect Maddie and Chimney?

Lumped Together (Evan ‘Buck’ Buckely/Eddie Diaz, side Henrietta ‘Hen’ Wilson/Karen Wilson, side Maddie Buckley/Howie ‘Chimney’ Han)

As an apology for keeping her thoughts about medical school secret from her wife and partner, Hen takes them (and Maddie) out for lunch. With the promise that it would only be them. And for the most part it was. Until Buck and Eddie strode in with every intention of eating Takoyaki.

Just not with them.

Armed with new information, what's a girl to do? Hen spends the next day fighting back the natural instinct to tease her friends about the wonderful step they've taken together in their relationship. Can she make it home without saying anything? Or will she give in?

DCU

Lonely Together (Barry Allen/Bruce Wayne, past Barry Allen/Iris West, past Bruce Wayne/Selina Kyle)

Barry needs others, yet whether by his enemies or his own actions, he ends up alone. After Iris leaves him, Barry feels as if he drifts through life. Like lightning humming in the air without a rod to ground him.

Until he struck another lonely soul and entered a relationship he never thought possible. Now, months since he and Bruce began sleeping with each other, Barry feels settles. At peace in a way he hasn't felt in a long while. Since he and Iris started petering out.

But it's not love... is it?

Come Home (Jason Todd/Kyle Rayner)

Jason Todd gets a message from Bruce. He's surprised to see it. Then, he's surprised by the message itself. Hearing Bruce's final message stirs something inside of him, urging him towards a place he's avoided ever since his and Bruce's falling out. So he gathers his things, and then... waits.

He can't leave yet. Jason doesn't know why. Bruce gave him a mission, just like old times. Except it's not, because he... Jason can't move. Can't even stand.

That's how Kyle finds him.

Restless (Barry Allen/Bruce Wayne)

Returning home from a mission in outer space, the team picks up a distress signal off-course. They rush off to help, landing on a strange alient planet teeming with life. Especially within the plant kingdom.

While guarding the Javelin, Bruce and Barry encounter one such member while engaging in some familiar fight-flirting. Will its effects spell trouble for the League, or help these two relax their guards long enough to explore new possibilities?

(Hint: It's a little bit of both)

Marvel

Hot Seat (Peter Parker/Johnny Storm)

Spiderman likes Johnny. Like likes him. And he thought Johnny felt the same. He wasn't wrong, but Johnny like liked someone else, too. Someone he actually wanted to pursue, over Spiderman.

Unfortunately that someone is Peter Parker.

However, after a terrible misunderstanding, Johny isn't too keen on seeing either Peter or Spiderman; the longer this confusion left unresolved, the more Johnny's hurt would fester. Can Peter find a way to make Johnny listen?

Hollywood

Merrily We Roll Along (Archie Coleman/Rock Hudson)

With their careers still on the rise and no peak in sight, sometimes Archie's and Roy's lives get a little too busy. Understandably so. Archie's in the midst of writing his next screenplay while the latest opens across America. Roy spend more time on set than at home working on his latest project. When their schedules allow it, all they want is to be together.

Can they enjoy a simple morning together, or will the clouds of Hollywood cast a heavy shadow over their sunny day?

RWBY

Lucky You, Huh? (Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi)

After all that happened, it's time for the dust to settle. Choices were made. Now, the consequences for certain actions need to be carried out.

Even though he fought alongside her to save Mantle, Robyn Hill couldn't help save Clover from the whims of the Council. Without a job or home, Clover needs to find a way to carry on.

If anyone understands what that feels like, it's Qrow. Never being one who can communicate his feelings well, would he be the best to comfort the other man. When he's the only one who can, what does that mean for Clover?

Star Wars

Fourth (Poe Dameron/Finn)

What's a man and his co-general to do when they're on a mission together on a planet known for frequent sandstorms?

Flirt? That is a possibility. And definitely the one they take.

Stargirl

I’m Here (Courtney Whitmore/Yolanda Montez, past Yolanda Montez/Henry King, Jr.)

Coda to 1x10 "Brainwave Jr."

Losing Henry was sad, but it's not the first person Courtney knew whose future was snatched by the Injustice Society of America. That doesn't make his death any less tragic. It does remind Courtney how screwed up and dangerous her life was. At least she was able to wake up the next day and keep moving. And so was Beth, and Rick. But Yolanda...

Where was Yolanda? Courtney needs to know.

Crusher (Lawrence Crock/Paula Crock, Pat Dugan/Barbara Whitmore, Lawrence Crock/Pat Dugan)

When Lawrence met Pat, he saw another body that could benefit from some exercise at his gym. The more they interacted, became friends, he saw that body doing other things in other places. And his wife is totally supportive of this. While in the midst of an afterhours training session, Lawrence drags his feet on telling his friend a few important things. Egged on by Paula, will he say what's on his mind? How will Pat react?

And does Pat have a secret or two of his own?

Boku No Hero Academia/My Hero Academia

Little Secrets Everywhere (Bakugou Katsuki/Kirishima Eijiro)

Mina thought letting Bakugo read whatever was in her folder wouldn't be too bad. Maybe he would snipe at her for her less than perfect English translation and sentence structure, slap her on the head with the balled up assignment. What she wasn't expecting was for him to charge with hellish fury towards her in the common room with all their friends to see.

One careless mistake leads to many things coming to light. Everyone walking away with something new to think about.

Boku No Fundanshi (Bakugou Katsuki/Kirishima Eijiro)

Bakugo Katsuki is a top student at the premier hero academy in the world. Bakugo Katsuki is a boy with the ability to use his sweat as a weapon, each droplet containing enough nitroglycerin to obliterate a phone book. Bakugo Katsuki enjoys reading manga where boys fall in love with one another. Two out of the three are commonly accepted facts. The final one is a heavily guarded secret that Bakugo protects with his life. At least until his vigilance lapses, and he loses a doujinshi.

Will he be able to recover what he lost before anyone realizes it's his? Or, by the end of this, will he have found something he didn't know he was missing?

Portmanteau (Bakugou Katsuki/Kirishima Eijiro)

Portmanteau (port·man·teau) n. a word blending the sounds and combining the meanings of two others

Like Bakugo's chosen hero name. But was that his first choice? Kirishima doesn't think so, after finding a damning piece of evidence hidden within his notes. Except it's not what he thinks, at all...

Supernatural

Real (Dean Winchester/Castiel, background Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester)

Coda to 15x09 "The Trap"

Morning after, and Sam spies a little something blossoming in the kitchen. Something that stokes the fires of his curiosity. When the scene ends, he walks in with an intent to investigate. Learn about the strange magic that happened before his eyes. How quickly Dean and Cas's relationship repaired. And what brilliant new shape it took on after Purgatory.

Will Sam be satisfied with the answer?

Half-Priced Chocolates (Dean Winchester/Castiel, background Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester)

The day after Valentine's Day is great for many things. Basking in the glow of a night well spent, sharing the joy of love with your family, and eating chocolate priced considerably lower than it was the day before.

Except Sam can't enjoy any of that, because Dean won't let him. Because Dean woke up in a sour mood and has picked up the banners of war against romantic love.

Albeit, the three aforementioned things might make his conflict the shortest in history.

Spill (Dean Winchester/Castiel)

Dean always thought it would take more to force him into retirement. Yet here he is, locked in the Bunker until the world figures out a cure for a deadly virus. It could be worse - at least they have a home. He cannot imagine how worse it would be if this happened years earlier, where he and Sam were trapped in a tiny motel room together. Here they have options, and miles of outdoor space they can stroll through if their options become stale.

And they were beginning to. Dean could only do so much indoors. Dean knew he needed to shake things up, but couldn't begin thinking how. Luckily Castiel has an idea, and gives him a new way of looking at their kitchen.

Supernatural Crack🩹tober

Following the Supernatural Cracktober prompt list, one day at a time.

Prompts will be listed in the notes and the chapter title.

Enjoy!

Bullets Over the Bayou (Dean Winchester/Castiel)

Everyone wants Castiel Novak to quit the force, including Castiel. But he stays on despite the toxic work environment he’s surrounded by. Still believing he can do some good despite the many lines of red tape impeding him. Luckily, a pair of scissors by the name of Dean Winchester drops into his hands, and he finally feels like he can do some good.

Dean Winchester thought he would be in New Orleans for a day or two. Identify the body of his deadbeat father and then move on. No one knows he’s here. His mother and brother are blissfully unaware of the danger his father roped him into. With a parting gift of a journal, delivered to him the same day he received word about his father, Dean has become the target of a group of people who want him dead. The same people who killed his father.

Racing against the clock, can Dean and Castiel figure out what is so important about John Winchester’s journal that someone would kill for it?

Kick Ball Change (Dean Winchester/Castiel, background Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester)

Coda to 15x10 "The Heroes' Journey"

Dean has the Bunker to himself at a time after he and Sam regain their supernatural abilities. With nothing needing his attention, he decides taking time for himself wouldn't hurt. But the usual fare leaves him bored and tired.

So he tries something new. Something he wanted to try, but wasn't sure he would be good at. Dean starts off strong, but doing it on your own can only be so fun. Get you so far. Luckily a partner happens by and truly allows Dean to enjoy a part of himself he knew was there, but didn't want to share.

Tempered Desires (Dean Winchester/Castiel, background Charlie Bradbury/OC, background Sam Winchester/Jessica Moore, background Sam Winchester/Ruby, background Sam Winchester/Mick Davies, past Dean Winchester/Arthur Ketch)

Dating, sex, and finding love were the farthest things on the minds of both Dean and Castiel. There were more important things to worry about - namely the pandemic that swept across the globe and changed everything. Navigating this new environment was hard enough without adding romance.

But fate never intervenes when you expect. From first meetings to first dates, we'll see how Dean and Castiel's relationship blossoms despite the circumstances.

Sunrise (Dean Winchester/Castiel, background Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester)

Dean and Sam were free. Finally, unequivocally, free.

But this wasn't the happy ending Dean had expected. Maybe in the past, having Sam in the passenger seat tearing across an open stretch of highway as the sunsets, it'd be what he wanted. But that was years ago. He's not that man anymore. Dean's tired of sunsets, of saying goodbye. He yearns for a different ending. One that's less of an ending, and more of a beginning. A sunrise instead of a sunset.

Sam has his. Dean lost his. Despite this setback, he won't stop. He'll live in memory of his sunrise.

Except, what can he do when he feels those rays on his face again?

Coda to 15x19

Fixing It (Dean Winchester/Castiel, background Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester)

Dean Winchester walked a long & difficult road. House burning down when he was 4, constantly being on the move until his father lost a fight with demons at the age of 25. Reunited with his mother only to lose her again. Have a son only to lose him, too. Of all the shadows that have crossed his path, he thought one of the main sources of light was his husband Castiel.

But he had to ruin that, too.

Can he ever have that shine again? Or are there things that are too good for him to hold? Will they mend what was broken?

Heart in My Hand (Dean Winchester/Castiel, background Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester)

He was right there.

Cas was telling Dean everything he ever wanted to hear since meeting the angel of the Lord... only each and every word of his confession stabbed at Dean's heart. Because once he finished, there's no more time for them. For him. For any chance of happiness - all that taken away by the Empty. And now he has to carry on.

He tries. Stands, gets in his car and drives where Sam tells him. When he meets with the others, though...

Coda to 15x18 "Despair"

A Dumb Idea (Dean Winchester/Castiel)

They celebrated Christmas, Halloween, Thanksgiving, birthdays, even the Fourth of July. What about the other holidays? What about Valentine's Day?

Mrs. Butters actually had a plan for that, but she left before it could come to fruition. Sam, however, stumbles on Dean and a leftover piece from said plan. Something Dean would rather Sam not see. When he does get a peek as to what it is, well... Dean and Sam have a lot to talk about.

Coda to 15x14 "The Last Holiday"

What the Water Gave Him (Dean Winchester/Castiel)

It was over. Chuck lost, Sam and Dean can live their lives how they want them. But their victory wasn't without losses. The biggest upset nearly taking Dean out of the game, happening so close to the final battle. Now he's on the other side, alive against all odds, but Sam knows he isn't happy. Not truly happy since the Empty stole his best friend.

But there's a chance they can save him. A slim chance. A risk that Dean's willing to take despite every logical nerve in Sam's body screaming at him to look for better options. That threading a needle this small is too dangerous. That they don't have to take on another big bad, not anymore. That they don't have to risk their lives anymore. Dean is far past the point of listening. Dead set on this mission, Sam can only watch.

And pray his brother proves him wrong.

(Now with art from gabester-sketch)

Acutely (Dean Winchester/Castiel)

Jack said he's sorry, after getting his soul back.

Jack said he's sorry, and he's looking at Dean. They're all looking at Dean.

Jack said he's sorry, and Dean can't take it. It's too much. Like a frog thrown into a boiling pot he hops out, jumping out from the room towards safety. Doing his best not to succumb to the pain.

He can't hide forever, let the wounds fester. It's too much to deal with on his own, though. Can someone help him through it?

Leeches (Dean Winchester/Castiel)

Sharing a Netflix makes sense, in hindsight. Dean gets it. But that doesn't mean he appreciates seeing a bunch of profiles after his that weren't there last he checked.

He's gonna get to the bottom of this - of when this happened, why, and how they were able to guess his password.

Revival (Dean Winchester/Castiel, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester)

Sam and Dean stand there on the bridge, the camera panning out on them as they are finally reunited in Heaven.

But then Sam wakes up.

(Coda/Fix-It Fic to 15x20 "Carry On")

Memento (Dean Winchester/Castiel)

Why did Castiel have a photo of himself in a cowboy hat? Where did he get it? Who took it, and more importantly who gave it to him?

Coda to 15x15 "Gimme Shelter"

The End (We Deserve) (Dean Winchester/Castiel)

Dean Winchester dies in Sam's arms.

And then he doesn't.

(How that scene originally looked...)

Constants

Meeting with alternate versions of themselves makes Sam and Dean think about what the landscape of the former multiverse might have looked like - or, really, "If there can be multiple Deans and multiple Sams, can there be other versions of things they know. Like... Baby?"

Dean says no. There's only one Baby. She's got four wheels, black paint, and has been his from the beginning. Sam thinks otherwise.

Let's explore what the possibilities of Deans, Sams, and Babys in different universes might look like.

Enjoy the Present (Dean Winchester/Castiel)

Sam had a birthday, Jack had a birthday...

It would only be fitting for Dean to have one, too. It's expected, really. Yet the one Sam and Jack throw him still catches him by surprise. Maybe because he actually agreed with Butters, about having outgrowned birthdays. Or because his thoughts were pulled elsewhere because of some disappointing news.

If it's the latter, than a birthday will definitely take his mind off of that. Especially when it comes time for his present.

Coda to 15x14 'The Last Holiday'

Swallow It Whole (Dean Winchester/Castiel)

"The older you get... the less lies make everything better"

But when you've told as many lies as Dean has, it's hard to tell what's true and what's not. How can he remove all the rotten parts of himself without bringing everything down? Which lies have ingrained themselves so firmly, that removing them would change everything about who he was?

And, scariest of them all, who would he be without those lies?

Coda to 15x16 "Drag Me (Away From You)"

Desperation, Baby! (Dean Winchester/Castiel)

Death took her sweet time parsing through Chuck's book, meaning Lucifer spent longer than he'd like surrounded by his former vessel, his brother, his son, and a man whose obvious longing made him want to vomit. Instead of returning with his prize, Chuck welcoming him back, he must waste his valuable time playing 'nice; with those he can't stand.

Not that it matters. They don't trust him, each member of this ragtag group of survivors watching Lucifer in shifts. Never leaving him alone.

It's Dean's turn now, and he's driving Lucifer up a wall by doing nothing at all save for broadcasting a never-ending supply of feeling. Can he cut the signal without showing his hand, or put Dean's heart to good use?

Coda to 15x19 "Inherit the Earth"

A Healing Touch/New Experiences (Dean Winchester/Castiel, Adam/Serafina)

Maybe if Cas hadn't abandoned him, he wouldn't have agreed to Adam's offer. But with free will finally theirs, Cas made his choice, and Dean his. Now he has to live with the consequences - even if they are awkward. He won't die from it, certainly.

It's only a massage.

But what Dean doesn't know, is that it's more than a massage. It's healing.

It Feels Real Good (Claire Novak/Kaia Nieves, background Dean Winchester/Castiel)

Jody sent her to Yosemite, and she brings her back. For what reason, Claire doesn't know. But it had better be important, otherwise Claire gave the Dark Figure that stole her happiness another chance at escape. Will Jody's house hold a reason important enough for Claire to let go of the heavy burdens she's been carrying since hopping through a rift into another universe?

Coda to 15x12 "Galaxy Brain"

Through the Door (Dean Winchester/Castiel)

Cas tells Sam that Chuck and Amara are here. But how does he know? Sure, he could've felt them land through his grace. But all that time Sam was gone? There was enough there that he could've investigated. They'd need to know where they were anyway, when the time came.

But Cas should've known better. Now wasn't the best moment for a little family reunion, especially when there's so much bad blood it can drown them all. Yet he came, and finally got the audience he always seeked with his father.

Coda to 15x17 "Unity"

Four of Swords (Dean Winchester/Castiel, background Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester)

The Four of Swords, in the present position, means you don't want to interact with the rest of the world. Because of stress, you need to spend some time with yourself - unhealthy always being 'on'. That the healthiest thing to do is to escape.

Dean might crave escape, but it's not something he thinks he can have. Something he deserves, even. After his and Sam's most recent hunt, this cancerous feeling has grown heavy and weighs him down. He cannot escape on his own, as best he tries.

Luckily a guardian 'former angel' angel swoops in at his lowest. Helps pick up the pieces as best he can and lovingly put them back together. But he can only do so much. The rest is up to Dean.

Can Dean take those final steps, say those final words, and finally free himself?

i’d like to teach the world to sing (Dean Winchester/Castiel, Castiel/Others, WIP, 10 out of 15 chapters posted so far)

Mar del Vista, California - 1972

The groovy counterculture that dominated conversation in the past few years still clings to the landscape, floating around like smoke off a burning joint. Changed by the fires of war, Manson, and life into something new. Less trusting, optimistic, and innocent.

Cas is just one of many disillusioned hippies, saddled with a general distrust even before the movement self-imploded. Wary of about everything. Perfect for his line of work, where what's on the surface might not match the truth underneath. It's not an easy life, but he's comfortable with how it goes. Coasting until he hears a case he has no business accepting. For one, it's about a missing teen. And another, it's personal.

Except Jack's disappearance, like every other case he's worked, isn't so cut and dry. Like a rock skipping across a then-placid lake, the ripples stretch far and wide. Those waves slamming at Cas; of cops, federal agents, hippie cultists, and a certain green-eyed detective who's a little too interested in Cas's investigation.

Will Cas find Jack? Or will he drown in the tides.

Checkmate (Dean Winchester/Castiel)

Billie saves Jack from suffering a fatal end from her plan, and knowing Jack was safe gave Cas space to focus on his own troubles. Nearly losing his son again... revelations from Chuck... choices Dean made, were set on, until Sam broke through at the last minute - too close - they all were...

It was too much. Cas needed to digest these roiling experiences away from faces it hurt to look at. Except he stumbles exactly where Chuck wants him. After countless times praying for guidance, Chuck finally decides now is perfect for a long-awaited heart-to-heart.

Coda to 15x17 "Unity"

Slide (Dean Winchester/Castiel, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester)

This isn't his day. It's Sam's and Eileen's. But while out on the dance floor, Dean realizes something that forces him to act. Act boldly.

It's not his day, but he cannot push back what's been there all along, dam bursting with no hope or need of rebuilding itself. He has to say something to Cas.

Why? Because it's Electric... boogie woogie woogie

(Inspired by the Suptober Day 9 prompt - Electric)

Unwrap Me (Dean Winchester/Castiel)

Dean never thought he would make it this far. Nor would he have as many wonderful things that he has now. A home, friends, family, and most importantly love. With a former angel.

Given how normal his life is now, Dean decides he wants to go all out celebrating Christmas. Parties, feasts, and the perfect presents. He wants to get Cas something that will translate everything that resides in his heart. Dean believes he has the right gift, but decides against leading with it. Instead surprising Cas with it after showing him his Christmas best.

Although, during his entire time planning Cas's present, he never wondered what Cas got him...

Disappointment is temporary, but creativity is eternal 🥂 to more fanworks in 2021!!!

26 notes · View notes

mildly-incoherent-ramblings · 3 years

Text

Honey Sticks (Straws? Tubes? What Do You Call Them?)

A distant friend's friend was making care packages for trans people and asked folks on Instagram if they wanted them, so I asked for one. This has been a hard season on me and I thought hey, what the hell, worst case scenario I don't get one and its whatever. Right?

This was months ago, and I forgot almost immediately after doing so. It came today.

There were lots of things included that made me happy, little gestures of sweetness. Two tea bags, one for sleep and one for relaxation, which I had not had much of either and needed. A sticker of a cute little spider, of whom I have complicated feelings for and have grown to love, though from a distance. Some candies, a lemon-honey cough drop, a very nice card, a note and a patch with an anarchy symbol framed in a heart that I bet will probably fade in 3 or so washes but I will wear anyways. It is after all, the thought that counts. But the gesture that warmed my soul and brought me great joy, was the honey stick.

I didn’t process the significance at first. There were so many of these little items at once and I was just overwhelmed overall by this small expression of kindness. I thanked the person, followed them, thanked the person who had told them I wanted one and made sure I was following them, and set these things aside for a little while to tend to other things.

I had a stressful situation involving a kitchen mess that triggered me a little and had just sat down after addressing said stressful situation when my eyes fixed on the little honey stick along with the candy I had been given. I ate the mango hi-chew first and briefly was paranoid it would fill the cavities in my teeth and have me regretting it.

Then I went for the honey stick. I held it in my hands, rolled it gently between my fingers. I watched the honey move through the tube as I squeezed it in different places and the nostalgia started to set in. I remember long drives to the bay as a child with my grandparents and stopping at this little roadside farm that had produce and preserves and flowers and always, little straws filled with honey and sealed off, what I called as a child and refer to now as honey sticks.

The texture was familiar, cool plastic between my fingers. I popped the seal gently with my teeth and pushed about half the tube onto my tongue. As soon as it hit my taste buds, I was transported to this place. To where my grandfather was still alive, in my mind, during a time where he and my grandmother were still at least as far as I knew, quite happy. The sweetness and the floral and the acidic and the smooth texture floated in my salivating mouth, as tears welled up in my eyes. I felt it coat the back of my teeth, savored it, before swallowing and squeezing from the tube the rest of its contents. I did not waste a single drop of this wonderful gift. I sat with the sadness and the nostalgia and the longing for some time. And then my eyes fixated on the pamphlet from his memorial service hanging in the corner. I miss the man, for all the problems he came with and all the unanswered questions and unresolved hurt I had felt. Missed that time where I had the privilege of being a child, before I was old enough to understand that though my loved ones loved me indeed, their love would only extend as far as their own perspective’s limitations reached.

The last two times I saw my grandpa sit in my stomach like bricks in a burlap sack. The second to last time, he was moving out of state with his good friend, and the last words he chose to say to me were “I love you, Granddaughter.” I had been out as transmasculine to my family for several years, and he was one of the only members of my family who flat out refused to support my decisions. I told my grandma about how I felt about this several months later, at the time worried this may be the last time I ever saw him. I felt like he did not want to see my transition, and did not want to see the man I would become. As much as I love my grandma, she doesn’t keep a secret worth a shit, so of course she went behind my back and told him everything. She always does.

The very last time we saw each other, he tried to discuss this event and how it impacted him. By this time I was fully growing into my masculine body, had little pubescent hairs shading my upper lip and a deepened voice. He still adamantly misgendered me, refused to even look at me, the entire time. He simply could not see me. He asked me why I would do this to my family. He asked me why I would make them all suffer seeing me like this, as if my choice to live authentically was harmful to everyone around me. He was also under the distinct impression that our loved ones regarded my choices with the same level of disgust he had. He expressed revulsion and shame for my choices, and wanted to agree to disagree, under the impression still that he could just see me as a woman and ignore all the changes I had made and the life I was living, and how much even the other skeptical members of my family had adjusted since. He did not want another grandson, especially one who was a fag. That car ride brought a lot of tension, and the entire time we spent after with my grandma when we met her for lunch, was plated on a bed of unspoken mutual contempt for one another. He salted an already deep and still fresh wound, and it festered over. It still has not quite healed.

Ironically, it would be revealed not too long after, that my brother had discovered that grandpa himself was in fact very much a gay man. While he was assisting him with formatting his cell phone, my brother would accidentally stumble on a still open incognito tab with some... very gay content still open. Along with that, a string of messages with his “good friend,” who had apparently been his lover the entire time. My brother responded with compulsory homophobic remarks that I will not repeat, but mostly just frustration that he had been dishonest with my grandma all these years. The discomfort that situation has inspired in me still hasn’t properly been unpacked. Everyone was wrong in that situation. Everyone.

Go figure. He and his good friend, “they were roommates.”

When he passed, my father came and told me in person. I finally spoke of what had happened between us, and even he was angered by the hypocrisy, saying he had known for years that my grandfather was not straight. I know now that how he treated me was what he did for himself to avoid suspicion. Because if I had the audacity to be out, that meant there was little left for an excuse for him to hide. I threatened his cover. I threatened his disguise. I cracked his mask. I left his closet open ajar and he peered outside, horrified at the possibilities he saw.

Acknowledging all this, even still, I could not help but enjoy this moment of being brought back to this familiar childhood memory, before all of that would happen. This person who sent me this great gift could not have known the significance, but rest assured, I am quite grateful. I enjoyed this moment and then it was gone, and then it was back to reality in front of my computer, staring at the wall. The knowledge that that same man who loved me dearly was also undeniably cruel to me burned my skin and flooded my eyes. Hidden beneath that hurt and sadness, I felt remorse for him, because he never did feel safe speaking his truth to us, not even to the others in our family who related to him. I often think of his lover, and how painful it must have been for this man to mourn him publicly as a good friend, and privately as an intimate partner of whom adored him and cared for him in ways they could not ever feel safe speaking of.

Sitting with this conflict of nostalgia and longing for the safety of my adolescent ignorance, with the truth and the reality as I have come to know it, I let my own mask fall, and cried for the first time in months since he had died. It is possible to both love a person who was once good to you and also acknowledge when their actions created harm, and to hold them accountable. I do not believe it to be disrespect to the dead to also speak of their faults as well as their glory. Joy and sadness and frustration and unanswered questions looked down on me, crowded around me, mocked me.

My hands shake as I type and I am overwhelmed with the juxtaposition of these strong emotions.

Written some time in mid July.

RIP August 19th, 2020

#gay #closeted #coming out #family #disrespect #no closure #sadness #hurt #living in the past #grief #grieving #processing #truth #changing #lgbtq #lgbtqia #moving on

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crash-cinematic-universe · 4 years

Text

Home

pairing: Peter Maximoff/reader

summary: Peter Maximoff wants to feel at home.

Song: Home by Cavetown

Warnings: insecurity issues, abandonment issues

other notes: holy fuck, i’m really proud of this one. Peter Maximoff deserves the world and I’m determined to give it to him.

(gif is not mine, credit to @shhh-no-ones-home)

________________________________________________________________

Often I am upset that I cannot fall in love but I guess

This avoids the stress of falling out of it

Peter remembers the days he spent in his mother’s basement, lying on his bed absentmindedly staring at the ceiling. He remembers the crippling feeling of loneliness, the fear he felt during those late nights, the anger that festered in him every day he was alone. He didn’t believe in love-- at least, he didn’t think he could ever love or be loved. Of course, he loved his mother and his sisters, that was a given, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was dragging them down. He couldn’t shake the idea that he was a leech, a loser that was so emotionally drained all the time that he still lived in his mother’s basement at the age of 27. He didn’t think he really deserved love. Sometimes he made excuses for his feelings; every rom-com involves heartbreak, after all, and if he never fell in love he’d never have to feel that. But Peter couldn’t help but yearn for someone to love him, even if it did involve a bit of heartbreak. All Peter wanted was to feel at home.

Are you tired of me yet?

I'm a little sick right now but I swear

When I'm ready I will fly us out of here

Peter remembers the day he met you. He remembers the way you smiled at him when he introduced himself, and the way butterflies erupted in his stomach and the way his heart skipped a beat any time you looked his way. He suddenly felt the need to be close to you, the urge to have you pay attention to him and only him. He got scared, scared that he was being too clingy, too needy, scared that you’d get sick of him and run away like everyone else. He may be the fastest man on Earth, but he could never keep up with those who ran away from him. He waited for the day that you’d snap, the day that you’d confess that he’s been nothing but a bother and a burden and that you wanted nothing to do with him. That day never came. Peter soon saw his fears grow into something much bigger. He was absolutely terrified of the fact that he was falling in love with you. The scariest part? He started to believe that you were falling in love with him, too.

(Mmm) I'll cut my hair

(Mmm) To make you stare

(Mmm) I'll hide my chest

And I'll figure out a way to get us out of here

Ooh, Ooh, Ooh, Ooh

Peter remembers his schemes, his elaborate plans and stunts done only to get your attention. He remembers the day he walked into your classroom with bright red hair, he recalls the flabbergasted look on your face that preceded your faux cries of pain. He quickly dyed his hair back to it’s original silver hue the moment he realized you didn’t like it. He always finds himself smiling whenever he thinks of the way you stroked his hair the day it went from red to silver, the soft stroke of your gentle hands as you whispered into his ear. He leaned into your touch, and for a second, he wasn’t afraid of being in love. That was only for a second though, and the dreadful thoughts and beliefs that he was on borrowed time returned. He figured the only way to stay sane was to stay away from you. He soon discovered that being away from you was much, much worse than being afraid.

Turn off your porcelain face

I can't really think right now and this place

Has too many colors, enough to drive all of us insane

Peter remembers the strong feeling of being completely overwhelmed. He remembers how many things he felt whenever he got too close to you. He always seemed confused, yet content. The mansion, however, was a different story. It never stopped being overwhelming, it sometimes got so bad that he had to find a corner and hide away for a while; he needed to shut off his brain. There were days where it got really bad, and Peter would refuse to leave his room, collapsing under the pressure of being an X-Man, of being a mutant, of just being Peter Maximoff. He thought he was going insane-- he really believed that he wouldn’t make it. But then you’d be there to comfort him, to keep him grounded in reality for a while, and he’d be all right.

Are you dead?

Sometimes I think I'm dead

Cause I can feel ghosts and ghouls wrapping my head

But I don't wanna fall asleep just yet

Peter remembers the times he spent with you in your room. He remembers the way he’d lay his head on your chest and listen to your heartbeat as you’d gently stroke his hair and listen to the rain. He’d always been so hesitant when it came to physical affection; Peter was unimaginably touch starved yet so convinced that he didn’t deserve affection that he avoided it overall. Once he did allow physical affection, he couldn’t get enough of it. He was always craving it, always desperate to feel your skin on his. He relished every touch like it was the last, he lived in the warmth that you radiated for as long as he could each night because he was so very afraid that he’d be cold again. It was heaven. Every morning that he woke up in your arms felt like a dream, and he often wondered if he actually was dead. He wondered if a mission had gone south and he’d been sent to heaven where he could be with you forever. Every night he was afraid to fall asleep, he was so very afraid that you’d be gone when he woke up. He always fell asleep with a tight grip on you, pulling you as close as possible. Almost as if you were going to disappear.

(Ooh) My eyes went dark

(Ooh) I don't know where

(Ooh) My pupils are

But I'll figure out a way to get us out of here

Peter remembers the feeling of utter emptiness the first time you fought. He remembers the shame he felt when you walk away from him, but he felt a dreadful, crippling fear overtake him more so than shame. He’d been reckless on a mission, he’d gotten too cocky during a fight and it almost cost him his life. He remembers seeing you walk into the hospital wing of the mansion and he remembers how horrible he felt when you started crying. He remembers how disappointed in him you were, how worried you seemed. Neither of you shouted, no voices were raised, but your words hurt worse than yelling ever could. You weren’t mean, no, you were concerned. You expressed how much you cared for him, how badly you wanted him to be happy and safe. He pushed you away, and the moment you left the room he broke down. Hank thought he was in pain due to his injuries, and Peter was too embarrassed to admit what he was crying about. He went to sleep cold that night.

Get a load of this monster

He doesn't know how to communicate

His mind is in a different place

Will everybody please give him a little bit of space?

Peter remembers the first time he discovered his mutation. He remembered running down the street with his friends and before he knew it he was 30 miles away from his house. Sometimes, when he sleeps, he hears their screams. They all called him a mistake, an abomination, a monster. After a while, he started to believe it. His friends all ran away, and Peter resided in the basement from then on. He did everything he could to be liked, to be accepted; he hid his mutation, broke 8 world records, hell, he even went to the Olympics and won. They had taken away his medals once they found out he was a mutant, recounted his records, and exposed him to the world. He shut himself off from the world, believing that all he’d ever be was a failure. An unlovable, mutant, monster.

Get a load of this train wreck

His hair's a mess and he doesn't know who he is yet

But little do we know, the stars

Welcome him with open...

Peter remembers the days where the shame consumed him. He remembers the tears he shed alone in his basement. His intrusive thoughts and insecurities couldn’t be drowned out by any of his Pink Floyd songs. His past failures and disappointments couldn’t be diminished by his high scores he got on his stolen Ms. Pacman machine. There were days where he wished he could be anyone else. He projected himself onto the characters on his T.V. and in his video games. He adopted the personalities of all his favorite characters until he was a shadow of his former self, a mangled bunch of nothing that couldn’t cover up what Peter was. He got so confused, losing touch with who he was until he couldn’t tell the difference. He lost sight of where the fiction ended and Peter began. It was all so ironic, he was so desperate to be anyone other than Peter Maximoff and when he got his wish, he wanted nothing more than to be himself again. The shame only grew from there.

Get a load of this monster

He doesn't know how to communicate

His mind is in a different place

Will everybody please give him a little bit of space?

Peter remembers the first time he saw you use your mutation. He remembers the way you moved through the air and sent little bursts of energy across the room. In that moment, Peter didn’t see you as a monster. He didn’t think you were unlovable or evil or a mistake. He thought you were amazing. He thought you were extravagant. He felt a swell of pride as you bested Warren in a fight, he loved you with all of his heart. It didn’t matter to him that you were a mutant-- he loved you regardless. That’s when he realized real love can’t be lessened or dampened by something as futile as a mutation. Peter realized everyone who called him a monster didn’t really care about him. He stopped thinking about them and started thinking about how much he loved you, how he’d lay down his life for you. Suddenly, Peter wasn’t so afraid.

Get a load of this train wreck

His hair's a mess and he doesn't know who he is yet

But little do we know, the stars

Welcome him with open arms.

Peter remembers the day that he realized he didn’t have to hide anymore. He remembers the way you’d told him he had nothing to be ashamed of. You had looked him in the eyes and told him you fell in love with Peter Maximoff, the clumsy, caring, gentle, kindhearted man that he was. You fell in love with Peter Maximoff and all of his hurt and insecurities and fears and shame. You fell in love with Peter Maximoff and his great taste in music and his unique sense of humor and his amazing ability to best anyone at Pacman. You fell in love with Peter Maximoff, the silver mutant who had previously believed he didn’t deserve love and that no one could ever really love him. You fell in love with Peter Maximoff and for the first time in his life, Peter wasn’t ashamed to be Peter Maximoff anymore.

Time is

Slowly

Tracing his face

But strangely he feels at home in this place

Peter is a bit older now, and so are you. Peter loves to look back on his life every now and then just to see how far he’s come. Peter isn’t ashamed, nor is he afraid. He’s content. He’s happy. He’s unashamedly himself. He’s married. He’s married to the first person he’s ever loved. He’s married to the only person who made him unafraid of love. He’s married to the only person who could keep him grounded when everything got too overwhelming. He’s married to the person who always kept him warm when he slept. He’s married to the person who only ever wanted him to be safe and happy. He’s married to the first person who made him unafraid. He’s married to the only person who showed him that being Peter Maximoff wasn’t a bad thing. He’s married to the only person who ever made him feel at home.

#peter maximoff #evan peters #xmen #xmen fanfiction #quicksilver #cavetown #home #xmen imagine #xmen songfic #songfic #pietro maximoff #peter maximoff x reader

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spookyspaghettisundae · 3 years

Text

Working Like a Charm

Sammie Smith’s body ached. Every muscle screamed to the high heavens, lamenting long hours of work, telling a tale of soreness and overexertion. He could feel how sunken his eyes must have looked but avoided rubbing them.

Numb to the layers of grit and filth from the coal mine that clung to every surface of exposed skin, his weary calloused hands burned from clutching tools for as long as he had. Still was he clutching them now, carrying his heavy shovel and pickaxe on a shoulder. Part of why “Baron” Callan had hired him—he brought his own tools to work.

The day had been entirely too damned long, he thought. His head hung low, he looked forward to crashing into his creaky old rocking chair, warming up a bowl of beans, taking a bath, and getting a good night’s sleep. Night came fast this time of year, and the day had dragged on into overtime due to a cave-in, setting them back and subjecting the workforce to Callan’s barking admonitions. At least nobody had gotten hurt in the accident.

Sammie’s feet dragged and kicked up tiny clouds as he walked the dusty road back to his home on the edge of Dead End.

His shanty little shack stood amid a copse of trees, just far away enough from the town’s center that he needed not deal with the raucous noise from the saloon or the farrier’s daily toil or other busywork in the rugged frontier town, but not so far away that it made fetching water and supplies too much of a hassle.

He tripped over something, stumbled a few steps, and caught himself before gravity could drag him down. Sammie slowly turned to look at what had snagged his boot.

A linen sack. Sopping wet and dark in color. About the size of a human head.

It took him several moments to register what he was looking at. For the realization to sink in. He lost track of time, oblivious to how long he was standing there, staring at the linen sack, piecing together why his own brain figured it to be the size of a human head, or that the stain in the coarse cloth and on the dirt around it had to be blood.

And then his mind snapped onto a decision. He did what he believed every other conscientious citizen of their fine town should do upon finding a severed head by the roadside on their way home. He kicked it away with full force, cringing at the squelching sound and how little it flew past the shrubs, heavy with fluid, and it flopped unevenly, disappearing awkwardly into the shade of the underbrush.

He had been stealing pennies from Callan and often cheated at cards. He had pissed off plenty of people around town in some of his bouts of drunken aggression, and Sammie did not want to have Sheriff Moody on his ass for accusations of a murder he did not commit.

With a heavy sigh and hoping to leave the severed head behind for wild animals and vermin to claim, he continued his way home.

Only about thirty paces away from his shack, he stopped and groaned, beginning to second-guess and regret what he had just done. If it did draw wild animals, they would be a bit too close to his hut for comfort. And leaving it there for some rascal or dog to find might just make people think he did it either way.

Branches bent and snapped as he hastily dumped his tools by the side of the dirt path and started poking around in the bush where the head in the burlap sack had rolled off to.

Sammie swore up a storm as he searched. The blood drained more and more from his head with every second, a sense of dread forming a knot in his stomach as he could not find it and began to imagine people pointing and laughing while they hanged him from the gallows.

It had not flown far. How in tarnation could he not have found it already?

Glass shattered and metal clattered, and the burst of ruckus stopped him dead in his tracks. Sammie’s head jutted over, and he craned his neck over the edge of the bushes to peer at his shack.

Someone was in there.

The murderer?

He could feel his heart pounding away as it uncomfortably pumped blood through his throbbing chest, digits, and ears. Even his belly pulsed with his festering sense of fear.

Straining his eyes to see inside the darkness behind the small and shoddy windows of his cabin, he could not make out anybody in there. Eagerly awaiting a motion to make itself noticed.

He licked his parched lips and returned to his tools, keeping his eyes trained on his home. He ducked down, pawing at the first wooden shaft his hands found purchase on, then gripped the pickaxe in both hands.

Step by step, careful to not make too much sound as he approached, he drew his axe up high above his head, ready to swing it and kill if need be.

The closer he drew to the shabby front door of his cabin, the more subtle sounds he perceived from inside: scratching, followed by a man’s clipped cough, followed by wooden objects scraping against each other, followed by what sounded like someone smacking their lips—

Sammie arrived by the door. His heart throbbed with such pounding force that it felt like it was trying to escape every orifice, trying to drown out every little noise.

He kicked the door and started swearing once the sensation of the jolt reached his ankle and knee—the door just rattled in its hinges, refusing to yield anything but additional pain in his already sore leg. He lost balance and stumbled away, using the pickaxe to brace himself from falling, skidding across the dirt.

Whoever had invaded his home did not react to his fumbling around outside. Still sounded like someone was eating in there.

Was this rat bastard eating his jerky supplies?

The fury welling up in his gut—being stolen from, being possibly framed for murder, making a fool of himself in failing to kick his own door open, frustrated by the ghoulish foreman and “Baron” at work, being too tired for any of this—somehow eclipsed his fear.

Fuming, Sammie ripped the door open, gripping the pickaxe in one hand, knowing it might as well just scare off the scoundrel to show he could drive the pick right through him if he started messing around.

One step beyond the threshold, he froze.

Faint light from the setting sun poured in through the cabin’s small windows, revealing a cloud of dust motes to be dancing in the rays. The smell of feces and vomit lingered in the air, like someone had dragged the horse trough from outside the saloon into here.

A stranger sat at his table, eating. Eating what looked to be shards of glass in one of Sammie’s wooden bowls. The stranger smacked his lips and the glass crunched between his teeth as he chewed, with rivulets of blood trickling down his chin. He looked like he had once sported a dapper black suit and jacket, like someone far more well off than Sammie—like a businessman from Louisville—but myriads of dark spots and dust marred his attire, like he had been rolling around in the dirt and human refuse.

And his hands were slick and shiny with crimson. His fingers looked way too thin at the tips, all pointy and narrow, mismatched with the rest of his meaty palms.

The stranger met Sammie’s horrified gaze with an air of confounded indifference about him, idly crunching down on the glass being ground down between his teeth. His eerily thin fingertips gingerly grabbed another shard from the pile of broken bottles in the bowl in front of him and guided it to his mouth.

He opened his mouth and revealed a nightmare of blood and shiny jagged bits, teeth painted in black and red.

The pickaxe landing on the floorboards with a heavy thud helped Sammie break out of his trance. All semblance of fatigue had escaped his weary body and he now felt lightheaded, his stomach churning and turning upside down like it needed to expel his meager lunch, and his knees buckled for a split second before he braced himself against the frame of his front door.

The stranger stopped chewing. Swallowed with visible effort and a loud gulping sound to accompany it. Coughed, choked, gurgled. Swallowed again.

He tilted his head and stared Sammie in the eyes. Piercing, unblinking. Uncaring of the blood dripping from his own chin.

“I—”

The glass-eater spoke and coughed. He cleared his throat and coughed again.

“I, too, have discovered, that poring over the secret pages of Doyle, I sometimes feel the distant spirit of God,” said the glass-eater. Blood bubbled from between his lips and stilted his otherwise eerily calm manner of speaking. “On the whole, our questions are quickly eaten by the—by the—”

His words trailed off. His gaze remained fixed upon Sammie, going blank.

“W-who? Who are you?” Sammie finally asked.

He wanted to crouch down and snatch the pickaxe back up, but it was all too weird. The stranger, this glass-eater, had clearly lost his mind, but he was not threatening him in any way. Just sitting there with a calm that did not match the damage he was doing to himself in eating all those glass shards.

The glass-eater blinked, finally, reminding Sammie of a human. His focus returned; his gaze hardened again.

“Who are you?” the glass-eater echoed him, almost mimicking his tone.

Was that a mockery?

Sammie almost shook his head as much as his mind told him that was not the case. The glass-eater had repeated his question more like children learning how to speak by mimicking the words of adults they heard spoken.

He swallowed the dry lump of coal dust and grit and fear that had lodged itself into his parched throat and started thinking differently.

Maybe this glass-eater fellow needed help.

“You don’t look alright, man,” said Sammie. “I can get you a doc. You want me to get you a doc?”

Glass-eater tilted his head the other way and did not answer the question. Instead, without breaking eye contact, he picked up another shard and brought it to his lips, parting them and inserting it into his bloodied jaws.

Crunch, crunch.

“You, uh, you know where you at? This is my home,” Sammie said. “I can get you—I will go get a doc, alright?”

Crunch. Crunch. Dead stare.

“Maybe, uhm, stop eatin’ all that—uh, all that glass?”

Crunch. Staring unbroken.

“I will go find the doc,” Sammie said, walking out of his cabin without turning his back, not daring to turn until he had distanced himself from the door by several slow and careful paces, as one should in the presence of a beast in the wild.

Slowly peeling his gaze from their unnervingly long eye contact, he shot a glance over his shoulder every few steps, making sure that the crazy man still sat there and did not just jump up from the chair and give chase.

Instead, he continued to calmly eat more of the broken glass. With growing distance, Sammie could not hear those blackened teeth crunching down on the shards. He merely heard the haunting echo of it in his mind.

Crunch, crunch. Crunch.

His pace accelerated and he nearly jogged the last bit towards the rows of buildings that constituted Dead End’s main street. Bumped right into someone, nearly falling onto his ass as he stumbled sideways past the next person.

A man in black, standing tall, the powder of the trails sticking to a long duster coat. U.S. Marshal’s star on his belt, two six-shooters slung into holsters hanging from a belt around his hips. A visage featuring a symmetry broken up only by a milky-white eye, framed by a scar speaking volumes of a beast’s claw raking over the lawman’s face.

The marshal’s one good eye scanned Sammie up and down while he caught himself. Sammie nearly soiled his pants right then and there, at the mere thought of all the trouble he might get into if this lawman got on his case and misunderstood the situation somehow. Just find the doctor, now, and—

“What in the hell is wrong with you, son?” asked the marshal with a growl. “You look like you seen a ghost.”

He tipped his hat at Sammie and hooked a thumb into his belt, demonstratively flapping open one side of his coat to display the badge and one of his revolvers.

“O-oh, uh, it's—it’s, uh, it's—uhm, it’s nothin’, sir,” stammered Sammie. “Jus’ lookin’ for a, uh, physician, bit of a personal medical ‘mergency?”

He silently cursed himself for being such a bumbling coward, now of all times. Swallowed another lump stuck in this throat. His heart now pounded as fiercely as it had when he found the severed head.

Shit. The severed head.

Sammie had nearly forgotten about that.

The marshal took a step closer towards him and lowered his voice to what could only be described as a conspiratorial whisper, “Listen, I know there are strange things goin’ on in this town. You lead me to 'em, I oughtta have a shot at fixin’ these things somehow.”

He rolled his jaw and then set it while he awaited a response from Sammie. Sammie’s mind and thoughts however melted into a puddle of worthless soup.

Sammie blurted out the words, “Ah, shit, m-man—uh, I mean, uh—I-I need your h-help, sir.” He then lowered his voice to a desperately pleading hiss. “There’s some crazy man in my house. H-he's—he’s eatin’ glass, man. And talkin’ weird.”

He could get to the head later. Or maybe that would never come up.

Sammie held his breath, ready to soon be staring down the wrong end of one of those revolvers.

Instead, the marshal nodded and ordered, “Show me.”

He led the lawman back down the trail. Noticed a whiff of something dead and rotten about him, leaving him to wonder if something was not off about the marshal, as well. At the very least, Sammie hoped, that might throw him off from noticing a head in the sack out in the bushes nearby. Then he wondered if it was even a human head in there, as he had never bothered to look inside. Then he quietly scolded himself to shut about it already, like he might draw attention to the bloody linen sack if he thought too much about it.

Approaching the cabin, hasty step by step, he expected to find the glass-eater missing and putting him in the predicament of having to explain things. Things like this did not happen. Should not happen.

Some part of him dreamt that this was just a nightmare, and he was about to wake up anytime soon. No such luck, though. His body still ached from the day, the sun set on the horizon, and every step hurt his blistered right heel. It was all too real.

Like a dream, he hoped to cross that threshold and find no sign of the glass-eater. To find everything in its rightful place, to wonder if he was just losing his own damned mind.

But Sammie froze by the door. The stranger still sat there, gingerly picking up another shard of glass, bringing it to those bloodied split lips and the crimson fluids running down his chin in rivulets, and then chewing on the shard.

Crunch, crunch. For some reason, it reminded Sammie of bones now. Like this was the sound that bones made when something ate them. Snapping, cracking, crunching.

Crunch. Crunch.

A calloused hand clapped down on Sammie’s shoulder, tearing him out of this new daze of his. The marshal squeezed his shoulder for a second and then pushed past him, stepping inside the cabin.

“Sir?” the marshal asked. “This your home?”

Even with his back turned to Sammie, the marshal’s presence was imposing. All dressed in black and looking weathered, it was like he absorbed all the remnants of light in these gloomy cramped quarters, like he had a strange inverse halo about him where all light bent and gathered around him.

Crunch, crunch.

The glass-eater tilted his head again, just like he had when speaking with Sammie.

“Yes, of course this is my home,” the stranger spoke, another bubble forming between his tortured lips.

Unfazed by his condition and what all those shards must have been doing to his—in his—

Sammie fought the urge to throw up at the thought. The marshal cast an inquisitive glance over his shoulder, catching Sammie’s gaze. For a moment, he worried if he had to argue about some crazy man walking onto his property and getting other people to testify that this was, in fact his home.

The marshal did not question it, though, instead turned his attention right back to the glass-eater.

“All under the sky is my home, now, as we awaken, sea, by sea,” said the stranger, cementing what the lawman must have instinctively grasped. “You are a child of the mountains. I am the ocean.”

His thin fingers—and only now, somehow, as it grew darker, did it dawn on Sammie what was so off-putting about them—grabbed another shard from the bowl. His fingers looked the way they did because all the skin and nails from their tips had been flayed off somehow. Just bloodied skeletal husks of what they must have been, thinning towards the tips.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

“That so?” asked the marshal. He shot another glance at Sammie, his brow arched.

The marshal knew. He understood the insanity of this situation. The madness of that man.

To the glass-eater, he then added, “You touch any… strange objects lately, sir?”

Crunch, crunch.

“You involved on the rail work between here and Louisville?”

Crunch.

The glass-eater tilted his head again. More blood trickled from the corner of his sealed lips. His eyes sparkled with something strange in the dying light.

Crunch.

“You even remember a name anymore?”

Crunch. Crunch, crunch.

The glass-eater grabbed another shard, not breaking eye contact with the marshal.

“My name is the many, and my song is the return. I am the ocean,” he finally replied, putting particular emphasis on the word “am”. It echoed in Sammie’s mind.

The marshal violently expelled air from his nostrils, something in between a sigh and a groan.

“Shit,” he said.

In a flash, loud claps of gunshots pierced the air. The stinging smell of gunpowder soon hit Sammie’s nostrils. The deafening noise startled Sammie, sending him reeling, stumbling backwards, away from the eruptions of muzzle flashes brightly illuminating the gloomy cabin for split seconds. Then another volley of shots ripped, fired from both revolvers, one in each hand of the marshal.

The glass-eater dropped the shard into the bowl and looked down at his chest, now pockmarked with pitch-black bleeding bullet holes. He probed one of the wounds with those skeletal fingertips, almost in disbelief. Not trembling with fear or weakness—no—with a certainty that seemed wholly unnatural.

More thunderclaps, more shots released from the revolvers until both weapons had been emptied through repeated fire. The glass-eater slumped over the table, the wooden bowl with the glass hurtled to the floor where the shards sprayed in every direction with high-pitched clinking, and the stranger stopped moving.

Frozen in shock, Sammie knew not what to do.

Why in God’s name had he just shot the man?

“Too late to save that poor bastard. Too far gone,” the marshal growled, followed by another sigh; almost as if he had read Sammie’s mind and responded to his thought.

The floorboards thumped and thundered, and spurs jingled, as the marshal strode through the narrow cabin’s interior, closing in on the dead body of the glass-eater. He poked him with the smoking barrel of one of his pistols, then used it to lift the lifeless head and ensure the stranger had expired. A veritable vomit of blood poured out from the dead man’s half-open mouth.

Still dumbfounded and with a panic budding deep down, Sammie was only moments removed from running away and looking for help. Because now he feared the marshal again, perhaps far more than ever before.

What if he found the head? Blamed it on him? Blamed glass-eater on him Gunned him down without question? Without trial?

The thoughts circled at the speed of a hundred miles a minute, but they also rooted him firmly in place while the marshal’s eyes scanned Sammie’s meager possessions around the cabin. Then their eyes met again.

“You hold on, sir,” the marshal said, taking a step towards him. “I will get this mess cleaned up, lickety-split. Damn shame he had to ruin your home like that. And I reckon I, uh—I apologize for the holes I put into your back wall.”

He had already holstered the guns, which had happened so quickly that Sammie never registered it. He wanted to back away, but now dreaded seeing those guns flash right back out, giving him the same treatment of judge, jury, and executioner, all in one.

Instead, the marshal dug around in his duster and produced a silver amulet. Its shape looked foreign, odd—not a crucifix, not a locket, not a pocket watch—before he could discern its precise form, the marshal clutched it firmly in his fist and whispered something incomprehensible.

A warm light flared up in the cabin for a split second. The stench of rotten eggs suddenly filled the air, adding to Sammie’s nausea. And he heard something fidget in there, just out of sight. The marshal looked at a corner—focused on something just out of sight for Sammie. He only needed to step inside to follow his gaze, but—

Something held him back. Something in there had appeared out of nowhere, and it unsettled him deeply. Made his mind race even faster, so fast he could not form a single coherent thought.

“You clean up here, alright?” the marshal spoke to whoever was in the corner.

Pause. Scratching sounds.

“No, we will not discuss this now. Just clean it up, and we can bicker later,” the marshal said, responding to seemingly nothing.

Another long pause, more scratching sounds. Someone else was in there. Or something.

The marshal walked outside the front door, paused, swiveled, and closed the door behind him. He cracked a feeble smile at Sammie, something that screamed of dishonesty. Or perhaps pain. Or regret.

Sammie did not know what to do. He had to tell others about this. Get word out. They might think he was crazy, but if the marshal was truly crazier than him and the glass-eater combined, then he might find protection in numbers. Hell, maybe even that useless sheriff might help cover him if the going got rough.

The marshal lifted the amulet to eye height between them and then let it drop. It dangled from its silvery chain and Sammie tried to study it as it swung back and forth.

Up close, it looked like a long, steel cylinder, roughly the length of half his pinky finger. Reddened grooves coiled around it at rhythmically pleasing intervals, and strange symbols etched into the side formed a harmonic pattern all over its surface. The symbols reminded him of arithmetic, for some reason, though Sammie was illiterate.

“Look at the amulet, sir,” said the marshal, his voice now flat and calm. Almost soothing. “Next thing you know, all these worries o’ yours will be wiped away.”

Another flash of light. Next thing Sammie knew, he was walking down main street, in Dead End. No recollection of anything that had just transpired.

His body ached. Every muscle in him complained about the long day of toil behind him. He just yearned to sink into a bath and wash off all the grit and filth from the coal mine. His weary calloused hands burned from clutching the pickaxe and shovel that he carried on his shoulder. His tired gait gained more zest as he veered off to the side, taking the open spot between the buildings and following the dirt path back to his cabin.

The day had been entirely too damn long, he thought. His head hung low, he looked forward to crashing into his creaky old rocking chair, warming up a bowl of beans, taking a bath, and getting a good night’s rest.

Night had somehow come faster than it should have, he reckoned. They had worked late, but he must have been so tired that he did not realize how fast the sun set on his way home.

Must have just been that time of year.

Sammie’s feet dragged and kicked up tiny clouds as he walked the dusty road back to his home on the edge of Dead End.

He did not trip over anything this time. He did not notice anything amiss in his cabin when he plunked down his tools on the table and looked around for some jerky to bite. He went about the rest of his evening. Oblivious to what had happened here earlier.

Something had reached deep inside his mind and scrubbed it clean. No head, no glass-eater, no marshal, no shooting, no talisman. Just some missing time he could explain away.

The marshal’s talisman worked like a charm.

—Submitted by Wratts

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notapaladin · 3 years

Text

and thank the lord i don’t have my way (1/3)

HELLO FRIENDS IT IS THE ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY OF ME POSTING THE FIRST OBSBLOOD FIC EVER. So you get not one, not two, but three fics today! Blame @arahir

Acatl has let the boundaries stay open for far too long. Tonight, he closes them. Tizoc attempts to object.

Also on AO3.

The Revered Speaker’s chambers are very dark and very cold. Never mind that it’s the rainy season and that the air at sunset was filled with steam rising off the puddles of the day’s deluge; the sun set long ago, and Metztli the moon illuminates nothing away from the path of the windows. The walls are splashed with murals of war and conquest that must surely be blood-bright in the light of day; they are muted and faded now, shadows on shadows.

They aren’t as faded as the man on the Revered Speaker’s sleeping mats. True, Tizoc-tzin, emperor of Tenochtitlan, is approaching his middle age, but his hair is still black and his limbs are still straight. When he smiles—cold and cruel as that smile is—he has all his teeth. He dresses in the finest quetzal feathers, turquoise, jade; even here, alone on his mat covered with jaguar skins, his loincloth is finely embroidered cotton. An emerald rod pierces his nasal septum. He is covered in the riches of his Empire. He should be magnificent, a true symbol of the power of the Mexica.

He should have died six years ago.

Acatl knows this. His bare feet are silent on the tiled stone floor, and his god is silent in his head. Mictlantecuhtli evidently has not deigned to share whatever opinion He has on this with His most faithful servant. Good. Acatl’s long since made up his mind regardless.

Tearing open the boundaries had taken all three High Priests. Closing them, but leaving them that tiny bit ajar, had taken two High Priests, the Guardian of the Duality, and the Revered Speaker of Texcoco. But to slam them shut...well. Acatl is High Priest for the Dead, High Priest of the Lord of the Place of Death, and he can do that with his bare hands.

He stops at the foot of the dais upon which Tizoc’s mat rests. For a long moment, he simply looks at the snoring, twitching man currently rumpling the blankets. He inhales. He holds for a count of three.

He could do it with his bare hands. It would be easy. He’s no trained warrior but he’s strong enough for this, strong enough to put his hands around Tizoc’s neck and squeeze until he turns purple, until his eyes bulge, until he rolls back limp. It’s what Tizoc would have done to him. (What he would have done, and what he probably—gods, he probably would have made Teomitl watch.) Or there’s his knives, lethally sharp, whose wounds always fester and never heal. It would take only the smallest scratch to have Tizoc rotting from his blackened heart outwards, to have him die slow and incoherent as pus oozes forth from every pore, whimpering like an animal, like the clergy of Tlaloc in their pens—

He exhales.

No. He will do this properly. At least this, too, is easy; he dares not chant out loud, but his lips move in the words of a prayer as his magic builds low in his gut. It won’t take much. Tizoc’s life hangs by a thread as it is, and he holds it tightly in his hand.

Tizoc stirs. Snorts. Rolls over.

He nicks his forearm, dabbing a single fingerprint of blood on the dais. And he keeps praying. The edges of the boundaries yawn wide as a mouth, ready to swallow Tizoc whole. The completion of this slow weaving will close them. My Lord, he thinks, I deliver this soul unto Your keeping.

Tizoc wakes, sees him—and screams.

Acatl smiles. He knows what Tizoc must be seeing. A man-shaped figure, his eyes voids, his bones shining like moonlight through the black glass of his skin. It’s a terrifying visage; even Teomitl, who is used to it (Teomitl, who is in awe of it, and that still knocks him flat when he thinks about it too long) flinches when he spots it out of the corner of his eye. Tizoc has always been craven, and now he looks so horrified that for a moment Acatl thinks he might not even get to finish the spell.

As the magic begins to pool together—a feeling like muscles tensing to spring, a beast of shadows preparing to leap—Tizoc finds the breath to yell, “Guards! Guards!”

He takes a breath and lets it out. His skin is an ordinary brown again, bones no longer visible through shadowed muscles, but Mictlan still leaves him feeling like a hollow shell. His voice is the voice of a corpse. “They won’t come.”

Now he supposes he has to give Tizoc credit, because the man tries to lunge for his eyes. Tries and predictably fails; already the spell Acatl’s cast is leaching through his veins, and his limbs will not obey him. Sadly, the same can’t be said for his shrill voice. “What have you done to them?! Traitor!”

He remembers sunlight on the water, and a smile that was even brighter than that. Remembers a murmur of, “Thank you, Acatl.” He lifts his chin, letting pride leak into his voice. “They are following orders tonight.”

Tizoc’s eyes move like rats in a trap, but he’s not a complete idiot. There’s only one man the army would fall into line behind so easily. When he speaks next, he sounds almost resigned. “...My brother,” he spits. “So you have corrupted him.”

Acatl grits his teeth, but there’s no need for him to lose his temper here. “Teomitl is a far better man than you could ever dream of being. You ought to thank me for your years of life; he would have put you down like the dog you are ages ago.” And I should have let him.

“I will have you flayed. I will loop the flower garland around your neck myself, I’ll make those traitorous siblings of yours watch, and then I’ll put them to the sword—”

There’s more, but Acatl isn’t paying attention. He’d once thought that no mortal justice could compete with the need to keep the Fifth World intact; he still thinks that, but by now he’s learned that sometimes pursuing justice and doing his duty are one and the same. It’s taken him long enough. Oh, he’d wavered at first—that first time Teomitl had shared his plans for the future, not even him following it up with a declaration that he was going to wait was enough to stop his heart from sinking. But then Tizoc had come back—no, had slunk back into the city, like a coyote with its ears flat and its belly pressed to the ground—and he’d been nearly stunned with the wrongness of it. That Tizoc could lead an army to its death and then let an entire priesthood to be slaughtered like beasts—it’s not an affront that can be borne. His incompetence will tear the Empire apart if the Tlaxcallans and Tarascans don’t get to them first; each campaign leaves Teomitl a little more tired, a little more snappish and run-down. Soon he won’t be able to carry the army on his back anymore.

The man he loves has new scars. He blames Tizoc for that, but first and worse he blames himself. It was his hand that put Tizoc on the throne, and it will be his hand that removes him from it. There’s only as much justice as he can make, after all.

Mictlan gnaws at his guts again, and he lets it scour him clean. In and out and in again, he breathes. The spell pulses like a living heart. Tizoc must feel it, because he bleats, “What do you think you’re doing?!”

He whispers the rest of his prayer, ignoring Tizoc for the moment. This spell is rarely used, not because of the cost—a few paltry drops of blood—but because of its very specific conditions. It only works on dead souls, not dead bodies, avoiding the attention of the Wind of Knives. It would not do to cheat a comrade of His captive. Rare is the soul that can die without harming the body; how helpful it is, then, that Quenami crafted Tizoc a new one. He must remember to thank him. “Sending your soul to Mictlan where it belongs. None will see any hand in your death but the gods’ wills.”

Tizoc’s breath rattles in his lungs. “Blasphemy. I can’t imagine your precious sister—”

“My sister? The Guardian of the Duality? That sister?” Acatl feels himself smiling. “I am restoring the order of the world. She would hold my cloak for me.” After all, she hates Tizoc too. Not as much as he does—she’s a good woman, she doesn’t nurture her grudges the way her menfolk do—but quite enough to look the other way should his soul be severed from his body by what looks to all the world like a common attack of the heart. Such a tragedy, she’ll say, and meet his eyes, and smile. He kneels to wipe away his bloody fingerprint, the only sign of his presence here tonight.

Tizoc is still trying to defend himself. The fool. “You—you can’t,” he splutters. “What about...” Eyes roll wildly as he casts about for an excuse, and finally alights on one he thinks must work. “Your patron! Surely, surely Lord Death can’t approve—”

“My lord,” Acatl says, with a gentleness he doesn’t feel. “I brought you back into this world after your death, breaking all natural laws in the vain hopes that you could do the one single task you were crowned to do. Lord Death will rejoice that I have now taken you out of it.”

“You’ll never get away with this!” he snaps. “Quenami...Quenami will...”

Ah, yes. Quenami. Acatl snorts. “You imagine he will still be alive to avenge you?”

Tizoc goes, if possible, paler. “You wouldn’t.”

He remembers, with a slow uncoiling of rage, the blade at his throat. The way Quenami had smiled. He’d wanted to carve it off his face. “I might,” he growls, but even as he says it he knows he’ll be lucky if Teomitl doesn’t get there first. “You should be happy. You’ll have company on your journey.”

He’s breathing harder now. Hyperventilating. It’s panic, not magic; he can’t even face death like a warrior. “No—no, you can’t—”

Acatl’s spine stiffens. “Only the gods and Teomitl tell me what I can and cannot do.”

“...Heh,” Tizoc spits. “Is he fucking you?”

He considers this. They’ve been discreet—possibly not discreet enough if Tizoc is asking that question, but then the man has always been paranoid of any influence on his brother, even before he was his Master of the House of Darts. He can certainly imagine Tizoc suspicious of what else Teomitl might have been learning from him, and if he’d only known then what he knew now...well. He is a man, and not a statue. Tizoc might have been right about something for once. But he isn’t, and for a moment Acatl weighs whether he deserves the truth. It’s not something he’s ever had to say out loud; Mihmatini is the only one who knows, and she doesn’t want to hear details. Finally, a bit of uncommon smugness curls his lip. “Actually,” he says coolly, “most of the time I’m fucking him.”

Disappointingly, this does not cause Tizoc to expire immediately. Teomitl will be quite displeased to have lost that bet. “You—you vile—you foul—”

Then he starts coughing, wet and disgusting, and blood gathers at his lips. Acatl lets Mictlan’s power fall away from him like an old cloak. “Rant all you like, my lord. Your time is ending. Teomitl will erase all you’ve done as though it’s never been, and the foundations of our Empire—of our world—will grow stronger for your absence.”

“I’ll kill you,” Tizoc hisses. “I’ll haunt you from beyond death, like those ghosts you’ve been slaying throughout my reign. You’ll never sleep soundly again.”

Interesting. He hadn’t thought Tizoc had been paying attention. He hums noncommittally, shaking his head. There will be no more such hauntings now that the boundaries are properly closed.

Tizoc is panting harshly now, beyond speech. Good. The guards are still nowhere to be seen, which is a further relief; as loyal as they are to Teomitl, he still doesn’t want to put them in a position to lie about whatever they might see.

Not that there is anything to see. Over the next few hours, Tizoc’s soul will unravel from its moorings so slowly, so carefully, that no magic his fellow High Priests could muster will be able to tell it’s anything other than a natural death. (He knows Acamapichtli won’t even look. He still mourns his clergy, and now they’ve been avenged.)

Acatl turns away. He’s done here. By the time the sun rises, Tizoc will be dead.

He has things to do before then.

#obsidian and blood #acatl #tizoc #teocatl #teomitl #paladin writes stuff

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theladyofdeath · 4 years

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The Madness Within {Elriel}

Another piece written alongside the beautiful and talented @throne-of-ashes-and-beauty

There were nights Azriel would fall so deeply into his own mind, Elain struggled to bring him back. After a particular taxing interrogation or an exhausting mission, when he’d come home and there would still be blood under his fingernails, she knew that he didn’t truly belong to her in that moment. She’d have to appeal to the creature that he was, the creature that lived in the shadows, before her gentle male returned.

Tonight was one of those nights.

Elain had been lying awake in bed, the starlight of the Velaris night sky pouring into their bedroom through the thin curtains, when Azriel landed on the balcony outside.

Once he landed, he didn’t move. He stayed in his crouch, examining his trembling hands.

He probably thought Elain was asleep, and she didn’t want to move, didn’t want him to know that she was watching.

It wasn’t until minutes passed that he rose and slowly, quietly, opened the door of the balcony and slowly, quietly closed it behind him.

He unhooked Truthteller and tossed it at the feet of Elain’s floral chair in the corner. He unhooked his armor and shrugged it off, then the tunic beneath. He turned his back to her and peered out the window. His wings drooped.

He was still for a moment before reaching down to unlace his boots, then kicking them off.

Then, he froze. Catching his hands, once again, in the starlight.

He examined them with such pain, such loathing, such utter hatred that made Elain’s eyes grow blurry.

Elain made a small show of turning over in bed, hoping he’d snap out of his haze, but knowing he probably wouldn’t even register that she’d moved.

He didn’t even flinch.

She sat up and quietly called to him, “Az, baby, come to bed.”

He acted as if he hadn’t even heard her.

“Baby?” She tossed back the blankets and crawled off of the bed. She walked over to where he was staring at his scarred hands in the moonlight.

“Azriel,” she breathed, worry coating her tone. She stood right next to him, yet he was frozen in place, not even acknowledging her presence. She carefully took one of his hands in her own.

His eyes - black as death in the shadows - snapped to hers and he gripped her wrist.

He slowly, carefully, removed her hand from his and turned his back to her. He walked into the washroom and ran water from the faucet. Elain followed and hovered in the doorway, seeing him clearer in the faelight.

Dried crimson covered his cheek, was matted in his hair. Elain followed his gaze down to his hands, covered in a stranger’s blood.

His hands shook, uncontrollably, but Elain couldn’t move. It never got easier, seeing him in such a state. Especially when she couldn’t help. She was so helpless.

She knew he remained stoic, remained strong until he landed on their balcony moments before.

Very few people knew just how much the Shadowsinger felt.

He felt more than most.

He felt it all.

Without acknowledging Elain’s presence, Azriel put his trembling hands beneath the running water. He scrubbed and scrubbed until the water turned pink, then clear again. Even then, he kept scrubbing as if the memory of the evening would go down the drain alongside the blood.

He scrubbed, and he scrubbed, until his scarred skin turned pink.

Elain cautiously stepped up beside him and turned the faucet off. “They’re clean.”

Still he kept scrubbing.

She took his hands in hers, turned him to face her and braced herself. She knew what she had to do, how she had to act to return him to himself.

“Azriel,” she whispered and he glanced at her, finally giving her attention. “They’re clean.”

He looked at his hands, blinking a few times. Elain let him go and wet a rag with warm water. “Can you go sit on the edge of the bath, please? You’ve got blood on your face.” He looked at her, panic shining in his eyes, mercifully hazel in the dim light of the bathroom. “I’ll get it off, I’m going to get it,” she cooed, carefully running a hand down his bare back, between his wings, trying to soothe him. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

He only shook his head and moved to the bath as he was told.

She re-soaked the rag and tilted his face up to look at her. “Are you sure you’re-?”

“I said I was fine.”

Short. Clipped. A voice like ice.

Elain didn’t let his tone affect her. She simply grabbed his chin in her hand and used her other to wipe the blood off his cheek.

“None of its mine,” he went on, quietly, nearly silently, a second later.

His eyes did not meet hers.

He sounded lifeless.

She used the rag to wipe off his neck, his ear, before guiding him to the cool tile. She didn’t bother ordering him into the bath. She knew he wouldn’t cooperate. But she would clean him up, one step at a time.

Azriel sat on the floor and leaned back against the ivory, porcelain tub. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

Elain left the room and came back a moment later with a small, tin pitcher. She filled it with warm water, and rinsed the blood from his hair. She tried her best not to watch the incandescent pink water disappear down the bath’s drain.

“That’s enough,” he whispered, after the third rinse.

“I’m almost do-”

“That’s enough,” he growled.

Elain took a small, deep breath. “Just one more-”

“That’s enough!” he yelled, grabbing the pitcher and throwing it against the mirror above the vanity.

Glass shattered among the tile, within the sink.

Elain didn’t move. She simply watched Azriel’s chest rapidly rise and fall, watched as his face fell into his raw hands.

A silent sob shook his inked shoulders.

Elain remained where she was, standing still next to him, next to the tub. She watched as the Shadowsinger crumbled and a broken, fallen angel took his place.

The first time he came home like this, shortly after they’d moved in together, she didn’t know what to do. He was angry, on edge, and aggressive. He stayed that way for three days.

It took years for her to learn how to wear him down.

Breaking him, that was the part she hated most. Pushing him to the edge, past the carefully built walls and defenses, until he snapped. She hated everything about it.

But she knew if she didn’t, the anger, the hatred, they would fester in his heart until he became something cruel, something dark.

Something he hated.

So she did everything she could to keep him from letting that cruel creature out. Even if it meant he would lash out at her.

She didn’t touch him, didn’t call for him, not until his sobbing subsided. When he grew quiet, Elain sat down next to him, back against the porcelain.

“I tortured a man tonight,” he said, face still in his hands. “I tortured a man for hours until his body could no longer carry the pain I was bearing upon him. I had to, he was a traitor, dangerous to our people, but I...I killed a defenseless man in cold blood. A long, slow, painful death.”

Elain listened, with no interruption.

Azriel dropped his hands onto his lap and looked at the marring that covered them. “I deserve these wretched scars.”

Elain still didn’t speak. She watched as he turned his hands over, observing both sides. Azriel hated his scars, hated the memories they brought back whenever he looked at them, memories from his childhood, nightmares, that could never be erased.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, still looking at his hands, voice still hollow. “I’ll replace the mirror tomorrow.”

“I don’t care about the mirror,” Elain whispered, the first thing she had said in quite some time.

He wouldn’t look at her, wouldn’t look at anything other than his hands.

Carefully avoiding the shards of glass, she slid across the floor until she sat in front of him and took one of those scarred hands in both of her own. “Do you know why I love each and every one of the scars on your body?” Elain asked, tracing the first scar that licked up his elbow towards his arm. Azriel just watched, not saying a word. She continued to trace them, one by one, pausing to kiss the end of each fingertip, the palms of each hand. “Because every scar made you into the male I love. Each painful moment strengthened you. Every fight built you up. Every loss taught you humility. And these hands,” she mused, holding them in her own. “I love these the most.” Azriel looked at her like she has gone mad but before he could say anything, she placed one hand on one side of face and one on the other. “With these hands, you show me how much you love me. With these hands, you make me feel good in ways I never thought possible.” His hands slid down her cheeks to her neck then her shoulders, around her back. “Azriel, I would not change one single part of you. I love you, scars and all.”

He pulled her to him, onto his lap. Elain went willingly, knowing the rage was gone, that it was the emptiness she’d have to contend with now.

Azriel let his head fall against her chest and he wept. Elain wrapped her arms around him and held him as the strongest sobs she’d ever witnessed wracked him, shook his body so hard that it sounded as if he was shivering.

Elain couldn’t help but mourn alongside him, for another piece of his heart had been broken with another life that he had no choice but to take.

“These hands have killed,” he cried.

“But you are no killer,” Elain whispered, pressing her lips against his neck.

He didn’t believe her, she knew that, but he didn’t protest because every protest he made she would have corrected. They sat silently, on the cold floor as the early hours of the morning passed.

“Come to bed, my love,” she whispered, at last, when she saw his bloodshot eyes drifting shut.

He only nodded, letting her stand and taking her outstretched hand. As she led him to their room, the earliest rays of the sun had begun to creep across the floor, Elain sat Azriel down on their bed and pulled the dark, thick curtains that blocked out nearly all light. Many nights before had taught her that they’d be sleeping in very late in the morning. She laid down and stretched an arm out towards him. His fingers, rough and ridged, brushed her palm. He stood, removing both his pants and undershorts and crawled into bed next to her.

Skin to skin, Azriel again let his tears flow as she held him. As he mourned the life he had been forced to take. As he mourned the lives he’d taken before. As he mourned the childhood that had been taken from him.

And Elain told him that she loved him. And told him that she trusted him. And how he protected her. And what a good person he was.

#elriel #elain #azriel #azriel x elain #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acofas #fanfic #fanfiction #sjm #shara #shelby and tara write #collab

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team-council · 4 years

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Title: It’s never getting titled

TW: Character Death, Lightly Grotesque descriptions of wounds, Possible Scuicidle Implications (I didn’t really mean to imply it like that, but I realize it can be read that way and will tag to be safe)

Description: Takes place directly after the council manages to quell the everblaze from book three. Bronte takes some healing salve to Oralie for her shoulder and reflects on Kenric’s death.

Notes: I would scincerely like to thank anyone who bullied me. I haven’t finished a fic in literally ever, meant a lot. This monstrosity is also not proofread and I am sleep deprived so I’m sure it’s absolute garbage near the end but just ignore that. Might clean it up and put it on ao3 later who knows.

An angry grey sky wept dry shudders of ash over each of the miserable, bowed figures that stumbled across the rolling fields stretching beyond and between the crystalline castles scattering Eternalia’s fading outline. The sun was nothing but a sunken stain on the sky, feathery gold light turned a sick shade of pewter as rising smoke choked the warmth from what of it still lingered beyond the horizon. The neon glare of Everblaze could no longer be seen melting crystal and dragging harsh lines of terror down the face of the distant city, but the air still smelled like burning sugar and dizzying sweetness.

With every ragged breath Bronte drew the saccharine sting of the now extinguished fire coated his tongue anew and prompted another fit of coughing to wrack his body. Though the soot that caked his face in thick, dark splotches had long dried his eyes, the muted sting of fresh burns sweltering along his cheeks and arms coaxed tears to blur his staggering vision. He’d long abandoned attempting anything resembling a graceful stride forward, allowing his feet to stumble over each other with every messy attempt he made to not hit the earth. Ignoring the trembling in his knees. Praying mutely that they might give way beneath him. That he might fall and never get have to get up. A fantasy of melding into the cool grass enticed his mind from the fervent protesting of his aching muscles. He imagined idly how the paled blades would curl at the corners of his mouth, cradle his hands and still the weary tremors that weighted his chest. Dazed, he was unable to keep from fancying what it would be to shatter into the dirt. To become ethereal and unknown, sunken beneath a tangled weaving of root where there would be naught to do but unlearn the world. To divorce sorrow and grief. To let the burdens of the many long centuries he’d endured go in passive dismissal.

His thoughts were interrupted as his foot caught the edge of something tough, and when at last he fell it was only to be met with the glassy, calloused embrace of faceted crystal. A dim, concerned muttering of multiple shrill voices hovered above his head, but as the councillor drew to his knees he found in clarity only the gaunt, drawn man staring back at him through the fuzz of a soot-drowned Amaranth stairway. Reminding him. Mocking him. To disappear was not a mercy he deserved.

“Councillor,”

Bronte was forced to respond when the stairs beneath his legs fell away from him, a large pair of hands having drug him up by the shoulders. Well, respond might have been a gracious word for the half-conscious grunt he managed to the goblin bearing his weight in their palms, his eyes not bothering to search the face of the guard, to know whether or not they held his weakness in contempt or pity. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t fathom caring. All that mattered was that there was no attempt to stop him from dragging his reluctant body up the steps, that no hand batted his away from the knob of the door, that the scanner reading the intricacies of his palm managed to make sense of his identity despite how fresh burns and ash might’ve tried and scrub it away. There was no triumph in the silent, inward sliding of the towering doors, no pleasant rush as frigid, bitter air swept the welts tapering down from his forehead. He hardly found himself capable of much but standing at the brink of the darkness that spilled forward into the until living room at his feet.

Lavish furniture sat steeped in shadows deep enough to sink under, curtains drawn to block the pitiful laces of grey-yellow light that might have struggled through had they been parted. Bronte’s own silhouette was absorbed effortlessly into the black, his whole body soon after as he mindlessly stepped forward, doors clicking shut at his back with an echo of finality.

The world was void of sound until the shake of a fragile breath bit the quiet in faint retaliation. Bronte followed the quivering whimper around the barest, ebon outline of a table, managing to discern only a tenebrous jumble of shapes wrapped up in the stifle of self imposed twilight. Whatever discomfort he might have felt at the still sightlessness, it was welcomed compared to the snap that brought light back into the chamber, cutting through the veil of blissful ignorance that had pardoned any necessity to look upon what it had charitably concealed. However selfish it might have seemed, for the smallest instant Bronte thought of turning the lights off again,

“Sit up,”

It felt wrong to speak- especially ask anything of Oralie. Her ringlets- dull and stringy- pulled down in thick tangled over her face as she rigidly drug her back up the arm of the lovesteat she’d curled into, blankets falling limp onto the floor with a meek thud. Bronte simply knelt atop them, his fingers trailing the pockets of his clock for the smooth outline of a familiar metallic tin. Oralie made no sound of pain or acknowledgement as he pulled down the sleeve of her shirt, revealing a thickly wound bandage fastened over her shoulder. The white color had turned yellow, and as the kneeling figure peeled back each layer the room- what of it he could smell above the saturated, sugary smoke bathing his clothes- began to scent of balms and puss, a littering of welts and shrunken skin having festered beneath the dressings. The case in his hands came open with yet another sound Bronte found himself too far away to register, his fingers diving numbly into the salve inside,

“It’s my fault,”

Came a sound like the shifting of a fault line. Bronte traced his fingers over the rim of the burn,

“I couldn’t do anything but watch,”

Cracking like stained glass. Bronte smoothed his thumb across a patch of withered, pink flesh,

“H-he moved so quick,”

He had been avoiding her eyes, her face. And still he found himself caught in both. Her soft features hollowed. Her warm eyes gutted, occupied only by vacancy. Ghosts of the nots. Of the would never bes,

“And I- I jus-just-“

And her anguish came again with vengeance. Came with strength she did not have to spare for tears she did not have to shed. How dare she think she had wept enough. How dare she think she couldn’t hurt any longer. With a long, godless wail it came back to her in waves, thin fingers gripping his shoulders as she curled forward, her whole frame shaking with the labor of forcing from her throat a cry like cracking ice. What little tears she could manage soaked through his cloak,

“And I j-us did no-nothing! I di-didn’t do anything! I jus-just le-let him go! I le-let him d-“

She had been doomed to fail the sentence from the very start, her broken declarations falling to senseless sobs and howls of pain as she rocked her forehead into his shoulder, re-adjusting her grip at his arms every so often as if letting go might send her physically spiraling into whatever pit of grief pulled at her mind, down somewhere she couldn’t be followed,

“It’s not your fault,”

Again. It felt wrong to tell her anything with certainty, even the truth,

“It’s not your fault,”

It came stronger this time. Still a whisper in her ear, but less like a mist and more like a fog,

“It’s not your fault,”

That’s right. It wasn’t her fault. It was his,

“You couldn’t have known,”

But he had.

“There wasn’t a way you could’ve known,”

He’d known everything. That the healing was dangerous. That he should’ve gone with them.

“You did everything right...”

It was his fault that they hadn’t listened,

“I promise,”

That Kenric hadn’t listened,

“You were everything he needed you to be,”

Why should he have? He had been impatient. Stubborn. Cruel. /Weak/.

“You’ve been so strong,”

For the past three years his judgement had been ruled by fear. Fear of a little girl,

“And so brave,”

And hatred. Hatred of species who’s betrayal’d dawned the advent of millenniums lifetimes ago,

“This could never have been your fault,”

Kenric was dead,

“It will never be your fault,”

Because he hadn’t been stronger,

“No matter what you might think,”

Because he hadn’t been wiser,

“Kenric wouldn’t want you to think that,”

Because he hadn’t been kinder.

“Ever,”

Her wailing had only gotten softer, grip having loosened the slightest bit. He couldn’t tell if anything he’d said had reached her or not. Had he even been speaking aloud to begin with? Had he even been loud enough for it to matter? He had to hope so. Their ilk was not meant to die, and thus not meant to grieve death. To mourn in earnest was not theirs. It never was. He knew too well how easily it would be for her to break beneath the weight of it. He could already feel himself webbing with cracks,

“I-I....”

She couldn’t protest beyond a dry heave, her shoulders raised for what felt like ever in a deep wrenching motion as Bronte clasped the fresh bandages over her newly dressed wounds. In the end, she merely fell into him, grabbing his shirt. His arms. His cloak. Anything she could to prove to herself she was still there with him. Every new hold she had on him felt like another clutch of guilt bearing at his knotted stomach. The morphine drip of shell shock had begun to fade and chip away. Clawed to pieces by the daggers of sharp mourning that broke his haze with every whimper Oralie managed into his shoulder. He knew even in the pathetic state he was in he couldn’t outrun his guilt forever. But he’d been hoping that he might for a bit longer. Selfish as it was,

“Oralie...”

He whispered after a moment. And was met with quiet. Quiet and trembling breaths. She’d become heavy against him, her grip gone slack, eyes finally falling to tearless rest. Good. He hadn’t been sure what he was going to say anyways. The lights echoed out again with another dry snapping sound and Bronte stood from the thicket of blankets at his ankles, propping Oralie’s head on a pillow before draping her in covers again, still hoping- desperately and undeservedly- that she had believed him.

He paced the length between his and Oralie’s office with more grace this time, aware now of what the lull to fall and fade and become nothing but memory was in truth.

Not escape from sorrow or grief, but from consequence.

Consequence for the person he’d become. For that he’d done to others... There would be no reckoning with Councillor Kenric. He was dead. No apologies or tears- though he would certainly be giving both in abundance regardless- would change that.

But Oralie wasn’t dead.

The rest of the council wasn’t dead.

Sophie wasn’t dead.

He wasn’t dead.

And to that end there were still plenty of consequences to face.

#TW #TW Suicidal thoughts #TW gore #TW death #keeper of the lost cities #angst fic #kotlc council #councillor bronte #councillor Oralie #councillor kenric #so much angst #no beta we die like Kenric

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syndianites · 4 years

Text

The After; The Athar: Chapter Two

Chapter 2/?

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 [Here] - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5

AO3: This Chapter - Full Fic

Summary: Post Season 2, non-Mianitian Compliant. Wag escorts Martha to Jordan's house and decides to have a day out with Sonja.

Relationships: Sparklington (end-game), Marthlington (temporarily), Sparkanite (Spark x Ianite) (past, mentioned), Motanite

Content Warnings: Death Mentions, Implied Depression, Implied PTSD, Self-Deprecation, Breaking up a Relationship (Marthlington)

AN: The stuff about the Cult of Athar in here is canon! It was written by the Wizards, but never delved into. I did my best to represent it as accurately as possible.

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The duo had just started into Jerry’s Tree when they heard a call behind them. They turned to see Jordan hustling forward, an awkward smile on his face. Wag shared a look with Martha. Seems his suspicions had been correct.

He’d have to ask Jordan about that.

Jordan, meanwhile, had shuffled to a stop right in front of them. “Hey guys, glad I caught you.” He glanced between them. “What brings you to my abode?”

“You were looking for me yesterday, right?” Martha starts. “Well, I do have some free time now, I figured I’d stop by to see what you needed.”

He stopped for a moment. Hummed. “Oh!” Jordan jumped back in. “I wanted to talk to you about some godly related stuff. Spark’s been- uh, well, he’s been drilling in ‘how to be a perfect Ianite follower’ for-” Wag was amazed that neither of them reacted to the name anymore. Different goddess, of course, but that was still a festering wound. “- whatever reason, and I haven’t been able to escape him long enough to avoid the lecture. I honestly just want to talk to someone that’s more in the know-how that’s,” Jordan waved his hands, “not him. Give me another week of this and I might just turn from champion to missionary.”

Martha huffed, but a smile snuck up onto her lips. “He’s not that bad, I’m sure. But yes, I do have some time to talk about ‘godly stuff’.” She turned to Wag, hesitating a moment. “I’ll see you later then, Wag.” She reached out a hand to delicately stroke a cheek.

He gave what he hoped was a solid smile back. “Until then, love.” Wag took her hand, thumb stroking the back of it before he placed a parting kiss upon it. Reluctantly, he started to trail away, keeping her hand in his for as long as he could. When he was far enough, he offered Jordan a wave goodbye. Then he turned to walk back down the hill.

Shit. Now he had to figure out how to break up with Martha.

Yeah, these next few days aren’t going to be fun.

But what to do now? The day had only just started and there wasn’t much use in going back to being a shut in when the sun had hardly started up the sky. Well, hanging with Jordan, or Martha, was out. Maybe Tom? Or Sonja or Tucker? It was fairly hard to keep track of Tom nowadays, though.

Things were odd with Tom. Not between him and Tom, but with Tom in general. It felt like he was trying to balance who he was in this world and who he was in Ruxomar and not finding either. Like he was feeling pressured to merge the distant past with the recent past and come to terms with Dianite- both Dianites- and Mot.

What was up with them, anyway? Last Wag had checked, Tom and Mot were fairly buddy buddy and Tom and Dianite were pretty chill, despite the bit of tension when Mot showed up and when Tom’s penchant dumbassery was making its rounds. Now, it seemed like Tom was trying to keep a good distance from them.

Here he was getting distracted again. But damn if everyone didn’t have some issues skulking around. He wondered if Sonja or Tucker had something. What did they feel about the other Mianite? And his death?

Ok, ok, not the point. What should he do now?

Damn, did he really have no life outside of his tower that he was drawing such hard blanks?

Fuck it, he’d swing around Sonja’s and ask if she wanted to go flower picking with him. Sorry, gather floral ingredients for potions. With how many people were ordering luck potions, he was going to be stuck finding four leaf clovers in all his free time.

It seemed a pleasant stroll through town was in order, then. Maybe he’d pick up a muffin on the way. Perhaps a chocolate one. He would indulge in some more tea but he was looking for more of an on-the-go thing.

He nodded to himself, making his way through the streets of the town to the quaint little bakery settled just past the docks. The baker was a kind, younger lady who had told him that her dream was to open a bakery, and an island with few inhabitants that barely anyone had ever been to was free real estate. To be fair, she wasn’t wrong. No one else had tried to make any competition and no one was complaining about her being here. In fact, there would probably be a lot of hooting and hollering if she left.

When he wandered in the smell of warm bread welcomed him. Gretchen called a greeting from behind the counter, back turned to him as she kneaded a batch of dough. She was short, Wag towering over her, but she could take him out if she so pleased. Not just because she was finely muscled- she could give any seaman a run for their money- but also because a mere breeze could knock Wag and his gangly awkwardness over.

“How do you do today, dearest Gretchen?” Wag surveyed the items currently on display. The croissants looked heavenly, and next to them sat three eclairs. They appeared to have been recently chilled as their chocolate icing had drops of condensation beading along the top. There was a colorful display of macarons on the rack besides those, as well as a row of various muffins.

“Oh, I’m doing as well as one can when they wake at the crack of dawn,” Gretchen said over her shoulder, giving him a quick smile.

“So feeling shitty and barely functional?” Wag mused over the muffins, trying to spy a chocolate one. Unfortunately, though he was quite awake, his brain was struggling to spot the difference between what could be a chocolate muffin or a blueberry muffin. Or a morning glory. He wrinkled his nose. Why would anyone put raisins in a muffin?

Gretchen laughed. “Perhaps for a shut in, but I am feeling quite fine. It’s nice to watch the sunrise, y’know. Getting up early? Not so much. If not for the bakery I’d much prefer to sleep in.”

Wag scoffed playfully. “Me, a shut in? Preposterous. I’ll have you know I am, at worst, a friendly, magical hermit. At best, I am a magnificent wizard that lives in a tower nearby that oh so graciously helps out the townsfolk.”

“For a fee.” Gretchen was layering the dough now. If there weren't croissants sitting in front of him, Wag might say she was making those. Perhaps she was making danish pastries? It had been a while since he’d seen them on her display. It’d also been a while since he’d visited.

“A wizard’s got to make a living somehow.” Wag picked up a muffin, closely inspecting it. It looked like it was chocolate. He hoped it was chocolate. But if it was blueberry he would live. Both were good, especially from here.

“That he does.” She paused from her dough magic to take a look at him. “Blueberry muffin? Anything else?”

Wag clicked his tongue. “Was hoping this was chocolate. But yes, just one muffin to go. I wasn’t really anticipating being awake so early, but Martha was home and she likes to get up early, and Jordan wanted to talk to her, and I,” he waved his hands, “wanted to spend some time with her? So I walked her to his house. Now, I’m standing here. Then heading to Sonja’s.”

Yeah, it felt like he’d just recounted his entire life story to her. No, he was not going to acknowledge how painful that part of the conversation was to participate in.

Gretchen raised an eyebrow, plucking the muffin from his hand, replacing it on the rack and grabbing one from farther back in the line. This one, now that he saw it, looked much more like a chocolate muffin than the other. Nice.

“Funny you should mention Jordan.” It was Wag’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “He asked about you, oh, yesterday? The day before? About how you were doing. Seemed fairly concerned ‘bout ya. Asked me how you were doing when he came in for a treat.” She lifted a hand before Wag could interrupt. “He came here for the treat, but I guess he had you on the mind. This used to be one of your favorite places, I suppose it reminded him of you.”

Well if that didn’t make Wag feel warm on the inside, what would? It was nice to feel remembered. But wait, was that why Jordan had come over yesterday, then? Except he had been looking for Martha.

That put a frown back on his face. “He did swing by yesterday, but he asked for Martha. Are you sure he was concerned about me?”

Gretchen rolled her eyes. “Yes. It was very obvious even if he tried to hide it. I did tell him that Martha would know more about how you were doing than I would, so that could be why he asked for her.” She held out her hand and Wag dutifully placed some copper coins in it. “Mr. Sparklez doesn’t seem like the best with confronting people about their feelings, so it wouldn’t surprise me that he’d see you and balk at the idea of bringing up his concerns with you directly. Going to Martha would be way easier for him than going to you. If he actually ever asks Martha about you at all.”

Wag hummed in thought, ignoring the little ‘wuss’ Gretchen mutters under her breath in relation to Jordan. That much was true, Jordan was not much of a feelings guy. The dorky puns and trying hard to be the smart one guy? Yes. Feelings? You’d have better luck with Tom.

Actually, Tom was pretty easy on the feelings side. Kind of. You’d have better luck with Tucker than Jordan. And Tucker was not the most emotional sort of man. There we go.

“Well, when I left Martha with Jordan, he said he wanted to ask her about ‘godly stuff’. Do you think they’re actually talking about me?” Wag pulled a sliver off the top of his muffin and nibbled on it.

Gretched leaned on the counter with a shrug, dropping the coins into her apron pocket. “Maybe. Who’s to say?” She eyed him up and down, a contemplative look coming into her eyes. “Didn’t you say you were heading to Sonja’s? That’s good, you could use more time out of the house. If you weren’t naturally gray I’d say you were getting pale. Hard to tell like this, but you are getting more of the ‘I’m your friendly neighborhood ghost’ type look than ‘I’m your charming, possibly demonic, friendly wizard’ type look. Take one for the road,” Gretchen reached over to pluck another muffin off the rack, passing it to Wag.

“What if I just eat both myself?” Wag joked, taking the muffin in his other hand.

Gretchen tsked. “Sorry, I only give freebies to the pretty ladies. You sir, are no pretty lady.”

Wag gasped, “How dare you! My mother said I could be anything I wanted to be! If I want to be a pretty lady to get a free muffin, I’ll be a pretty lady!”

She pushed his shoulder with a guffaw. “Oh sure, princess. If you ever come in dressed to the nines as the most gorgeous lady I’ve seen, I’ll give you a pretty muffin. Be warned,” Gretchen bat her eyelashes. “I have seen quite the stunning women before.”

Wag rolled his eyes fondly, making for the door. “Just you watch, I’ll come blow your socks off!”

With a wave, he departed. He twirled the other muffin in his hand. Free muffin for a pretty lady, huh?

Wait, was Gretchen hitting on Sonja?

~~~

Wag didn’t end up making it to Sonja and Tucker’s house. Rather, he found Sonja sitting near the shore just in front of it, staring up at Mianite’s temple. He didn’t take Sonja for much of a morning person, but it seemed like the temple would have a nice view during sunrise.

Settling down next to her without a comment, he offered her the muffin. Sonja was surprised to see him, her eyes searching his face, but wordlessly took the muffin. They ate them in silence.

The temple had changed a lot, but that was to be expected. It had been razed to the ocean floor, after all. But from what he had heard there had been a big effort in rebuilding it. Though the work would have taken years, it apparently had taken mere months.

Mianite, according to word of mouth, hadn’t helped rebuild it at all. Rather, he didn’t expect anyone else to move to the island. Hell, neither did Dec, who had been making plans to move elsewhere. It made Wag wonder why the gods, why the priest himself, had shown up here. Why had the wizards? He drummed his fingers against his leg, dismissing the thought for another time.

The wizards, before the heroes had even left, had refused to help. Wag remembered this well. They hadn’t wanted to step on Mianite’s toes, so to say, as it was a gift he had sent the world and had been crafted by the god’s own hand.

Actually- again- Ianite had played a part in rebuilding it. It was almost strange to think about, the Goddess of Balance rebuilding the temple of another god. Except, it made sense. She didn’t rebuild it of her own power. Rather, she encouraged the common folk to rebuild it and helped a great deal along the way. She invited people from far off lands to come restore the temple and, with the assistance of Spark, set up the town that had been cultivated as a solid landmark. Ianite used the restoration of the temple as a way of connecting the island to the rest of the world.

Though, when asked why she had chosen to help rebuild the temple, Ianite had responded, “It’s my way of thanking Mianite and his champions for helping to save me. It is the least I could do for such a tremendous task.”

Maybe that’s why she rebuilt Jerry’s Tree, too. To thank Jordan. Or to honor him.

Wag’s favorite part of this story- as it was only a story to him, he’d never had any real confirmation on this- was what Ianite had said: Mianite and his champions. Plural. That meant Ianite acknowledged Sonja as Mianite’s loyal follower and champion just as much as Tucker. Sonja deserved it for all the effort she had put into this world and the last. She deserved a lot more than she got.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Wag startled at the sound of Sonja’s voice. He turned to her, but she was looking at the temple still. She inclined her head towards it, saying nothing more.

He had been looking at the temple without seeing it, he realized. Thinking too hard.

She was right. The sun was still low in the sky, giving it a faintly fiery hue. It couldn't have been too long since sunrise, yet the color of dawn still remained. Perhaps that was just the effect of the ocean.

But the effect made the temple light up. The eagle, standing mighty and proud once more, was burning in the light, smoldering and strong, wings raised up to the sky with an open, shrieking cry. It was the symbol of strength and sureness, of justice. The sun was a halo around it, blindingly bright.

That’s how the future felt: burning and bright, impossible to grasp. But it was there.

The rest of the temple held much of the same vigor. The majority of the original details were kept, but they were also exaggerated. The pillars had been built double the size, a subtle comment of ‘no matter how many times you knock us down we will return stronger’, the garden fuller and more organized, filled to the brim with blooming blossoms. The walls were filled with more gold than before, and more detail. Each column was carefully carved to perfection, but at this distance he couldn’t make all the details out. From what he remembered they ranged from majestic creatures running amok, to people dancing in celebration, to the retelling of great battles. The arches that served as the entrance had been decorated to the fullest, lavish silks and jewels hanging from their edges along the dutifully crafted gold lining.

The best part were the guardians. They stood tall and proud, just as regal as before but now with more life, more color. Rather than the same straight white they had been they were adorned with golds and blues. Shimmering prismarine and lapis lazuli. Their swords were colored to appear like the finest, purest gold- though Wag knew that they weren’t made of real gold, as that would have been more than expensive. To top it all off, each featured a set of wings raised high to the sky, like the very eagle that sat in the middle of the temple.

Another important detail was the fact that the back of the temple was open as well, likely for passing boats to see. On the other side stood dual lighthouses that burned bright in the night with mystical fire that would neither go out or be moved from their place. The area to drop prayers had been moved to the eagle’s feet and the hidden room supposedly not implemented. Supposedly.

It was truly stunning. Where the change in Jerry’s Tree felt like a rebirth, this felt like getting beaten down only to get up again. Like healing. Growing.

“It is.” He’d left her in silence long enough. “I still remember when it first appeared. It was glorious. Now?” Wag turns to her, maybe trying to make a point, maybe trying to say something deep, or just maybe just thinking out loud. “After being destroyed? It’s come back better.”

Damn, who the hell turned on the philosophy today? Next thing you know he’ll be wondering aloud what existence is and if there is a purpose to life.

Fuck that shit.

Isn’t this the exact thing that had been haunting him as he stowed away in his tower? His thoughts falling over themselves to derive meaning out of every little thing that’s changed? To make sense of it? The temple looks better because it's not a pile of rubble. Jerry’s Tree is different because it was practically a pile of ash before. Why does this all need meaning?

Sonja seemed to share his sentiment. She laughed at him. “Hey now, that’s trying to be too deep for so early in the morning. Come back better? Ha. It's just,” she pauses, giving it a wistful glance before shaking her head. “Different.”

Wag nods. “It is. It all is. Feels like everything’s changing, like we got plopped in a world just adjacent to ours.”

“Too deep!” Sonja decreed. Standing up, she brushed the back of her legs free of stray grass and sand. “Things are going to change and that’s that. I wasn’t expecting the world to wait on us, and it didn’t. That just means we have to catch up or get left in the dust.”

“Who’s too deep?” Wag chuckled to himself, taking the hand Sonja offered him.

“Alright, enough sitting around.” She sent a sly smile over to him after she jammed the rest of her muffin in her mouth. Wag watched in amusement as she chewed hastily, tried not to choke, and spluttered a little as some went down the wrong hatch.

Recovering fast, she gives him a pained grin. “What brings Mr. Tower Wizard out of the lair today? Something good, I hope.” She poked him in the ribs teasingly.

“Well,” Wag starts, ignoring the dig, “Martha happened to be home last night and I had the pleasure of walking her over to Jordan’s to chat about something. Which is why I am both awake before lunch and currently standing outside. I figured it’d been a while since I bothered you, so here I am, bothering you.” He finished with a wink.

Sonja frowned for a moment, focusing on something he said, before deciding to let it go. For now, at least. Knowing her, she’d find a way to bring it up later. Wag wasn’t quite looking forward to whatever she had latched onto.

Filling the silence, Wag added, “I was thinking we could go plant hunting. Specifically for four leaf clovers, but also for any other potentially useful plants. You know, for potions.”

He tried for a smile while Sonja looked him over. Her eyebrows rose. “You go plant hunting in that? Your typical robes and all? It’s, like, the middle of spring.”

Wag shrugged. “It’s not that big of a difference. Just gets the cloak a bit dirty.”

She scoffed. “Just gets the cloak a bit dirty,” Sonja muttered. “I bet you don’t even bring any food or water with you, do you?”

He looked to the side. “Of course I do!” That wasn’t a lie. He always brought at least a snack and a water skin. He wasn’t that stupid.

“I’ll believe you, for now.” She assessed her own outfit. Her typical hoodie over a white t-shirt, some lounge pants, and bare feet. “I, for one, need to get dressed. I would recommend,” she drew out the last word, giving him a look, “That you change into something more suitable for romping around the countryside. I won't force you to, but I won't be helping you if you get hot and sweaty and pass out like an idiot.”

He wanted to retort that he wouldn’t. That he was a wizard with powers that came close to the gods’ themselves. That weather was no issue for him.

But it had been in Ruxomar. The trip to Urulu had been sweltering. The Nether felt like it had been trying to slowly boil him alive. Whenever he’d come out of water, clothes damp as a rain shower, he’d felt frigid.

It still felt like he was in Ruxomar, powerless and startlingly mortal.

He bit his tongue.

Instead he shook his head, and started to wander back to his tower. He stopped as Sonja called after him. “Meet right here after you get dressed. I’ll round up some food and shit and then we can leave.” She turned to head back into her house. “If you thought I was going to trek up to your tower up in the sky you were wrong!” Then she shuffled up the hill with a laugh.

~~~

They convened later at the shore as told. Sonja looked at Wag with a little glee, having convinced him to actually change.

Athar knows how long it’d been since he’d changed.

… why did he swear on Athar’s name anyway? He helped kill him. Shouldn’t he swear on his own name? Wag shrugged mentally to himself. Better to swear on a dead guy's name than his own.

Anyway. Sidetrack.

Wag, instead of his usual cloak, was in surprisingly adventure-ready getup. Long sleeve hooded shirt- Sonja rolled her eyes at the hood- thick, but breathable, pants, and hiking boots. Actual hiking boots. That spoke volumes about how much Wag had tried to look like he knew what he was doing. Oh, and he had one of those handy dandy belt satchels? Utility belts? A belt that had neat pouches on it for carrying flowers and clovers. Hell yeah.

Sonja, on the other hand, had dressed much more like her usual outfit. To be fair, though, her usual outfit was both light and what she fought literal battles in. However, instead of short-shorts she had knee-length shorts. Her socks fit nicely underneath. Somewhere along the line she’d found black, fingerless gloves as well. Wag had a sneaking suspicion that she’d stolen them from Tucker.

“Alright, now that we’re all ready to go-” Sonja made a point of jostling the backpack she had slung over her shoulders, likely filled with food and drinks she had raided from her own kitchen,”-we can commence our dainty flower picking session. If you don’t find me the biggest, bluest flower the world has ever seen to leave for Mianite then this trip is a failure.”

Wag nods sagely. “It will be the most magical of flowers ever seen.” With a sweep of his arm, he motions for Sonja to lead the charge into the wilderness. Which wilderness? The Wilderness.

Basically they were going to go wander around out past the old FyreUK Castle. Why there? Where Wag has to look at the castle and remember everything that used to be? Easy: there’s a lingering magic that lurks about the castle that makes it more likely for magical flora to sprout and grow. Also because no one goes over there.

Mostly because no one goes over there.

It took them roughly a half hour of trailing up and down hills, through dry grass and loose dirt, and a few quick hops through water to get to the Castle. Good old FyreUK HQ. Still standing.

They were on the bridge, stopping to take a rest. Wag took a sweeping glance of the Castle and then looked away. Sonja tactfully didn’t ask about it. Instead, she waited while Wag poked around the trees sitting in the circle part of the bridge, watching him prod at the vines and undergrowth that had gathered there over the years. At one point he took out a pair of clippers, untangled a flowering vine from one of the tree’s branches, and politely snipped part of it off and curled it into a pocket.

Then they were off again, back down the bridge and further into the country. Not too much further, actually. The end of the bridge was just a hop, skip, and jump away from an oak forest, which was a breath of fresh air compared to the endless savanna and desert motif of the island. It was also right next to a nice little plains area.

Which made it perfect for Wag’s plans. Plains for the clovers and cool flowers, the forest for any other interesting stuff. He remembered chilling there in between building sessions for FryeUK HQ itself. It was always much cooler than the area around it.

“Well, darling dearest, here we are.” Wag gave a little twirl. “Here we shall find you the most magical of flowers for your pretty, pretty princess, Mianite himself. And maybe one for his maid, Tucker.”

“Ha!” Sonja turns her head away to snicker to herself. “If anything his fairest maid should be giving me flowers!” Her laughter dropped into a small, wistful smile. “Maybe I will.”

Wag gave her a description of some of the regular flowers and plants that he normally went for, then sauntered off into the woods.

Classy.

Sonja followed with a fond eye roll, eyeing flowers as they passed. True to Wag’s suspicions, -which weren’t suspicions so much as things he already knew from before, but who was keeping track?- there were some strange, magical flora laying about. Not magical in the ‘consume it to get temporary fire powers way’, but more magical in the ‘these colors aren’t something flowers can pull off on their own’ or ‘this shouldn’t ever have been able to get this big’. Like if they were subject to radiation, except this world had no concept of yellorium as far as he knew.

The first thing Wag collected was something of a marvel. Not because it was beautiful, but because it was weird. It looked like a flower. But instead of growing leaves along the stem, it grew petals. They were a soft pink, like the flush of skin, and soft to the touch. Not a trace of leaves remained on the flower. For all intents and purposes, it looked like a failed daisy. Or a successful one?

There weren’t many magical flowers, in all honesty. For all the magic the wizards had done, most of it was just absorbed into the earth as per normal. The world was teeming with magic, but that was what made it function. What made the gods gods was the fact that they could use this magic. Or, rather, that they, too, were filled with it.

It showed up in a lot of ways. Witches, potions, the way you could grow anything from any environment you wanted to, so as long as you gave it what it needed. Well, that last one wasn’t impossible, but what other world could you go to a desert, with minimal rain and the sweltering sun, and plant something that relies on constant water to thrive and have it live for months upon months?

He was getting sidetracked again.

The point was, this was just a small, insignificant place where a little bit of magic overflowed because of the proximity to the wizards. It used to have more weird things happen, but now the wizards were gone and Wag was… yeah. So he’d sometimes stumble upon a flower with a gradient from purple to red and have to puzzle out whether that was a normal mutation or a magical one. Then the flower would shimmer and the gradient would shift and he’d decide, yeah, that was a magical mutation, he was right!

Flowers were weird on their own, what could he say?

His favorite were the cornflowers. Not because they were beautiful- they were!- but because, by some manner of magic, they migrated over here on their own. You couldn’t find them in the savannah, or the desert, or even near the coastline. But here, in this tiny blip of forest and plains, they surfaced. He had half a mind to wonder if they weren’t a result of two different flowers populating, then the offspring mutating. Cornflowers, however, were a real flower. They just shouldn’t be real here. Which was cool.

So maybe Wag had become something of a flower nut over the past few weeks. Who was going to judge him, the gods? Well, fuck them! Not literally, though.

The cornflowers before him, however, were something special. From what he knew, they weren’t supposed to be this big, nor were they supposed to grow in such small units. They should be something more like a bush, with multiple stalks sprouting out and huddled together. The ones he found, Sonja poking at some poppies behind him, were very much trying to act like tulips. Less group-y and more individual.

He suspected magic was involved.

The buds alone were about the size of his palm, and those that had flowered were almost bigger than his hand! They were marvelous. And blue!

Wag snuck a look at Sonja, who was blissfully unaware of his sudden bout of mischief. He plucked a stalk- which was as thick as a pencil- and twisted around to carefully tickle the tip of her tail with the broken end of the stem. She didn’t notice, face scrunched up in thought as she appeared to be trying to decide if the poppies were out of the ordinary or not. They weren’t. Just good ole regular poppies.

Fighting back a snicker, he gently and slowly trailed the stem upward. It took the stem going from white to orange fur for Sonja to suddenly startle, ears shooting up and back going ramrod straight. She took a swipe at the flower, but Wag hurried out of the way. Clutching the poor, innocent cornflower to his chest, he mock gasped.

“Sonja! You almost destroyed the biggest, bluest flower I’ve ever seen!” He brought the back of his hand to his forehead. “Could you imagine if you had? We’d have to return with it crushed! Or worse.” Wag’s eyes widened comically. His voice dropped to a stage whisper. “The second biggest, most bluest flower.”

She gasped in shock. Her voice was but a mutter. “No, we can’t have that. Imagine! Bringing home something second best! T'would be not only a shame, but a disrespect to his name. I could never.”

Wag nodded sagely. He cradled the blossom between his hands, reverently offering it up to Sonja. “Treat it well. Though it may seem insignificant in the grand scheme of your life, it holds value untold. The gods themselves tremble beneath its weight, the tremors of the earth quake for its life. Hold onto this and you hold onto what men are willing to go to war for.”

Sonja delicately grasped its stem, a serious look on her face. “I will, O’ great wizard. I will guard this to my last breath, travel across a thousand seas, five hundred miles of land, to bequeath this to the god of which I hold most dear.”

Her lips twitched as she tried to keep her laughter in. “Ianite, of course.”

Wag, however, burst out laughing. “Oh yes, the god you follow, Ianite herself. Mianite who?”

Facade breaking, Sonja joined in the laughter. Placing the flower down, she held onto her stomach, curling around it. Wag tried not to fall over from his dramatic kneel.

They took a second to calm down, smiles still firm on their faces.

“But yes, this will be satisfactory as a gift to Mianite.” Sonja appraised it, looking past him to eye the bush it came from. “What are these flowers? I don’t think I’ve seen them before.” She looked back to Wag. “And I dabbled in Botania in the other realm.”

Wag stood up, turning his attention back to the flora. “Cornflowers. They live in more temperate climates; plains, some forests, and such. It’s strange to have found them here, all things considered.” He gestures around vaguely. “We do live in a mostly savanna environment. I’m not even sure how they made it to this little patch of paradise, never mind the fact that this area exists as it does.”

He shrugs. “It is what it is. They are rather pretty. They are most typically associated with hope, devotion, and remembrance.”

“And,” He places a hand on his heart, “According to some good ol’ folk tales, men in love would carry them around. If the color of the flower faded quickly, it meant their love was not returned. So,” Wag picked it back up, “If you wanted to listen to superstition, if the color lasts that means Mianite cares a whole lot about you.”

Sonja scoffed. “Oh please, he is far too regal and orderly to fancy anyone, never mind a human. Or, well,” she flicks her tail, “someone mostly human.”

“Imagine if he actually did, though! Tucker would be in for quite the competition. Champion of Mianite? Try Queen of Mianite.” Wag winked, holding the flower back out to her.

Except it seemed that was the wrong thing to say.

She held her breath, wilting before him “Yeah,” Sonja mumbled at the flower, “Tucker would really be in for it.”

There was a pause.

Wag eased back down towards the ground, getting comfortable. He tugged on Sonja’s sleeve to bring her down as well. Setting the flower aside, he pondered his next words. If he was going to pull out any wisdom, it better be now.

“Things aren’t going too great between you two, are they?” Wag started, giving her the option to push the conversation aside.

Sonja was silent for a second. Her ears flicked back and forth, agitated. Then she let out a sigh, deep and heavy.

“No.”

Wag nodded slowly. “It’d help to talk about it.”

He wanted to help, wanted to know more, but he didn’t want to press. He wouldn’t dare push the boundaries when it felt like he was already on the brink of losing someone else he cared about. A two for two special on failing relationships would hurt.

Biting the inside of his cheek, he reminded himself that this was about Sonja. Not his life problems. Hers!

“It’s…” she cast her eyes around them. “Kinda heavy. Would you be ok hearing about it? I don’t want to bring your mood down.”

Wag gently bumped shoulders with her. “Of course. I’m all ears if you ever need it.”

Sonja opted for a smile, though it fell more towards a grimace. “Thanks.”

She went quiet again. Wag could see the thoughts churning in her head, gears clicking and turning along.

“I was.” She stopped. Started again. “I used to be.” Biting her lip, she took a breath. “There was a brief moment of time that I worked for the Shadows.”

Oh.

Oh shit.

She couldn't meet his eyes, which is probably a good thing because he didn’t know what to say. ‘Sorry that you used to work for the people who wanted to kill all the gods and take over the world, or some stupid thing like that’? ‘Yikes’?

‘Cause yikes.

“That’s, well, not what I was expecting.” He suppressed the urge to crack a joke. “And yeah, that’s pretty heavy.”

Sonja drooped a little beside him, and he had to rush in the rest of his words.

“But that’s not the end of the world. You aren’t working for them anymore, and even if you were you have been my friend and helped save so many people that I feel that it wouldn’t matter. Your actions say more about your character than who you follow does.” He hoped that curbed her fear and doubt, if only for a moment. And, because he couldn’t help himself, he added, “Hey, look at Tom. He’s a little chaos rat who followed a real evil guy and we still love him. The standards can’t get lower than that.”

She huffed, and Wag counted that as a win.

She took a peek at him. “You took that a lot better than Tucker did.”

Suddenly, it clicks. She told Tucker, the ultimate devotee of Mianite, who had been willing to follow an evil version of his god just because he had the same name as his actual god. Tucker, who held strong to his beliefs and only turned on the Other Mianite when he went too far. Tucker, who’s devotion to Mianite came after little else, if after anything at all.

Tucker would not only have been appalled that she faltered in her devotion to Mianite, but felt down right betrayed that she would work for someone who wanted to kill his god.

Tucker wasn’t Tom. He wasn’t willing to work for a god that was near unanimously seen as chaotic, destructive, and evil. But he would also be easily blinded by the misdeeds of his god after seeing only the good in him for so long. He wouldn’t kill his god for his friends, he wouldn’t save his friends from his god. If Mianite told him to kill, he would.

He had killed the Ianitas under the Other Mianite’s command.

So Sonja, regardless of how much he loved her, telling him she had been part of the Shadows?

Wag could only imagine his reaction.

Instead of making much comment on Tucker, Wag offered her a smile. “The Shadows don’t mean as much to me.” That got her to look up. “I’m- I was a wizard, remember?”

Meeting her eyes, he saw the start of understanding. Then it struck him- he never told her how he became a wizard. “Sonja.” It was his turn to look away. “Do you know about the Cult of Athar?”

She mouthed the words, face scrunching up. Silently, she shook her head. “The Cult of Athar was formed in the name of Athar, who was a god. Or close to one. They weren’t sure of that, at the time they formed the Cult, but he was. Instead, they thought he was a godly power that existed and was given to those who were worthy. In a way, they weren’t wrong.”

“Was?” Already she was picking up on the ending.

“We’ll get to that.” Wag picked at the grass in front of him. “The Cult was made of four mortal people. They studied, they trained, they crafted, they worked their assess off to get a glimpse of the Athar. Nothing worked.”

Sonja nodded, eyes searching Wag’s face. Connecting dots. Her gaze lingered on his dark skin and endless tears of blood. It wouldn’t be long before she pieced it together.

“One day, they found an ancient scroll.” Sonja scoffed at this detail. “Look, I know it’s cliche but this is my story I’m telling and you will suffer through any cliche moments in it. I will add a magical girl transformation scene in here just to spite you.” They held each other’s gaze for a moment.

Then both burst out laughing. With a fond shake of her head, Sonja shoved him gently. “Who’s to say you won't anyway?”

With a mock offended gasp, Wag dramatically clutched his heart. “How could you. I guess you don’t want the story of this freaky, weird cult of absolute dorks.”

“No, no, I do. Please continue, Mr. Extravagant Storyteller.”

Holding back a smile, Wag started back up. “In this scroll was a ritual. According to the scroll, if you performed the ritual you could summon down the god that possessed the power of Athar- who was actually called Athar so really calling the ‘godly power’ Athar was redundant. By calling him down you could duel him for the right to hold that power and use it yourself.”

He trailed off now. It seemed, now of all times, that the reality of what he had lost sunk in. “By defeating Athar, who was a selfish, greedy god, they themselves could become gods among mortals. But they vowed to be benevolent, loving gods. Gods who would help humanity unlike that who came before them. They wanted to make a change in the world, to help build it up in the name of peace and prosperity.”

“So they killed him?”

Wag nodded.

“You were one of them, weren’t you?” Sonja pressed gently. “And the rest of the wizards, too?”

He nodded again.

When he made no further comment, she spoke again. “I always wondered how you guys became wizards. I just figured you guys were born from, I don’t know, dragons or something. Something badass like that. Or maybe just one day you guys popped into existence all like, ‘Golly gee, there’s an open plot of land here, and I sure do feel like making something. You guys want to build? I want to build.’”

Wag laughed despite himself. “I wish we were dragons. That’d be so much cooler than waltzing up to a god and telling him you’d be better at his job.”

“No, I think that’s still pretty badass.” She slowly leaned over to rest on his shoulder.

The sun was just starting to fall from its highest peak, making it just past noon. They still had a whole day ahead of them, if they pleased. But there was something settling about sitting here, with a friend, letting your secrets loose.

“The point is,” Wag rested his head on hers, “That I’ve actually killed a god. I formed a cult with the intent of becoming godlike. You joining the Shadows? For whatever reason? I’m not that phased. Sure, the Shadows wanted to kill all the gods, even the nice ones, but I’m not about to go cherry picking which gods can and cannot live. You guys didn’t kill Dianite until he almost killed Ianite. Eye for an eye, y’know?”

They were silent after that. Just sitting there, looking out into the mix and blend of savanna, plains, and desert. This didn’t fix anything for Sonja, he knew, but at the very least she knew she had an ally, a friend through all of this.

“Thank you,” Sonja blurted. “It’s. I feel better knowing someone won’t ostracise me for my past.”

“No one is going to ostracize you!” Rolling his eyes, Wag turned to look at her. “And if they do they’re a bitch and you didn’t need them in the first place.”

“I don’t know. Tucker was really upset. I think I’ve burned any relationship we had.” She pulled her legs up to wrap her arms around. “I’m afraid that he won’t even be able to look at me. What would Jordan think? What would Tom? Or Dec or Champ? What would the gods?”

Wag wrapped an arm around her. “It’s going to be a shock, for sure.”

But the thing was, she was still their friend.

“Jordan will take it with suspicion and unease, which is usual for him. But, for all that he will be wary, he will still be your friend. Honestly?” He squeezed her arm. “Your situation isn’t new to us, not exactly.”

An ear flicked against his cheek. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” Wag blew on it and it flicked again, “There’s Tom’s whole thing.”

She lifted her head at this. A frown tugged at her lips. “What? What do you mean by that?”

Ah, Wag had a feeling that she hadn’t thought about this.

“Tom was the loyal champion of this world’s Dianite.” He was trying to lead her into the connection. It’d be easier for her to relate if she figured it out on her own.

“So?”

However, that meant she had to figure it out.

“I suppose it’s a little harder to see from your perspective. Tom, the friend you guys all love despite his love of chaos, stealing, and murder,” He stressed the murder part, “was the champion of the god you had to kill to stop from killing Ianite.”

Sonja blinked at him.

Maybe it wasn’t as obvious as he thought.

“Tom was loyal to Dianite above all else. He’d kill for him, he’d die for him, he was practically a lapdog at points, eagerly wanting to please him. Even when he failed him and was punished.” Wag shook his head fondly. “He would have killed Ianite if Dianite asked. He would have killed Ianite.”

Tom would have done a lot of things for Dianite. The Shadows wanted to recruit him for his burning loyalty to who he followed and his willingness to kill and destroy.

It was starting to click in Sonja’s head. Her frown became less confused and more thoughtful.

“Maybe it was hard to see, since you were much closer to him than I was at the time, but Tom was set against all of you. Yet he still wanted to be your friend. He still wanted the best for you- when it didn’t involve him stopping his own chaos and fun- because he cared about you guys. In fact, he repeatedly stole from you and killed you, and he’s still your friend.”

She was there. So, so close. Right on the edge of a breakthrough.

“But Tom was,” she waved a hand, “Tom.”

And there it was. The thing that she held her back. The thing that pulled at her conscious in this whole debacle.

“So?” Wag wasn’t going to pull any punches. “Why are you holding him to a different standard than yourself? If he gets a pass, if he can follow someone who’s intent was destruction and death, just like the Shadow’s was, in a way, why can’t you?”

Sonja was silent. She opened her mouth. Then closed it. Her eyes went wide.

Gently, he squeezed her shoulder. “Jordan is still friends with Tom. Tucker is still friends with Tom. They both suffered at his hands, but they’re still friends. They still care about him. Just because you served, for some brief time, an entity that was just as evil as Dianite had been, at one point, doesn’t mean they’ll stop caring about you.”

“What about Tom, then?” She straightened up, something stirring in her eyes. “What would he think?”

Wag held back a laugh. “He wouldn’t care? Remember Nadeshot? Remember Cronus? He was friends with both.” Sonja gave him a look. “Oh come one, this one should have been obvious. Nadeshot told Tom he joined the Shadows, and what did Tom do? He had the us- the wizards- build him a fucking castle. The last person who would give a shit about you being part of the Shadows- having used to be part of- would be Tom!”

Sure, she looked like she was about to punch him, but it was a little ridiculous to think that Tom would give a shit about something like that.

Wag turned his head away. “Sorry, sorry. I shouldn’t be laughing. This is a very serious situation and I should try my best to stay serious.”

“Yeah, you should.” Sonja gave him a light punch to the arm, “Asshole.”

“But the thing is, we’re still going to be here for you. We’ve been to a whole other world, we fell through the void together. You’ve had our backs from day one. We’ll always have yours.” He ended with a gentle smile.

Sonja settled back down, head on his shoulder once more. “That does make me feel a little better. But things won’t be the same. Nothing will, really.”

That was true. They would probably look at her different, in a new light. They’d reconsider some things, rethink what image they had of her. But at the end of the day, they’d still be together.

As Wag set his head back down atop hers, she whispered, “I guess things haven’t really been the same in a while.”

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