#IF YOU FUCKING INSIST ON KEEPING THIS POOR FUCKING ANIMAL ALIVE THE LEAST YOU CAN DO IS FUCKING HELP HIM. INSTEAD YOU FUCKING SLEEP NOT EVEN
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I am going to start choosing violence in five fucking second, I swear on the fucking gods
#slimer.vent#slimer.reblog#tw animal abuse#tw mentioned animal death#<- playing it safe#IF YOU FUCKING INSIST ON KEEPING THIS POOR FUCKING ANIMAL ALIVE THE LEAST YOU CAN DO IS FUCKING HELP HIM. INSTEAD YOU FUCKING SLEEP NOT EVEN#12 FEET AWAY FROM WHERE HE IS LOUDLY CRYING AND BARKING ON THE FLOOR BC HE CANT GET UP AND HES IN PAIN#AND ALSO TRAPPED IN HIS OWN SHIT. I FUCKING CAN’T WITH THIS PIECE OF SHIT. JUST YOU CLAIM TO CARE BUT YOU FUCKING DON’T#BECAUSE LOVELY THING HAPPENING WHILE I TYPE THIS OUT: HES NOW AWAKE AND SCREAMING AT THE DOG. FUCK OFF YOU FUCKING HYPOCRITICAL POS#UGH I AM SO FUCKING FED UP#edit: I’d say I’d feel vindicated in the fact he finally had to deal with what everyone else had to deal with for over the past week#but instead I’m just left being incredibly pissed. also doesn’t help that the dog tried to take his fucking finger off#I’m just. so fucking tired. and so so angrry.
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Yandere Ryan Erzahler (3/6)
Word count ; 4.3k
*Edited:3
We finally returned to the group. Everyone was worried. Kaitlyn took extra care in the situation of Ryan and I were on a log. Even while sitting, he clung to me, and I felt terrible for the man. My best friend could be safe and with me if only I hadn’t been dense as fuck and had kissed him instead of Dylan. Guilt swirled in my bosom as Ryan’s labored pants echoed in my ears.
He was leaning against me, burying his face in my neck. I hushed him, tears finally sliding down my cheeks. He occasionally released pain grunts, holding onto the back of my shirt tightly. My mouth was dry. Kaitlyn crouched in front of us. Nick and Abby had returned, huddling against a log in fear.
“What happened? We heard gunshots!” Kaitlyn exclaimed fearfully.
“Monster…” Ryan grunted, but only I could hear.
“Y - yeah, it was a monster. It came out of nowhere and, like, attacked us! It didn’t even look like an animal. It was, like, a human being but without any skin, but also with animal claws and teeth! I barely escaped. I’m just happy Ryan’s alive. It destroyed his shoulder.”
Ryan’s dry chuckle reverberated, but he grunted painfully. Kaitlyn shook her head in dismay. “That… sounds crazy.”
Dylan piped up, "They’re not lying. And when we got there, there was this hunter guy dragging him away. But, like, he was literally covered in blood. And Ryan was trying to get away and bit him, and he literally shot his own finger off and ran away!”
Kaitlyn was clearly shocked, at a loss for words. Nick stated, "We have to get back to the lodge. It’s not safe out here. A - and Ryan needs a bandage or something.”
Ryan sat up, slightly. “I’m sure a bandage could easily replace my shoulder,” he grumbled sarcastically.
“Hey, instead of complaining, let’s get back to the lodge,” Dylan insisted. “We - yeah! We can use the wheelbarrow to get Ryan back up. He shouldn’t be walking right now.”
Ryan tightly grasped my hand, coughing. It was a silent, unanimous agreement as we got Ryan into the transportation vehicle and headed up the hill. The walk was silent, except for Kaitlyn’s occasional grills. Everyone was stunned at what we described. I knew that if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I would never believe it.
In the distance, there was a howl.
We arrived at the lodge. I felt relieved the moment we entered. Nick and Dylan helped Ryan. When he was sat down, he fished through his pockets and threw Nick the keys for the nurse’s office. It went without explanation who’d be pairing up. Kaitlyn and Dylan would go to Mr. H’s office for the second gun, while Nick and Abby when to the nurse’s office. I would stay with Ryan for the sake of keeping the poor man company.
The group dispersed leaving me with Ryan. He was leaning against the wooden bench, he is head on my shoulder. He was cradling his arm and I worried for him. His face was covered in blood and I at least wanted to clean the both of us up.
“Ryan?” I said in a hushed tone.
He grunted in response, fingers intertwined with mine tightly.
I squeezed it reassuringly. “I should get some water and clothes. We’re filthy and we don’t want any infections to get in with how beat up you are.”
Ryan huffed, muttering an ‘okay.’ I sent him a reassuring smile as I slid off the seat, readjusting him. Ryan reluctantly released my hand and I was off the the nearby bathroom. The inside was cold and empty, much to my glee.
I cleaned myself up first. At least, the parts that were exposed and injured. My face felt better now that I knew I’d washed the monster drool off. Next, I collected some paper towels and wetted some. I left others dry, bringing an entire roll.
I exited the bathroom and met Ryan back in the cafeteria room. However, just as I approached his dozing form, the lights flickered.
And just like that, we were shrouded in darkness.
“Y/n!” Ryan called out in alarm.
“Right here!” I replied, waiting for my eyes to readjust.
Ryan exhaled sharply. I sat next to him again, the wet paper towels dripping with water. I stroked his cheek gently and turned him to me.
“Close your eyes.”
“Uh-huh.”
I washed off the blood and dirt from his face before drying it off. He flinched when my fingers slid down to his shirt. I wasn’t sure what was taking Nick and Abby so long, but I couldn’t risk infection any sooner. Ryan's weary eyes glinted in the moonlight. They looked lighter than usual.
“Hey, Ryan?”
“Uh, yeah?”
“I’m going to take off your shirt, if that’s okay,” I explained quietly. “I don’t want the infection to spread.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed and he said nothing, raising his arms slightly. I sent him a reassuring smile, gripping the rim of his graphic “tee-shirt”. It was, in reality, a long sleeved shirt faking as two shirts. I was careful as I slid the fabric up his stomach. Ryan seemed oddly more lively, more awake, and less in pain. The blood had dried up, so it was good to discard the shirt since I was a bit of a neat freak.
When I reached his upper chest, he lifted his arms with surprising ease, only grunting momentarily. I finally pulled the shirt off and tossed it to the side. Ryan sighed and lowered again.
I took a moment to examine him. Dried blood coated his right side. He wasn’t the most fit man, but he was thin. I always told him that he had the form of a model, but he always laughed it off. His arms were thin and defined, just like the rest of his upper body. His collar bone gleamed with blood.
But, when I knocked myself out of my stupor, I realized that the wound had almost vanished. I’d seen his entire shoulder ripped out, and yet, there was barely any torn skin left, and only that of a bite mark remained on his upper arm.
“What the hell…”
Ryan looked, too, and furrowed his brows. “What the fuck… It definitely did a lot more damage than, uh, that.”
I realized I was boggling a bit too much, and Ryan’s… golden… eyes were boring into me. I cleared my throat and brought the cloth the wound. He hissed a bit due to the temperature, and he placed his uninjured and on my shoulder, squeezing.
I gulped, continuing. The paper towels were dyed red, and I finally pulled away. After that, I dabbed it dry. Ryan thanked me from under his breath, and just as I was finishing up, Nick and Abby emerged from the nurse’s office. They practically had nothing but a few bottles of painkillers and some tiny band-aids.
“We couldn’t find much,” Nick sighed. “But, hey, we can raid the kitchen later. And I think we should take Ryan up to a guest room.”
I hummed in agreement, blinking in surprise when I pulled the paper towel away. Nick and Abby were seeing the same exact thing, hovering around us.
“I - I thought his entire shoulder was torn out,” Abby exclaimed. “I - I mean, there was so much blood —"
Ryan looked down with wide eyes, feeling at his skin. The wound had almost entirely dispersed, except for some bruises, torn flesh, and the bite mark. I gulped, poking at it. Ryan frowned, but didn’t seem to feel any pain. It just didn't make any sense. First monsters, and now regenerating abilities?
“I, uh, thought I was going to die,” Ryan admitted. “My entire shoulder was torn out. There was so much… blood…”
“You’re not crazy, Ryan. We all saw it. I was surprised your arm didn’t fall off,” I agreed.
Nick handed him a glass of water and some Advil. Ryan downed it, some of the water sloshing out of the glass. He finished it and as he pulled it away, it suddenly sustained cracks. Everyone stared curiously. However, there was no time to question his strong grasp when the front door open and in came Dylan and Kaitlyn, wielding not one, but two shotguns now.
“We tried to call, but the power was shut off,” Kaitlyn stated.
“Yeah. It was probably, like, that creep in the woods,” Dylan mused. “Uh, hey, how’s the wound?”
Ryan stood abruptly, and everyone was surprised by his spryness. Dylan waved and everyone was concerned, waiting for him to topple over. He quirked a brow and shrugged, though. “What? I’m, uh, fine now.”
I frowned. It was just so weird. That monster was clearly trying to kill us. It wouldn’t make biological sense to just… magically heal its victims. Ryan frowned when Dylan pushed his way through the crowd, very worried. He reached for his shoulder, barely grazing it, but Ryan suddenly pulled away, glaring venomously.
“Dude, what the hell! You’re burning up like crazy.”
I instantly went on my tippy toes, pressing my hand to his forehead. Ryan almost seemed hostile when I touched him, but he just ended up being confused. I instantly pulled away, gasping.
“Ryan…! It’s like you're actually on fire. You must’ve caught a fever, or rabies, or - oh, you need to lay down. We should all stay together until morning. Maybe a guest room?”
“But I… feel fine,” Ryan muttered.
Kaitlyn came up beside me, frowning. “No, you need to rest. Abby, can you get a cold paper towel for his forehead? Meet us upstairs.”
I grabbed Ryan’s arm, pulling him along. Even his arm was almost scalding hot. However, his head was somewhat drooping, which was the only other physical indicator everything was not what it seemed to be. Of course the stupid flesh monster gave him rabies or something. Ryan was lightheaded and hot and magically cured from being ripped to shreds and… it scared me.
I pulled the covers off and let Ryan lay down. He snickered as I fussed and tucked him in just right. I almost wanted to search the room for a shirt, but I’d rather not draw attention to it. Besides, the wound could appear at any moment. I sat on the edge of his bed and Ryan was seemingly out like a light. He was unresponsive, except for his gentle breaths and his death grip on my hand, keeping it against his fiery chest.
Apparently, the others, minus Dylan, decided to wait in the hallway outside. A few minutes later, Abby came in with a freezing paper towel. I sent her a kind smile and she tried to be quiet, since Ryan was snoring softly. She leaned over and placed the cloth on his head.
Abby suddenly shrieked when his free hand shot up and grabbed her wrist in a death grip. His eyes were bright golden, seemingly glowing in the dark. He was glaring so furiously at her. Her scream alerted everyone else to come into the room.
“Ryan, it’s okay…!” I exclaimed, trying to withdraw my own hand out of shock. “Ryan…?”
His eyes suddenly flitted over to me and he blinked, releasing Abby. Nick pulled her to the side. Everyone else was muttering to themselves and asking questions, but I focused on Ryan. He frowned, announcing loudly, "Uh, sorry… I don’t know what happened.”
I gulped. My mind was running through all the worst outcomes. He was sick. Very sick. A part of me feared that if we didn’t get him help soon, he’d be a goner. But on the contrary, if we left the house, we could get shot or mauled to death. Either outcome was stressful to think about.
I sighed. “Just… try to get some sleep. We’ll be right here if you need anything, okay…?”
I followed his blank stare, peering over his shoulder. Nick and Abby were sitting by the window, the moon gazing at them intensely. Kaitlyn was sitting on the floor nearby with her two shotguns. But Ryan’s attention was glued to Dylan.
“Uh, Ryan, buddy, you don’t look like you’re doing so hot,” Dylan tittered anxiously, taking a step away from the bed.
I let out a quiet gasp when, instead of coherent words, a low, guttural growl emitted from him. “Shut up.”
“Ryan —"
My mouth clammed shut when his glare landed on me. He suddenly jerked on my hand, causing me to fall onto the bed on top of him uncomfortably. My head plopped onto the pillow, our chests pressing against one another. His grip on my wrist tightened, and I yelped. I felt his other hand grip my waist, and I noticed how harshly he was breathing, nose buried in my hair.
“Ryan, let her the fuck go. Now,” Kaitlyn growled. I heard a gun cock, and I seized up fearfully.
He was sniffing furiously. “Fuck. Off.”
I tried patting his cheek, which he accepted gratefully. Clearly the attack had done something. I feared that, in fact, he would turn into the monster from infection. The thought terrified me, but his grip relaxed just enough so I could sit up. Kaitlyn was right beside me, shotgun trained on him. His eyes had shut, but I noticed something glint from his twitching mouth. Something sharp.
“Ryan,” I voiced, "you’re sick. Whatever attacked you… I think you’re turning into it. We - they need to leave for their safety.”
His tone was almost pained when he replied. His voice was deeper, scratchier than normal. Everyone in the room was terrified, and it was easy to see. “Just… stay here.”
I turned to my friends. “Kaitlyn and friends, you guys should wait outside. He’s dangerous —"
“What about you?” Kaitlyn exclaimed, only to earn her a glare from Ryan.
“I’ll scream if I need anything,” I tittered, drawing Ryan’s attention back to me.
Everyone filed out and the door shut. I could tell, though, that Dylan and Kaitlyn were right outside waiting for the signal. Ryan was still gripping my hand tightly, and his nose was twitching disdainfully until he brought it to his cheek.
“Y/n…” he muttered, his voice almost normal.
“Yes, Ryan?”
There was suddenly anger in his grip, and I bit my lip from how harsh his hold became. I tried wiggling my hand for a comfortable position, but he just held tighter.
“Why don’t you love me?”
“You know I love you, Ryan —"
“You know that’s not what I’m talking about,” he interrupted in a low gargle.
When his glare made contact with me, his eyes were a glowing yellow. Fangs were poking from his puffed lips, and he was sweating profusely. He was panting harshly. As angry as he was, there was pain present in his lucent orbs.
“Ryan, I think you’re about to change,” I squealed, fear consuming me. I tried to pull away, tears sprouting to my eyes. “Let go, please —"
“I’m not letting you fucking go!” he shouted suddenly, a crack resounding from my hand. “Don’t fucking leave! I’ll kill him —"
The door swung open, and Dylan, terror lacing his expression, hopped into the room. Ryan was clearly taken aback, and his temper turned to the boy in question. Dylan cocked the gun, finger remaining over the trigger. However, Kaitlyn grabbed me and I was released, stumbling back to her.
Ryan suddenly released the most inhumane growl. He had a fever, and yet, the blankets flung off of him and he pounced. His elongated nails reached out and swung at Kaitlyn, who shielded me behind her. His fangs were fully visible and he got but a scratch on her face before she hit him with the barrel, knocking him to the ground.
Abby screamed shrilly, and I made my way to Dylan. Kaitlyn backed up as well, and we hovered by the wardrobe. Ryan scrambled to his feet, and his back was arched. He was feral, foaming at the mouth. His skin was crawling and bubbling.
He roared, all of his fury directed at Dylan.
Dylan took the prerogative to shoot. I hid behind him in terror, the bullet piercing Ryan as he pounced at the man. The bullet caused his body to ricochet into the wall, letting out more monstrous squabbles.
“Ryan, bro! Calm down!” Dylan cried, shaking in his boots like the rest of us.
“Fuck, Dylan, you shot him!” Kaitlyn shouted. “He’s just —"
Ryan stumbled to his feet. His skin was bubbling. His breaths were uneven and sweat was sweat was spewing from his forehead. He kept squeezing his hands together. He was frozen in place, clearly disoriented. His bare chest had no noticeable wound, despite having been shot.
“Sick…”
All of a sudden, his skin burst. A scream tore at my throat. Ryan… had turned into the monster we had been attacked by. His flesh was exposed and blood spewed from every pore. His clothes had been discarded completely, but more so, he was but muscles and bone. He was sticky and slimy.
He wasn’t Ryan.
“What the fuck, man?” Dylan boomed, raising the gun to shoot.
Ryan suddenly howled. The volume of it made tremors in the floorboards and walls appear. I was too paralyzed to turn away, and his skin and blood covered half of my face. Dylan and Kaitlyn had gotten caught in the line fire, dripping with pierced flesh.
Dylan pulled the trigger, just as Ryan - or what used to be him - finished howling and was about to direct its violent tendencies toward the group. As the bullet pierced his flesh, he flinched. The monster scanned over us one last time, but after letting out a vicious roar, made a mad dash for the window and crashed through, disappearing into the night.
We all waited, completely in shock. Slowly but surely, though, we shook off our experience. Dylan’s brain was lagging, and Nick was the first to speak up.
“Uh, guys? I’m pretty sure it’s not safe here.”
“Well, what are we supposed to do?” Kaitlyn spoke up. “Our party members are dropping like flies. For all we know, Emma and Jake could be dead right now.”
“We need t - to contact the police!” Abby chimed. “Maybe… there’s a signal somewhere?”
“Or… there’s a signal right here,” Dylan chirped, a metaphorical lightbulb turning on above his head. “I, uh, used to man the camp radio station for morning announcements. It’s old and isn’t used anymore, but maybe we’ll be able to get a message out somewhere.”
I nodded along. “I can go with you for that. But the rest of you should make sure to hide. Maybe the shower room nearby?”
“Are you… sure? Like, I can go alone as long as I have the gun.”
“No, she’s right,” Kaitlyn agreed. “We shouldn’t be going anywhere alone. Plus… I really need to take a shower. I am disgusted.”
I clapped my hands together, trying to bring the energy up just a little, even though I was extremely traumatized and on the verge of a mental breakdown. “Uh… cool. Let’s head out before our boy Ryan comes back.”
~~~
“This place has seen better days,” I commented as we finally made it into the radio shack. Perhaps it had been because of a looming threat, but the entire time as we walked in silence, I felt like we were being watched. Stalked. And at every ruffle of leaves, I swerved to check behind us. However, I was always relieved when the coast was clear.
“Okay, when I was a camper here it was barely working,” Dylan agreed. “It hadn’t been used for years, and it took me a really long time, like, to get this place cleaned up and looking the way it is, so…”
“My apologies, sir,” I jokingly defended. “I’m sure your work has paid off.”
“And it has. The radio actually functions… kind of… Just let me get this set up.”
I had the gun now. It was strapped over my shoulder and I was guarding the door. I watched as Dylan walked over to the machinery. Silence fell between us once more. I saw that the group had finished migrating into the shower rooms by the pool. I let out a sigh of relief, but I stepped away from the window, noticing that the hedges across the camp had ruffled.
“So, good news and bad news. Good news, it works. Bad news, I think the range is about… a mile.”
I clicked my tongue, crossing my arms. Shivers rolled down my spine, a sudden chill crossing over me. “That’s not great.”
“It’s still worth a try. This thing’s going to need a bit of a power up, um, but that’s where this comes in.” He lifted some dusty satellite off of a shelf. I nodded in agreement, wanting nothing more than to let him take care of everything. “It’s a signal booster. It’s kind of janky looking, but it’s worth giving a shot.”
He propped it up, suddenly asking for help. He was recording a message, his voice loud and urgent. I cringed fro the volume, and I could only hope any nearby flesh monsters couldn’t hear. There was no reply, but he seemingly put the message on loop.
I turned back to the window, brows furrowing. Dylan was still messing with the radio, but my attention was on the shifting blob outside. A quiet gasp escaped when I recognized the glowing yellow orbs of a monster. I immediately reached for the gun.
“Check it!” Dylan suddenly exclaimed.
I hushed him instantly returning my attention to the window. I inhaled sharply and squinted. I saw nothing. But I knew what I saw. I distanced myself from the window, gun poised.
“What?”
There was distinct chatter from the radio, but from the sound of it, it was coming from the enemy. Dylan watched me fearfully, his grin fading.
“There was… it outside. It was definitely looking at me,” I explained shakily. “It disappeared, but —"
Suddenly, a thud sounded above us. We fell silent, staring at the ceiling. I held my gun up, aiming at where I heard the noise. For all I knew, it could be Ryan, or the former Ryan. However, I wasn’t about to hesitate to shoot that… thing.
A low grown echoed above us. Quiet footsteps padded on the roof, and I sucked in my breath. It was hard to articulate where exactly it was, but I didn’t plan to shoot until it was in my plain of sight. The roof creaked. The flashlight trailed along the wooden boards. It was wishful thinking the monster would just leave when it knew we were in here.
“W - wait, I have an idea,” Dylan stuttered. “Maybe if we put on an, uh, high-pitched frequency… since it’s, like, a werewolf or something…”
“Uh, yeah, fucking do it,” I agreed instantly.
The monster was still lurking above us somewhere. Dylan rushed over to the desk, however, the wood splintered and he backed away for a moment. “Oh, fuck that…!”
“Just do it! I’ve got the gun trained on the spot,” I demanded, my focus fully on the portion of the roof above him.
“Okay, okay, uh…” He messed around with the various panels. “Fuck, there’s something missing. What’s missing?”
The monster shifted, hopping onto another potion of the roof. My gun immediately followed, brows furrowed as I waited for it to get in somehow.
“Oh, crap. It pulled the wire.”
“What? It’s some sort of animal! How could it know to do that?” I exclaimed in annoyance, although it wasn’t aimed toward Dylan.
“I don’t know —"
I heard the monster pounce elsewhere. “Uh, fix it, now!”
Dylan ascended a ladder, reaching desperately for the box. My gun was trained to the roof above. Suddenly, the wood splintered and Dylan’s arm was grabbed. I screamed loudly, not sure where the fuck to shoot. The monster pulled Dylan off the ladder completely and had his hand in his mouth. I finally articulated a shot right above the hole, and he was dropped.
Dylan was screaming in pain and I dropped beside him, grabbing his shoulders. “Fuck! Ow! Help me! Oh my - oh my god! Wait, wait, just - oh shit!” He collapsed on the ground. His entire hand was bloody and barely intact. My face paled, and I knew what to do.
I discarded the gun and grabbed the chainsaw. “Dylan, stop moving! I have to - I have to cut off your hand!”
“Fuck! Y - you’re right! Oh god, make it stop, make it stop!”
I gulped and kneeled beside him. Dylan was writhing on the ground in agony, but he held still. Tears sprouted to my eyes as I pulled to start up the chainsaw. I flinched from how loud it was, and the walls vibrated, not only from its purring, but from the beast above.
“Just fucking do it!” he groaned, his face scrunched up in pain.
My heart was pounding in my chest as I leaned down, placing a foot to hold down his arm. I tried to focus, and yet I was so incredibly panicked. I lowered the saw right above the arm, absolutely mortified at the prospect. I squinted and finally lowered it on his arm. Dylan shrieked and hollered in pain, but I didn’t let him escape. The saw struggled at the bone. However, I forced it through.
I finally pulled the chainsaw away. A sob escaped as I realized blood had spewed across the floor and his hand was completely detached. “Oh, fuck!�� I exclaimed.
Dylan screamed in terror while I paced around in pure panic. I just fucking decapitated someone. Oh fuck, oh my god. But I had to, right? The infection would’ve spread —
“Your shirt!” Dylan cried out, having pulled his knees to his chest.
“My shirt? Why not your shirt —“
“It’s fucking covered in blood —“
“Fuck, fine! Just…”
I fumbled and grabbed the hem. I pulled it off, much to my embarrassment, and tossed it to him. Dylan shakily tied it around his wound. Not even a minute later, it was dyed with his blood. He finally rose to his feet, and we avoided eye contact. I was half naked and he… was limbless. Thanks, flesh monster.
I grabbed the gun and returned my attention. I hadn’t heard any sounds from the roof, but perhaps it had left after getting a taste. We both stood in silence, watching and waiting. Slowly, I walked over to the window, peering out.
Nothing.
Just then, a thud sounded at the front door. I gasped and backed away. Dylan, terrified, grabbed a hammer from a toolbox. He cowered - understandably - in the corner. I moved to be a few paces from the door, as to ensure that I wouldn’t miss.
Another thud sounded. The monster was clearly smart enough to pull a wire, and thus, was smart enough to recognize a door. Shivers ran down my spine at how long it was taking for the beast to pounce again. The front door was splintered and bending. Even one more would —
Suddenly, the door shattered.
Break…
Dylan and I screamed, and I shot. Somehow, it knowingly dodged to the side. All of the wood and metal flew at me, and I stumbled back against the table. I screeched in terror as the creature pounced at me but a few inches away. With all my strength, I pulled on the barrel to prepare it for another shot —
Almost playfully, it swiped at my ankle, tugging in a tight grip. The gun flew fro my hands as I fell to the ground, hitting my head on the desk rim. Everything rang and my vision went dark for a split second. I became vaguely aware that I was being dragged across the wooden floor. I flailed and kicked in its grasp. I was thankful the beast didn’t maul me then and there.
#yandere#x reader#x y/n#self insert#yandere the quarry#the quarry#kaitlyn ka#laura kearney#max brinly#emma mountebank#the quarry game#yandere ryan#ryan x reader#ryan ezrahler#ryan erzahler#ryan erzahler x reader#ryan erzahler imagine#jacob custos#dylan lenivy
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Surprises
Surprises of all kinds, found after a shopping trip goes wrong. Content warning for coarse language, sexuality, threats of violence, mentions of suicide and incest, and copious amounts of headcanons.
As always, there is more in my Twisted Wonderland Fanfiction tag, and send me a message if you liked it, I crave positive feedback.
~*~*~*~
TXT: where the fuck are you guys it's already quarter past
After a few minutes, you got a ding.
M: idia doenst want t leave something about a person see you aftr he needs freind
Oh goddammit, it's so fucking hard to get him out and about. At least Mal was with him.
You looked to Grim at your feet. "Looks like it's just us, buddy."
~*~*~*~
It was just you and Grim browsing through the dollar store, when a boy in a ratty shop apron came up to you. "Ma'am?"
You turned to him, and he coughed. "Uh, Miss. You're not supposed to have pets in the store."
Grim bristled at him. "I'm not a pet!"
Poor kid, he looked so startled. And you decided to make it worse, because yanno, why not. "How dare you refer to my son as a pet! Does he look like a pet to you?"
He looked between your face and Grim's, confusion growing. "Wh-"
"I know the resemblance isn't the strongest, but honestly! How could you say such mean things about him!"
Grim, bless him, actually caught on and decided to play along for the chaos of it. "Why are you being so mean to me? My mom works hard to keep me happy! She said I could pick out a toy today!"
The confusion had turned to anger. "That's not your kid! You're too young and he's an animal!"
Grim looked up at you, mock tears in his eyes. "I'm your kid, right? I'm not adopted like the boys at school say?" He started sniffling. "I'm not adopted, right?"
You clapped your hands over Grim's ears and glared at the now horrified shopboy. "Look what you've done! I hadn't told him yet!"
He just fled in horror, and it was all you could do to keep from laughing.
~*~*~*~
The village on the island wasn't the worst appointed. Being equidistant between two prestigious magic schools, it had a few places worth going, and after hitting up your personal favourite, you went to a small park, settled down on a bench, and started unwrapping your prizes.
You have a love for gashapon machines that bordered on a serious problem. In your biweekly trips to buy snacks and supplies to stock up your miserable, beautiful dorm, you easily fed 3000 madol (which you think was about thirty-five dollars or so at home, but couldn't be sure) into the long rows of machines in the drug store, coming out with tiny keychains, figures, and various useless but wonderful little totchkes that you kept lined up in rows in your bedroom. The joys of tiny presents! And the containers were useful too; for a creature who heavily insisted he wasn't a cat, Grim lost his shit like one every time your rolled a ball with a bell inside across the floor.
You were marveling over a tiny, perfectly realistic jellyfish on a phone strap as someone sat down heavily beside you. "Is that," they pointed to Grim poking his way around the cattails by an ornamental pond, "yours?"
"... Yes?" You turned to examine your seatmate. Charmingly strange looking, they sat impeccably robed in forest green velvet and squinted at you from behind perfectly round sunglasses. Flat-faced and thin-lipped, they reminded you of a toad, with their roundness and severe expression.
"Ah, then you are the one I am looking for. You're the pet of the prince."
"I'm a friend of his. Is that a problem?" You decided to keep opening your prizes, and pulled out a heavy ball from the bottom of your bag.
"His Highness does not have human friends."
"And yet, I am." This one, unwrapped, was the chase in the set: a tiny cauldron the size of a thimble that seemed to be actual cast iron. The chill of it was pleasant in your hand, and instead of returning it to your bag, you left it in your lap.
This presumptive stranger leaned in. "You're a diversion. A distraction from what he should be learning. Instead he plays with mortals and lets them forget their place."
"If it was so important that he didn't play with mortals, then why was he allowed to attend here?" You got a cheap set of rings on a goldtone chain in this one. Boo. You'd wanted the miniature necklace of the set for your doll. "He's very happy with the company of us all."
"Too happy. He forgets his place." The toady eyed the glittering paste gems before looking away. "Above you. Instead he crawls into your lap and serves you like a dog."
You froze. "Now, where did you get that idea?"
"We have sources." They leaned in further, smiling. A barely perceptible line of triangular teeth, sparsely placed and translucent in tone. "Foul things happen to the unwanted lovers of heirs, don't you know?"
"I am a wanted friend."
"You're a parasite who should flee."
You realized something, and turned to face your strange benchmate. "Why are you threatened by me?"
They scoffed. "Why would we be threatened by you?"
"If you weren't," you said, dropping your voice as your leaned in, "then you wouldn't be here trying to put the fear into me." They leaned back, glasses slipping off their nose. The eyes in their face were exquisite, shining gold and black speckles with a ring of gold around an oval pupil. You could help but laugh. "Pretty eyes. You really are a toad. Who sent you? The Thorn Witch? Can't be, I'm not worth her time and if I was, she'd've sent a fucking letter."
"We're a concerned party, preventing our future king from making the mistake of dealing with filth."
Well, that one pissed you off. You grabbed their wrist, feeling bumps and warts on their skin through the fabric, and pressed the tiny cauldron to the back on their hand as they started screeching.
"You," you looked them dead in their impossibly lovely eyes, "You go back where you came from, tell them I'm not a threat to whatever stupid bullshit they're worried about, and never bother us again. Or I will make you swallow this and you'll beg the precious prince you're so damned worried about to burn you alive to stop the pain."
You'd never seen anyone run so fast in your life when you let them go.
"Hey, Grim! We gotta go."
~*~*~*~
TXT: MAL SOMEONE SENT ME A TOADY SAYING I CAN'T BE AROUND YOU ANYMORE
TXT: MIGHTA BEEN YOUR GMA BUT I DON'T THINK SO
~*~*~*~
"I'm gonna kill that fucker."
"Killing them might start an international incident. If one hasn't happened already. You burnt them with iron, Yuu."
"I should have done worse! Whoever the fuck they were, that's two friends they've tried to threaten to stay away from you! That we know of!"
It turns out that the mystery toady had been the person to scare the piss out of Idia the night before. Not that they'd gotten far into their leave-the-prince-alone spiel, Idia had simply kicked them square in the stomach and fled, assuming another kidnapping attempt.
"It wouldn't have been my grandmother. In the last letter I got from her, she said it was very nice that I was making friends. She said to keep making them, even."
"She'd probably care if she knew you were sleeping with said friends." Idia was curled into the corner of his bed, and from the looks of it hadn't slept since his own encounter.
"No she wouldn't."
"You sure about that?"
You'd said that that was only going to happen once. Everyone agreed. But when all three of you settled in to play a game or watch a movie, hands moved and bodies flushed and you all seemed to find yourself tangled and gasping. And it didn't seem to require all three of you - you no longer had the strength to say no to Mal's obvious advances, and you'd walked in on your boys more than once. At least you were still friends? Really, really close friends?
"She wouldn't."
"Could they be worried about heirs?" That seemed logical. Even if no accidents were happening, they might not know that.
"That's not possible."
You raised an eyebrow. Everything worked right, and you all knew it.
Mal looked back at you. "Yuu, I hatched from an egg. I could have you both five times a day for a decade and all there would be to show for it is you couldn't walk. I cannot have children with either of you without magical intervention."
Idia made a truly impressive death rattle before mumbling something about the end of his bloodline, and you just nodded. "Makes sense."
"It's quite interesting, really, it requires numerous spells and potions, that if not kept up on, the babe will-" Malleus placed his hands together, back to back, and mimed the motion of tearing something open.
You flinched. "That's awful, goddamn."
"I have a direct ancestor who took a great deal of human women as breeding stock and simply let them be eaten from the inside out. That's what started one of the earlier human/faerie wars."
"... Wow."
"I am not proud of her."
"Can we please talk about anything else?" Idia looked ready to be sick. "I don't want to think about any of this."
"Sure, let's grab one of your doujins."
~*~*~*~
"So you're already engaged?"
"As soon as it was clear I would survive to adulthood, yes. Idia, what is this series?"
"Nyan Neko Sugar Girls. It's not that great storywise, but it has great gags." He reached over and grabbed the next one in his pile. "It's not that unusual. My mother wanted Ortho to marry my cousin Alecto when they grew up, before..."
"Before he made a lifestyle change?" That seemed the politest way to put it.
"Before she went to the criminal ward."
You shut your book with a soft thump. "What?"
"I remember the trial." Mal sighed. "Strychnine in the sugar bowl at Sunday dinner. I made sure to get the newspapers sent to the palace."
"Mother was heartbroken over it, until she realized that the wealth of that entire Shroud branch defaulted back to us." Idia shrugged. "It's sad. She was just eleven. I still send her emails."
"Idia."
"Mm?"
"Why the fuck would an eleven year old poison someone?"
"My uncle said she couldn't get a puppy until her grades went up."
"What the fuck." You'd lie down if you weren't already doing so.
"It's the curse." He sighed. "We thought she might've been from an affair? But that proved it."
"My dearest Shroud, you can't guarantee it was from the curse." Malleus turned a page. "It might have been trauma from her mother's death."
You could see more bad history incoming. "Oh no."
"Alecto was from Uncle Jo's first marriage, to my dad's cousin Alita. She had a sister, but when her mother drowned herself, she only took-"
"Is this normal for your family? Or is that just some exceptional bad luck?"
He leaned in, lamplight eyes flashing. "Out of all the Shrouds of my generation that are still capable of inheriting, I'm the most mentally sound."
Both you and Mal had to stop and really consider the implications of that.
"So, Mal. Yours isn't that closely related?"
"Fifth cousins at most when they're finally born."
You sat up. "What?"
"I'm supposed to marry the third grandchild of the Hollyoak Baron. They're a well-respected family, and of snake fae descent so little aid will be needed for conception. His eldest child is in..." He had to think about what words to use. " I believe the term is 'middle school'?"
"They really planned it that far ahead?"
Mal shrugged, the movement rolling down his whole body. "I cannot complain. It gives me a very long time to learn how to be a husband before I have to be one."
"But what if you don't like them?"
"Marriage is chiefly a contract to produce heirs. I'll learn to like them, and ideally love them."
"And if you don't?"
"I'll still treat them as kindly as I can."
"And I suppose you'd take a lover."
"Maybe. They can too, as long as all the children are mine. For legal reasons," he added.
Idia, snapping out of his thoughts, tapped Mal's shoulder. "Does the Hollyoak Baron have any friends who are toad faeries?"
It was Mal's turn to sit up. "That... He could be worried that if I have favourites at school, I'll resent my betrothed for not being either of you. Or that I would attempt to break it off entirely."
"That still doesn't tell us how he found out about..." You gestured around the room.
Idia rolled his eyes. "All that would have to happen is any one student from the Valley of Thorns writing a letter home."
"But -"
"Malleus, you're not shy in your affections. At all."
"Yes I am," he bristled.
~*~*~*~
"Mal?"
"Mmph?"
"You have to put me down. I have class."
He made a slightly different mmph and shook his head.
You tried to pat his head, but your arms were securely pinned to your sides. "I know they're fantastic, but you have to stop."
He still refused to remove his face from your chest, making a noise that could have been purring if it cane from anyone who was a proper mammal.
"Mal, we're blocking traffic."
He still wasn't putting you down, instead swaying slightly in place.
A familiar long-fingered hand with dark nails reached from behind you and tugged at Mal's lapel. "Malleus, please stop, it's ten AM and everyone is staring."
Mal finally put you down - only to switch targets, wrapping his arms around Idia's waist and pulling him flush, fixing him with such a look of besotted fondness that you immediately felt like you were intruding.
"You look beautiful today."
Idia immediately burst into a ball of pink flame.
~*~*~*~
"... Perhaps I am a bit obvious."
Idia stared up at his ceiling. "You'd be at home in my otome games."
You chimed in. "What would be obvious, in your mind?"
"Very easy. I finish the paperwork declaring you Lord and Lady of the Bedchamber and have you officially ensconced as Court of Thorns royalty, ensuring you're both taken care of for the rest of your days."
"... Finish?"
"It seemed the easiest thing to do if either of you chose to visit my homeland."
You swatted his leg. "And you didn't think to ask us first?"
Mal was starting to clue in that he had once again overreached himself. "... Surprise?"
"I'm okay with it."
You glared over at Idia. "That's not the point."
"Look, if I ever get disinherited, I have a place to go. He won't make me go outside if I don't want to. I'll bring Ortho. It'll be great."
"They don't even have dial-up over there, Idia. Lilia told me he had to get all this stuff installed to play his MMOs."
Idia pointed at Mal, easy smile turned to outrage. "How dare you try and trap me!"
It honestly seemed like Mal and Idia had switched expressions, the look of worry on his face so strange. "It's a protective measure! If you're titled, people will get in trouble if they try and remove you!"
"That's still... wait." The gears were turning in your head. "If you finish that paperwork, whoever sent Mixter Toad is going to get in so much more trouble."
Everyone went silent as they considered this.
"... As soon as I get the official permission from my grandmother. She won't like it very much, but if I explain..."
Idia turned to Mal. "You were going to make your human fucktoys official members of the Court of Thorns without telling your grandmother, the queen. Who has a notable and often justified dislike of humans."
"No?"
"Mal."
"I simply prepared ahead."
"Mal."
"I - "
"Malleus." You leaned over and kissed his cheek. "You're so goddamned stupid. Love you."
He didn't say it back with words, but you got the message loud and clear.
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Hey it’s angst o’clock: before Kaz and Gundham get together, when they still kinda hate each other, 2 of the Devas have babies and everyone takes turns babysitting the litter while Gundham works. Kaz’s turn comes and he finds one of the babies has died and fREAKS THE FUCK OUT. Like sobbing cuz he’s never had a pet before let alone seen one die and so he takes the baby and flees and everyone thinks he just straight up stole a baby but really he’s fucking horrified and terrified to tell Gundham cuz he fucked it up and the baby is dead cuz of him somehow. And someone, maybe Sonia, finds him and talks him down and they go to Gundham who is more upset that Kaz “stole” a baby but once he realizes what happens he understands. Being a Breeder he probably sees animal death a lot unfortunately. But he helps comfort Kaz and forgives him and lets him help with the living babies and maybe that’s how they start becoming actual friends and sometime down the line they realize oh fuck I’m actually in love with this dude when did that happen IDK SHOWER THOUGHTS WOULDNT LEAVE ME ALONE I HAD TO TELL SOMEONE SORRY
You think you can come onto my blog and just rip my fucking heart out, huh? Right in front of my mutuals? You think you can just rip my heart out and force me to write something sad so everyone else has to feel sad too?
Good. Cus you 100% can lol.
TW: animal death - It’s mentioned repeatedly and is the central theme of this, so please just skip this one if you think you might be uncomfortable reading it.
Gundham comes into the class one day and he’s super proud and showing off the baby hamsters to everyone. He’s a little embarrassed to ask for help, but he’s working on a very important conservation project or something, so he asks if anyone would be willing to keep an eye on them for an hour or two at a time over the next few days, insisting that it wouldn’t be hard, all they really had to do was make sure they didn’t escape and call Gundham if something went wrong. At least like half the class offers cus the babies are just so damn cute, Soda only offers cus Sonia did and he’s trying to impress her.
Gundham sets up an enclosure for the hamsters in the classroom, and everyone picks a time to come by to watch them.
When Soda’s turn rolls around a few days later, he’s secretly a little excited. He’s been complaining about it the past few days to keep up appearances, can’t have anyone suspecting that even tough he can’t stand Gundham, he also kind of has a soft spot for him (What? Dudes handsome), but he’s actually pretty psyched to get to spend some time just chilling with the baby hamsters. He’s never had his own pet, but he’s always wanted one.
Anyways, when he gets to the class he checks on all the babies and as far as he can tell they’re all good. He gives pets them for a bit, but then they seem like they’re trying to go to sleep so he leaves them and sits at a desk to play around on his phone for a while. Like 40 minutes later he gets up to check on them again.
They’re pretty much all huddled up, and Soda thinks it’s super cute, but he notices one lying down a bit away from the rest. He assumes it must have rolled away in it’s sleep, or that it got kicked out since its the smallest one, so he goes to move it back over to the hamster pile.
It’s cold when he touches it.
He knows pretty much right away what that means, but he doesn’t want to believe it. He pokes it a bit and tries to scratch it’s whiskers to get it to react, but it doesn’t move. He’s already crying, but then he starts thinkin about how it was probably something on his hands that killed it. He didn’t was his hands after finishing up in his garage, and he must have had oil or something on his hand when he was petting the hamster and now it was dead.
He’s hyperventilating.
He’s worried he killed them all, but looking at the hamster pile, the rest of them all appear to be breathing still. He’s too scared to touch them to make sure.
He’s sure its his fault. His fault for touching the hamster with dirty hands and his fault for not paying more attention. The hamster was probably acting weird before it died, if he had just been paying attention he could have called Gundham and it would still be alive.
He’s a murderer.
Sonia was supposed to be the next person watching the hamsters. He couldn’t let her see the dead baby hamster, couldn’t let her know he killed it. He looks around the room and finds a little box to put it in. He’s chocking on his sobs as he picks up the hamster, and he nearly drops it because his hands are shaking so bad. Once it’s in the box he has to take a moment cus he thinks he might vomit from how guilty he feels.
There’s like 10 minutes before Sonia is supposed to get there, so he takes one last look at the other hamsters, picks up the little box that has no right feeling as heavy as it does, and leaves.
He doesn’t really know where to go so he just heads up to the roof to get some fresh air and think, sobbing the whole way. He’s pretty sure he saw Sonia down one of the hells on his way up, but he just prays she didn’t see him and that she doesn’t remember how many hamsters there were.
He sits with the box in his lap, shaking.
He thinks he feels it shift.
His chest seizes up. Was it alive? Had he really not killed it? He can feel the hope swelling up inside him as he slowly opens the box-
It’s dead.
It’s definitely dead and now its lying on its side and its little eyes are staring right at Soda and it takes him a minute to realize his sobs have turned into screams of agony. The hope made it so much worse.
He closes the box again and sets it down so gently beside him, before curling in on himself and just sobbing and screaming into his hands so hard his whole body is shaking from it.
He’s a murderer. He killed a defenseless animal. A baby. It was only a few days old and he killed it.
Suddenly there’s a warm hand on his back, rubbing just a little and bringing him back down to earth. His sobs slowly get weaker and he manages to look up, though his vision is still blurred with tears. He can make out dark clothes, pale skin, and a bright purple scarf. He assumes Gundham is there to punish him.
Gundham just asks him what’s going on, says Sonia called him because one of the hamsters was missing and she thought she had seen Soda running away from the classroom earlier. They assumed he had taken one of the hamsters for himself, but that didn’t explain why he was crying on the roof.
Soda realizes that the only reason Gundham isn’t beating him senseless is because he doesn’t know the hamster is dead.
“I killed it.” He starts sobbing harder the second the word leave his mouth. He feels Gundham’s hand tense on his back
“What.” Gundham definitely sounds pissed now. He’s not yelling, but his voice sounds deadly. Soda accepts that he’s about to get the shit kicked out of him, accepts it even. He deserves it.
“I-it must have been the oil on my h-hands or something, I don’t know. I s-should have been paying more attention, but when I looked at them gain it was-” his voice is cut off by another sob, and he’s just waiting for Gundham to hit him. To his surprise, some of the tension in Gundham’s body dissipates.
“Where is the poor creature?” Gundham doesn’t sound angry anymore and Soda doesn’t understand. He just gestures towards the box, he’s too much of a coward to even look at it again.
Gundham gets up and opens the box. Soda hear him exhale sadly after a moment, before returning to Soda.
“It would seem we have both been mislead.” Gundham sits beside Soda and starts rubbing his back again. He explains that Soda did not kill the hamster, it seemed like something must not have developed right internally, and it simply died of natural causes. There was nothing either of them could have done to save it. Soda is just amazed how calm Gundham is being.
He asks him why he isn’t more upset, and Gundham sighs and tells him that it’s unfortunately something he sees a lot, so over time he’s just gotten used to it.
Soda’s just like “That fucking sucks.” and Gundham kind of laughs sadly and say “It fucking sucks indeed.” Soda’s kind of startled by Gundham swearing and it forces an awkward little laugh out of him.
They’re both quite for a while, then Gundham tells him he’s touched by how upset Soda was over the hamsters death, and that he’s sure the hamsters soul appreciated him mourning it, but it is simply part of the circle of life and death, so he shouldn’t get too fixated on it. Soda’s still crying a little but he nods and says he’ll try, Gundham keeps rubbing his back.
They stay up on the roof for a while longer. Soda has mostly stopped crying, but Gundham’s hand is still on his back and he tries not to think too much about it. When they stand, Gundham picks up the box before Soda can even think about it and motions for him to follow him.
They bury it in some nearby woods, Soda insists on leaving some flowers. He asks Gundham not to tell their classmate about how much he cried. Gundham just says ‘of course’, as if they didn’t spend most their free time looking for new ways to get under each other’s skin.
Later, Gundham insists that Soda comes to see the healthy babies, telling him it will help him feel better. Soda is scared to be left alone with them, so Gundham just stays by his side the whole time. Even after Gundham finishes his project and brings them back to his place, he invites Soda over to see them. He starts teaching Soda about proper hamster care and they slowly grow closer and closer.
Sometimes Soda gets a little teary eyed while looking at the other hamsters, and he’s worried Gundham will make fun of him. He never does, he always just silently rubs Soda’s back, until one day he pulls him into a hug as well.
Months later, their relationship has completely turned around. They’re both constantly talking to each other and hanging out, they even occasionally refer to the hamster babies as their children haha. The rest of the class starts making bets on when they’ll realize they’re into each other, but for the time being they’re both happy they were able to finally become friends.
#tw: animal death#cw: animal death#Soudam#replies#falconeye#Soudam ramblings#how could you make me write this#jk#I've been sitting on this ask until I felt sad enough to write something sad#and whoops#today I was sad#this was actually kind of therapeutic to write though
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Golden Rings 20: A Line
The Storybrooke sequel to Golden Cuffs.
Rumple and Jefferson explore some boundaries.
Read on AO3
It was still raining as Rumpelstiltskin drove Mrs. Gold back to the pink house. She had dried off, in the hours since she had come into the shop and seen him standing too close to Jefferson. Her clothes had dried, but her attitude was still as stormy as the thunder and lightning in the sky.
That morning, the silence between them had been sullen, resigned. The silence of two people who couldn’t speak to each other, even if they wanted to. Now, Mrs. Gold’s side of the car crackled with unspoken hostility. If he looked at her closely, Rumpelstiltskin could almost see her trembling. Poor woman was fighting to keep silent, straining to keep herself from saying any words that would finally sever the last fraying threads of her marriage.
Once the car was in the garage, Mrs. Gold burst through her door and bolted into the house. She didn’t even stop to pick up her shopping bags from the back seat. Walking around to her side of the car, he took as many of the bags as he could carry. There was one still left on the floor. He would have to come back for it.
He entered the kitchen just in time to hear her door slam shut upstairs. He sighed, and shook the rain off his coat.
Could he offer her an explanation? Would she care about what he had to say? Mrs. Gold already knew that there was someone else. He had told her Belle was a woman, but she had no reason to believe him about anything. Throughout all the years of the curse, Mrs. Gold had trusted her husband. She had trusted in his cruelty, in his rules, in his appetites. She may have been on her knees, but at least she knew where she stood. In only a few months, Rumpelstiltskin had destroyed that trust.
He made dinner, wondered if she would come down to eat. When she didn’t, he brought a plate up to the guest bedroom and knocked on the door.
“What?” Her ragged voice was at the exact midpoint between rage and despair.
“I brought you dinner,” he explained to the door.
“Leave it.” Even through the wood, he could hear her labored breathing. “Then go away. I don’t want to look at you.”
Wincing, Rumpelstiltskin set the plate on the ground. Then he stood at the door a moment longer. He should say something. He should apologize. He should be kind to her.
But the longer he waited, the longer she didn’t open the door because she didn’t want to look at him, the more he understood. The kindest thing he could do for Mrs. Gold would be to leave her alone. She was allowing him to provide for her--taking his money, eating his food. She wouldn’t leave her room, as long as she thought it was safe.
He would make her feel safe. As best he could, at least.
Limping, he headed for the stairs. Halfway down, he heard her door open, and the china plate scraping across the floorboards. She had been listening for him, to make sure he was really gone. She had been listening for the tap of his cane.
He heard the door shut. And the metallic mechanism of a lock.
Once, he had locked Belle in a library, in order to keep her burgeoning love for him from ever coming to life. Now Mrs. Gold was locking herself away, because any love she’d had for her husband had already suffered a messy, painful death.
With a heavy tread, he kept walking.
****
In his study, Rumpelstiltskin sat down at Gold’s desk and poured himself a tumblr from a sky-blue bottle. Johnnie Walker Blue Label. The liquor was a dark, golden brown, but the glass bottle was the same color as Belle’s eyes.
From his breast pocket, he took the paper where Jefferson had written his address and telephone number. He tossed it on the desk and stared at it.
Jefferson. His truest friend. The only person he had trusted, before Belle. He hadn’t been the first man Rumpelstiltskin had taken as a lover, but he was the only one who had been just as pleasant company outside of the bedroom. They had gone on many adventures together, fetching items from different worlds, running errands for kings and empresses, sometimes getting richly rewarded, and sometimes barely escaping with their lives. Jefferson had always been loyal, brave, and clever. A good man to have by his side.
He could have loved him, if he hadn’t been such a fool. If he hadn’t kept the boy at a distance in a thousand tiny ways. If he hadn’t insisted that he leave him after every adventure. Jefferson would have lived in his castle, if Rumpelstiltskin had asked him to. Jefferson would have traveled with him forever, if he had ever indicated that he wanted to. They could have stayed together. If Rumpelstiltskin had thought that anyone could have loved him.
As it was, Jefferson had found Leona Ogg, a woman who never doubted that she could love and be loved. They had married, and had a daughter, and Rumpelstiltskin had wished them well--from a distance. From the lonely darkness that he knew was all he would ever deserve.
Belle had changed that, of course. Too late for it to benefit Jefferson much. But now Belle was gone. And even Mrs. Gold didn’t want to speak to him. And Jefferson’s wife was in another world, alive but inaccessible.
Jefferson had spent the past twenty-eight years alone in his house, spared from the curse, but unable to interact with anyone in Storybrooke. Finally, he had come to Rumpelstiltskin in need of a friend.
Rumpelstiltskin hadn’t realized how much he’d needed a friend as well.
He dialed the numbers on the black telephone on Gold’s desk. He emptied the glass and didn’t pour another. After a few rings, there was an answer.
“This is Dodgson,” Jefferson’s voice said.
“Are you sure about that, dearie?” The alcohol had eased his tension, but talking to Jefferson had truly loosened him. Dropping the mask of being Mr. Gold felt like being able to breathe again.
Over the phone, Jefferson’s tone became softer, warmer. “Hello,” was all he said. One word, full of meaning.
It wasn’t flirtatious. Flirting was asking a question. But these questions had already been asked and answered long ago.
“Hello yourself,” Rumpelstiltskin answered. He heard his own voice as low and heavy, thick with want.
“I’d like to continue the conversation we were having earlier. Are you free?”
“Magic always comes at a price. But for you, I am free indeed.”
He heard Jefferson breathing into the phone. “Tonight?”
“I can leave right now. Your house?”
“I’d rather die,” the boy said quickly. “But come here to pick me up, and I’ll tell you where to go.”
“I’ll be there soon.” Rumpelstiltskin was already standing up.
“Good.”
****
The rain had stopped by the time he got to the winding forest road where Jefferson lived. He was waiting in front of the driveway, leaning against a stone pillar, hands stuffed into his coat pockets. Rumpelstiltskin stopped the car and he got into the passenger side.
“Now follow this road for another two miles.”
Nodding, Rumpelstiltskin drove. “Where are we going?”
“As far as I’m concerned, it’s the most interesting place in Storybrooke.”
Jefferson didn’t say more and Rumpelstiltskin didn’t ask. Unlike with Mrs. Gold, he could relax in the silence between himself and Jefferson. He knew the answers would come. He just had to be patient.
“You know the town well?” he said after a while. There weren’t many turns on this highway, just woods and darkness.
“I’ve had twenty-eight years to look around.” Jefferson stared out the windshield. “And six months to explore.” He sighed. “I tried to map it, you know. I tried to figure out the limits of this place. Find out if there were any… I dunno, weak spots.”
Trying to keep his eyes on the road, Rumpelstiltskin glanced over at Jefferson. “What did you find out?”
He scoffed. “If there was anything useful, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. There’s a spot over here where you can pull over.”
The tires crunched on gravel as Rumpelstiltskin parked the car on the shoulder. They were still in the forest. The road kept going on ahead of them. There didn’t seem to be anything interesting about this spot.
No, there was one thing.
“What’s that sign up there?” he asked Jefferson. They faced the back of a sheet of metal on a pole. “Do you know what it says on the front?”
“‘Welcome to Storybrooke,’” Jefferson sneered. “Three of the most loathsome words in this world.” He opened the door and stood up. “Come on, Dark One, I want to show you around.”
By the time he had gotten out, Jefferson was standing in the middle of the road behind the sign. Taking a deep breath, he began to walk forward. His pace was measured, careful. In the still night, Rumpelstiltskin could hear the boy muttering under his breath.
Counting.
“What are you doing?” he asked after a moment.
“Watch,” was all Jefferson would say. “It should happen any minute now. Thirty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty--FUCK!”
From out of the darkness, a deer came barreling down the road. It ran at full speed along the painted yellow stripes on the pavement. Head bent, antlers pointed, it was dead set towards Jefferson.
With impressive agility, Jefferson swerved from his path in the center and raced back to the car. Once he was behind the signpost, the deer also changed course. It leapt into the brush along the roadside and--utterly unperturbed--walked back into the forest.
Rumpelstiltskin looked over at Jefferson, who had braced his hands on the hood of the car. He was breathing heavily, but not too heavily to speak.
“I hate it when it’s deer,” he panted. “The moose and the bears just kind of stand there, being big and scary. But the deer are always on the attack, always out for blood.” Shaking his head, he straightened up and turned to Rumpelstiltskin with his arms spread wide. “So this is the town line, and that’s my parlor trick.”
He stared. “You knew that would happen?”
“I knew something would happen. Animals are a pretty regular method. A few weeks ago, this road was a sheet of ice once you got past the sign. If we had come out here while the storm was still going on, a bolt of lightning wouldn’t have been out of the question. Or a fallen tree. Something like that.”
Rumpelstiltskin said nothing, so Jefferson kept explaining.
“It’s actually safer when you’re walking. Whatever happens will just kind of shoo you back to the town limits. In a car is where it gets really bad, I guess because you have a better chance of actually getting somewhere. You ever hear the locals call this the widowmaker highway?”
“Mrs. Gold said something about that,” he nodded. He was beginning to understand.
“Funny thing, that. If you look at, say, twenty-eight year’s worth of newspapers, you’ll see that no one has ever actually died on this highway. Lots of accidents. Lots of previous fatalities. Every family knows somebody who’s died here, sometime in the past. But no one has been killed on this road since October 23, 1983.”
“Of course not,” Rumpelstiltskin said. “The curse wants to keep people alive.”
“It wants to keep people inside,” Jefferson agreed. “Trapped like animals in a simulated habitat.” He made his way over to Rumpelstiltskin, leaned against the car next to him. “Nothing is real in this town.”
He had worn gloves against the chill. Black leather driving gloves. The headlights reflected against the rain brought out the dull sheen of them, especially contrasted with Jefferson’s gray wool coat when he put his hand on his arm.
“You’re real,” Rumpelstiltskin said. “I don’t know how you managed it, but you are.”
Jefferson looked down at the place where they touched. “Are you sure?” he asked. “I mean, that’s the whole point of this world--this is the place where we only exist as stories. None of us are really real. We’re not supposed to be here, not walking and talking and--feeling.”
Rumpelstiltskin could only squeeze more tightly on the boy’s arm. Early in his own experience with immortality, he had spent a decade or two grappling with the potentialities of existence and non-existence. Whether or not anything could really be true. Whether or not actions actually had consequences. Whether or not every reality and every world he knew was nothing more than a grain of sand on an infinite, eternal beach full of other realities.
It was the sort of thinking that could drive one mad.
“I tried calling the real world once,” Jefferson went on. “The world without magic. I found the phone number for a chartered plane service in Bar Harbor.”
“Where?”
“Bar Harbor!” Jefferson snapped. “It’s a town, in Maine. A real one. Unlike Storybrooke, it shows up on maps! I called the airport there--and I was just so happy to hear another voice. This was after things started changing. Before that, all the phones in my house were disconnected.”
Jefferson rubbed his hand over his eyes, his forehead. The poor boy looked so weary, so defeated.
“I called. And I told the lady on the other end of the phone where I was, and that I wanted a plane to come get me. There’s over a hundred thousand dollars in cash in a safe in that house, I would have given it all and more besides. But the lady just laughed at me. She thought I was playing a prank. Because Storybrooke, Maine doesn’t exist! She’d never heard of it and it wasn’t in her database when she looked it up!”
He began to laugh, a wild, manic sound that could turn into sobs at any moment. “The next time I tried to call, I couldn’t get through! I called a hundred times one day and they’d never pick up!”
“Jefferson,” Rumpelstiltskin said softly.
But he couldn’t stop. “Then! I tried to rent a boat! Lots of boats in the harbor! I went to this grumpy drunk and gave him a thousand dollars to take his boat out for the day. It was a clear day--freezing, but not a cloud in the sky. I picked a direction and I just went. I motored out into the harbor until this town was just a speck in the distance.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist. “I could see the open ocean in front of me. The horizon was limitless. It was beautiful. For one shining instant, I though I could go anywhere.”
Then the boy shuddered. He curled in on himself, head between his hands as he nearly bent over double.
“And then the fog rolled in,” he whispered. “One second you could see for miles, the next I couldn’t see past the front of the boat--the bow or aft or whatever it is. The next time I saw anything, I was back at the docks.”
“Jefferson,” Rumpelstiltskin said again. He put a hand on his shoulder, wished desperately that he didn’t have to use the other hand on his cane. Jefferson needed him, needed whatever strength he had. He couldn’t be crippled now.
He stroked his back. “Jefferson, my boy, I’m sorry.”
He looked up. His dark blue eyes glinted like steel. “You’re sorry?” Slowly, he registered Rumpelstiltskin’s hands on his body. He backed away. “You’re sorry?” he snarled. “Twenty-eight years of this hell and all you have to say is that you’re sorry?”
Rumpelstiltskin opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. “We have all suffered, my boy. Do you know what the curse did to--”
“To you?” The edge in Jefferson’s voice was sharp and jagged. “Or to Belle? Yes, I know both. I know all about the proclivities of Mr. and Mrs. Gold.”
“And I’ve had to live with that--”
“For six months! Oh boo hoo! It’s such a fucking tragedy that you’ve got a brain-dead bimbo begging you to fill her up in every hole!”
“Don’t.” Rumpelstiltskin spoke through his teeth to keep from shouting. “Don’t talk about her like that.”
For a second, Jefferson seemed taken aback. He looked at him, level and even. Appraising. When he spoke, the hostility had ebbed away. “You know I meant Mrs. Gold, right? Not Belle.”
Rumpelstiltskin unclenched his jaw. “Yes,” he said. He took a breath. “But even then… she is still a person.”
“No she’s not.” Jefferson turned away, to look up at the trees overhead. There were no stars in the sky, nothing but gray clouds. “Even if we’re real--if we were real back in our old world--the people in the town aren’t real. Not now.” He sighed. “Mrs. Gold isn’t any more real than Dodgson or Gold or little Paige Lewis.”
“Grace,” Rumpelstiltskin said. “Your Grace.”
He nodded. “She has different parents now,” he said softly. “At least they love her. They’re giving her a good life. I watch her, every day.” Jefferson swallowed hard. “I do have you to thank for that.”
Rumpelstiltskin raised his eyebrows. “Me?”
“You remember the telescope you gave me and Leo? The magic one?”
“Of course.” The enchanted spyglass could see across distances and worlds, to focus on any single person at any time of day or night. In the old world, Rumpelstiltskin had adjusted it so that Jefferson and Leona would always be able to see Grace, and she would always be able to see them. “Did it come with you?”
A slow nod. Jefferson stood in the road while Rumpelstiltskin remained by the car. “It doesn’t have magic, but it’s still damned useful. I can see her, even if I can’t do anything else. I know she’s alive, I know she’s happy. At least I have that.”
He covered his mouth with his hand, and Rumpelstiltskin understood.
“As for Leona...?”
Jefferson shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “Nothing. Not for twenty-eight years. I don’t know if she’s happy, if she’s safe, if she’s even still alive.” Tears brimmed in his eyes and ran down his cheeks as he looked at Rumpelstiltskin. “What if she’s grown old, Dark One? What if she’s outgrown me, forgotten me? What--what if she found someone else and got married again? I wouldn’t blame her for that. But what if she had other children? Her children could be older than I am now! What if Leo moved on and lived this full, rich life that Grace and I didn’t get to share with her? And what if I never know? What if I never see her again?”
He was sobbing now. The sound was a weary ache, an old wound that had never had a chance to heal. Jefferson, poor Jefferson, was giving voice to demons that had plagued him since the curse was cast. For twenty-eight years, his pain had festered in silence, in loneliness. There had been no one for him, the poor boy. Not a single human soul.
Until now.
Despite the uneven, rain-soaked forest floor, Rumpelstiltskin hobbled over to his friend on his cane. He wrapped his arm around Jefferson. He let the man lean against him, and silently prayed that he would be strong enough for the task. He rubbed his back, while Jefferson moaned out his agony.
“It’s all right,” he said, even though it wasn’t. “It will be all right, my boy.”
Jefferson didn’t answer, just shook his head and swayed to the rhythm of his sorrow. Rumpelstiltskin stood by him. He stayed, while Jefferson wept. He offered whatever support he could. The crying eased, though the pain would take far longer to abate.
A drop of water landed on Rumpelstiltskin’s ear. Had that come from a tree branch, or was it starting to rain again?
“Come on, my boy.” He shook Jefferson gently. “Let’s at least get into the car.”
With a deep, shuddering breath, Jefferson managed to stand. He walked on his own to the side of the road. Opening the backseat door on the driver’s side, he slid across the red leather bench. There was plenty of room for Rumpelstiltskin.
He didn’t wonder why Jefferson had chosen to go to the back seat instead of the front, why he wasn’t in a hurry to drive out of the forest, what he expected to happen next. Those were questions that had been answered already.
Jefferson was waiting for him. He had wiped the tears from his face, but when he tried a smile, it was too shaky to be convincing. His back was pushed up against the far door. His long arms and legs tried to sprawl out, but the car was too cramped for that kind of thing. They would have to be close, if they were going to be there at the same time.
Before he got in, Rumpelstiltskin took off his heavy coat and laid it over the front seat. He left his cane up there as well. He wouldn’t need it in such close quarters. When he took off his gloves, his wedding ring glinted faintly.
He hadn’t fucked Jefferson since he had married Belle. There hadn’t been enough time. The curse was coming, and every moment he had he wanted to spend with her.
But Belle was gone now.
And Jefferson was here.
Rumpelstiltskin sat down in the back seat of Gold’s car and shut the door behind him.
They stared at each other for a moment, as best they could in darkness. Rumpelstiltskin couldn’t see Jefferson’s eyes, but he knew them well enough. He knew how they could darken as they filled with want. How he could gaze, unblinking, lips parted, waiting for the next move.
But this time he didn’t wait. Jefferson made the first move. He leaned forward with his hands outstretched. Rumpelstiltskin felt his fingers on his face. Then his palms on his cheeks. Then his mouth on his mouth.
Jefferson had always been free with his kisses. When they’d first started, that had been a shock for Rumpelstiltskin. Many of his lovers had held kissing as something altogether different than fucking. Something far purer, more sacred, more meaningful. They would offer every part of their bodies to every part of his--all except for the meeting of their mouths. That would be too much of a violation. Jefferson had never seemed to think kisses were that important.
Or maybe he did, and that was why he gave them so generously.
When they broke apart, Rumpelstiltskin held Jefferson by the back of his neck. “What are we doing?” he whispered.
“Missing our wives,” Jefferson answered. Then he kissed him again.
It was thrilling, even to be this close to another person. To feel his heat and his weight, to hear his breathing in his ears, to smell the scent of another man’s body--the cologne and the sweat and the unique essence of Jefferson. That hadn’t changed. Even after all this time. Even after marriages and curses and resentments--Jefferson tasted just the same.
They began to touch. Shirts were pulled out of trousers. Buttons were undone. The boy’s body was so smooth, so firm, so strong. Jefferson’s hands started cold, but soon warmed on Rumpelstiltskin’s skin. Ties and scarves were cast aside. Rumpelstiltskin ran his lips over the scar on Jefferson’s neck, as he had done a hundred times, before the boy had started wearing the collar that marked him as Leona Ogg’s. The sigh Jefferson gave out at the sensation was the most erotic thing Rumpelstiltskin had ever heard in this world.
“Hey,” Jefferson rested his large hands on Rumpelstiltskin’s shirtfront. He was more or less on top of the boy now. His suitcoat was draped over the front seat, his waistcoat was unbuttoned and hanging open. “Did I see what I thought I saw in that plastic bag?”
It took a moment for Rumpelstiltskin to understand what he was talking about. Then he saw the pale shape of a shopping bag on the floor of the backseat. Mrs. Gold had left it there.
“I have no idea what’s in that bag,” he answered.
Reaching down, Jefferson pulled it up and examined the contents. “Yep.” There was a smile in his voice. “Condoms and lube. You are hospitable as ever, Dark One.”
Rumpelstiltskin let out a breath. “Why did she buy all that? She knows I won’t use them.”
Jefferson looked up from the bag, a black paper box in his hand. “Not at all? Because this world isn’t like the old one. You really should--”
“Not on her,” he clarified. “I can’t touch Mrs. Gold. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“To Belle?”
“No.” He sat back, a little away from Jefferson. “To Mrs. Gold. It would be too cruel to her.”
There was a crisp rustle of plastic and paper, then the quieter movement of cloth. “If that’s cruelty, I hope you won’t mind being cruel to me.”
“She doesn’t know who I am,” Rumpelstiltskin said simply. “You do.”
In the darkness, he felt Jefferson’s body shift again, leaning against him. Deft hands undid his belt buckle. Strong arms lifted him up, for just long enough to pull down his clothes. Smooth fingers glided over his legs, his thighs.
His cock.
“I know who you are.” Jefferson’s voice was soft as he stroked Rumpelstiltskin into beautiful hardness. “And you know who I am. You always have.”
He felt the needful, wet heat of Jefferson’s lips on the head of his cock. Then, in one skillful, fluid motion, the boy opened his mouth and swallowed him to the hilt.
“Oh, fuck!” Rumpelstiltskin moaned loudly enough that it echoed around the car interior. “Gods, boy! Give a man a bit of warning first!”
Without seeing him, Rumpelstiltskin knew that Jefferson was smirking when he came up. “You look different, but you feel the same in the dark. It’s been too long since I’ve done that to you. Or to anybody.”
Slowly, Rumpelstiltskin opened his eyes. “Have you had sex at all? In the past twenty-eight years?”
He shook his head back and forth between Rumpelstiltskin’s thighs. “Good thing I’m ambidextrous.”
“And I thought six months was bad.”
“We have each other now,” Jefferson said. “We may not have anyone else in this world, but we have each other. We have now.” He grasped Rumpelstiltskin by the shaft. “I have this. And I’m going to make the most of it.”
“Fuck.” Rumpelstiltskin threw his head back against the headrest while Jefferson set to his work. His hands felt for his body in the darkness. His bobbing head, his tense shoulders and arms, the sensitive shell of his ear. “You don’t have to,” he whispered. “I do like talking to you too.”
Jefferson came off his cock with a pop. “We can talk when I’ve got my cock in your ass. How about that, Dark One?”
“Wait.” Rumpelstiltskin pushed him up. Jefferson went along, but his hands kept moving. “Don’t call me that, Jefferson, please.”
He was still stroking him. “You told me once that your name has power.”
“It does, but not here. Not in a land without magic. And besides, we’ve been through so much together. I think this is a power I can trust you to wield.”
Jefferson chuckled a moment, and looked down. One of his hands was still pumping back and forth along the length of Rumpelstiltskin’s cock. The other was gently cupping his balls, rubbing them ever so slightly. He placed a kiss on his groin, around the base of his shaft.
“Alright,” he whispered. Then he gave him another kiss. “Rumpelstiltskin.”
The shudder began at the base of his spine. Perhaps there was a hint of magic in it. Emma had brought magic to Storybrooke, it was possible he was feeling it. Perhaps it was only that Jefferson was the first person to touch him since Mrs. Gold’s failed attempt to pleasure him on their anniversary. Perhaps it was that this was the first time he had heard his own name--his true name--in more than twenty-eight years.
“Again,” he breathed. “Please, my boy.”
Jefferson was moving faster now, his caresses were rougher. His voice was more sure when he said, “Rumpelstiltskin.”
“Oh fuck,” he gritted his teeth. He felt his body tighten. His hips jerked up erratically, but Jefferson was there. Jefferson was with him. Jefferson would make this so good, he always did. “One more time.”
It didn’t have to be three times, but it was such a nice number, and people expected this sort of thing.
Knowing what was coming, Jefferson clenched his grip into a choke-hold. He moved his face into the dim light coming through the car window.
Rumpelstiltskin could see the boy’s eyes as he looked at him. He could see his plump lips begin to form the word that would make him come undone. He could even see the smooth stretch of skin between Jefferson’s cheek and his nose and his mouth. That was where his semen would land.
“Rumpelstiltskin!”
The name was a roar, and he roared back--hungry and desperate and heart sore but not now. Not in this moment. Now he had Jefferson. Now he had completion. Now he had peace and satisfaction. Now he could rest in oblivion.
He breathed. And he heard Jefferson’s breathing in the darkness. He collapsed against the leather seat, and Jefferson settled in beside him. Blearily, he felt the boy take his wrist and put his fingers to his face. Hot, sticky fluids dripped down Jefferson’s cheek. Moving Rumpelstiltskin’s hand for him, Jefferson coated his fingers in semen, then sucked them into his mouth.
“You’re delicious,” Jefferson murmured. “But this is very much why I said we should use a condom.”
Dazed from the intensity of his orgasm, at peace for the first time in months, Rumpelstiltskin chuckled. “You can put one on,” he sighed. “When you stick that massive cock of yours up my arsehole.”
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Looking through a paperman's eyes, Xiao Xingchen can suddenly see again.
See Chengmei's face.
Xue Yang's face...
His mind split between multiple papermen, Xingchen fractures.
Xue Yang breaks with him.
E - Xuexiao - Read on AO3! - Head the tags! ; ) The art here is only tonally appropriate for this chapter... Chapter 2
Chapter 1 of 2
They walk for an hour and a half, cross-country. Rumor of a new threat had found its way to their corner of Yi City. Disappearing people, strange sightings, the usual, except there have been none of the normal signs of demonic activity.
Chengmei, impatient as always, had wanted to fly, but Xiao Xingchen had insisted they get some exercise.
“The weather is nice, and there’s no need to rush home,” he says. “A-Qing has gone off again.” Every few months, A-Qing’s restlessness resurfaces and she disappears for a few days, making Xiao Xingchen worry until he hears the tap-tap-tap of her stick on the stone of the courtyard.
“She’ll be fine,” Chengmei says. “She was on her own her whole life.”
“I know, but…”
“She was doing better than you were, my friend.” Chengmei laughs, touching his elbow, sending a little spark up Xingchen’s arm. “I still can’t believe you gave her your coin purse.”
“What was I supposed to do?”
“Well, if you’d asked me—”
Xiao Xingchen smiles in anticipation of whatever he’s going to say, but Chengmei breaks off abruptly with a low whistle.
“We’re here. A burial mound. Or rather, a mass grave.”
Xiao Xingchen’s sword is already out. “The resentful energy is quite strong.”
Chengmei snorts, something Xiao Xingchen has learned is his way of rolling his eyes so Xiao Xingchen can hear. Xingchen smiles to himself. He does this on purpose sometimes, winds Chengmei up, ruffles him. He delights in how expressive Chengmei’s voice is, how he wears his emotions on his sleeve, good or bad.
“‘Quite strong’?” Chengmei teases. “It almost bowled me the fu—the hell—no that doesn’t work—”
Now Xiao Xingchen does laugh. He can’t see Chengmei’s face, but hears the smile in his voice.
“Bowled me the fig over,” Chengmei finishes.
“A good save.”
“I know, right?” A creak of leather as Chengmei crouches. “There’s a stone headstone type thing here. I can’t quite make it out in this light.” Another creak as he seats himself on what seems to be a small cenotaph. "Probably from the war."
Xiao Xingchen frowns at him.
“How did you know I sat on it?” Chengmei shuffles his feet in the grass as if he’s risen, but he remains seated on the cenotaph.
“I know you too well, I suppose.”
Chengmei laughs. “You really are something else, daozhang.”
Xiao Xingchen waits for him to expand on that. He’s long since learned that Chengmei does that sometimes, throws out a non sequitur or random statement, sometimes to get a reaction, sometimes to change the subject, without really thinking it through.
Xiao Xingchen likes it, usually. Keeps things interesting. Often just by his remaining silent, as if uninterested, Chengmei will immediately follow up with something even wilder.
Tonight, however, his companion is silent, as if lost in thought.
“Get up, Chengmei, please. Let’s at least try not to anger malevolent spirits this time.”
A creak as Chengmei rises. “Still mad about what happened last week, I see.”
“That ghost almost killed you, all because you had to make fun of her fingernails, of all things!”
“You should have seen them. Just because you’re dead doesn’t mean you can’t be well-groomed.”
“Chengmei…” He sighs, but he can’t contain a smile. “Describe what’s around us. What are we looking at? …You looking at,” he corrects himself before Chengmei can.
“Bones, all over the place. Scattered over the burial mound. Rather homey.”
“Human bones?”
“Human and animal, by the look of things. This reminds me of the time at this little inn in Bianzhuang, where the soup had the most suspicious-looking pieces of—”
A bellowing sound cuts him off. “On your left!” he hisses, but Shuanghua is already up.
A crashing of underbrush, a foul stench of rotting meat, a rattle of displaced bones. The earth shakes beneath the creature’s hooves, he hears the rush of air around a supernaturally huge monster, but there’s not a hint of demonic energy, and for the first time since he lost his eyes, Xiao Xingchen is afraid.
Chengmei is reckless—
He lashes out, aiming at the sound. He hits something solid, and the beast roars, enraged. A cry from Chengmei and Xingchen is flung out of the way, tumbling to the rocky ground, out of the path of the charging beast.
The all-too-familiar sound of something piercing flesh. The scent of blood.
Xiao Xingchen slashes at the smell, aiming far enough away from the sound to avoid striking Chengmei. Shuanghua strikes flesh, hits bone, and is almost jerked out of his hands by the bucking creature. It turns and charges at him, dragging Chengmei along with it, by the sound of his tangled curses—
He ducks out of the way at the last moment. A crash as it thunders through the underbrush, turns again—
Chengmei’s voice, raised, half-choked: “Fuck you, stay away from him—” A stabbing sound, an angry cry, and something strikes him hard in the midriff, sending him slamming into a rock.
Blood again
His blood—
A bellow of pain. Distant, echoing. Chengmei’s shout, the whistle of a blade through the air.
A stabbing sound.
More blood, blooming thickly on the warm night air.
Xiao Xingchen passes out.
* * * *
At first, the only way he knows he’s alive is the blinding pain in his skull.
Blinding pain. Ha. That’s funny. Something Chengmei would have teased him for saying—
Memory rushes back to him. Patting around for his sword, he tries to get up but falls out of bed.
He’s safe at home in the Coffin House, on the floor beside Chengmei’s bed. He recognizes the creak of floorboard, the scent of the drying herbs strung from the rafters, the melancholy whistle of wind through the gaps in the walls.
“Daozhang!” A hand at his elbow, guiding him back into bed. “You’re awake!”
“What happened?”
“You saved my life. The usual.”
“What was it?”
“Hell if I know. Some kind of boar monster. Take more than some pig to kill me, though.”
“What time is it?”
“Still night.”
Xiao Xingchen struggles to marshal his thoughts. “You almost died.”
He can almost feel Chengmei’s shrug. “Not the first time, and it won’t be the last time. Well, the ‘almost’ part might be the last time; I might actually bite it next time.”
Xiao Xingchen doesn’t bother trying to parse that one out. “Are you hurt?”
“Nothing serious.”
Xiao Xingchen frowns. “Come here.”
“Come…”
“I can’t get up. Come here.”
Hesitating, Chengmei crawls into bed beside him.
“Take off your clothes.”
Normally this would elicit an off-color joke that would have Xiao Xingchen frowning at him and blushing, but now Chengmei hesitates again.
“I…well…”
“You are hurt!” Xiao Xingchen pats him down, forgetting his headache in the sudden flurry of panic. He should have reacted faster last night, should have killed the beast with his first blow, should have protected Chengmei—
Bandages beneath his fingertips, bare skin, a slight stickiness.
“The tusks!”
“Ruined a good robe, having to cut it off,” Chengmei says, back to his usual casual, flippant self. “Not sure even you can sew it back up. The robes, I mean, not my side.”
Xiao Xingchen’s heart is beating so fast he feels dizzy. “You almost died, Chengmei—”
“So did you.”
Xiao Xingchen pinches his temples. “You shouldn’t have shoved me out of the way. The boar—the boar gored you—”
“Just a flesh wound.”
“We—we should go back to its lair when we’re better, bury the bones—”
Chengmei snickers. “ ‘Lair’?”
“As soon as you’re stronger, we’ll go back.”
“I’m fine now.”
“How many stitches did you need?” An inane question, but something simple he can use to ground himself. It’s starting to sink in now, his mind fully clearing: his blindness in the face of the beast, the boar’s agonized bellow, the fear in Chengmei’s voice—
He had almost lost him tonight. All because Xingchen had insisted on going night-hunting, continuing to push his own egotistical agenda on Chengmei despite the fact that he couldn’t see, selfishly endangering everyone around him. What had he expected to happen?
“Didn’t exactly stitch myself up,” Chengmei says. Lost in his own thoughts, Xingchen had almost forgotten his own question. “I sealed up my meridians, so it’s just pain, and I can handle pain.”
Xiao Xingchen reaches out again, touching Chengmei’s arm, and Chengmei inhales sharply.
“Your arm!”
He imagines Chengmei wrinkling his nose. “Well, the boar did a poor job of killing me, but an excellent job of shattering my arm. You know how it is.”
“I certainly don’t know how it is!”
“Left arm,” says Chengmei, as if that makes it better.
Xiao Xingchen is not a hugger, but he has a sudden overwhelming urge to fold Chengmei in his arms, hold him till Chengmei understands that this is not a normal way to react to grievous bodily injury.
“Not the first time it’s happened, and not the last,” Chengmei says, and Xiao Xingchen reaches out to take his good hand.
“I’m going to set your arm and stitch you up,” he says, “and then you are going to eat and go to sleep.”
“Fine, have it your way,” says Chengmei, teasing, but Xiao Xingchen does not smile.
He does not smile as he fashions a splint for Chengmei’s arm, or mops the blood from Chengmei’s torso, stitches the deep gashes in Chengmei’s side, or as he fastens the bandages around Chengmei’s middle.
“—nasty-looking bugger; I think it was some kind of boar crossed with a wolf, twisted and bloated by some kind of magic—it was powerful enough to mask its energy; that’s probably why Shuanghua didn’t sense it—”
Xiao Xingchen barely hears him. His heart is beating fast, and he’s so distracted by the fact that Chengmei almost died trying to save his life that he reaches up to adjust his blindfold and leaves a smear of wetness across his cheek.
The last of his clean blindfolds.
Another inane thought.
He’ll have to wash it out in the morning—
“All done? It was nothing, really.” Chengmei’s hand is on his arm. He’s very close to Xiao Xingchen as they sit on the edge of the bed, so close Xiao Xingchen can feel the brush of his shoulder against his. He radiates warmth, and Xiao Xingchen, perpetually cold, is seized again by a fierce desire to wrap him in his arms, curl into his heat, whisper to him that of course it matters if his arm is broken—
“You need to be more careful,” is all that comes out.
“I give you my solemn word that next time we go night-hunting, I won’t let you get knocked out again.”
Xiao Xingchen isn’t sure if he’s baiting him on purpose or if he genuinely means it. “I mean you need to take care of yourself.”
“Bathe more often. Got it.”
“Can’t you be serious for once?” Xiao Xingchen's voice is sharper than he intends, but it’s too late to take that back now. “If you were to be killed, I—”
“—would have one less mouth to feed.”
Xiao Xingchen grips Chengmei’s good wrist. “Chengmei—”
Chengmei laughs, bending his head slightly, his silky hair sliding over the gap in Xiao Xingchen’s open inner robe, tickling his chest.
“Chengmei, please be serious for once. If you were to be—”
“You look so pretty with blood on your face,” Chengmei interrupts, and that does something to Xingchen, sends a quivery rush of heat through his body. Chengmei slides to the floor, kneeling before him, trembling good hand resting lightly on his knee.
“I—”
Cheingmei's hand moves up his leg, finds Xingchen's hand gripping the blankets on the edge of the bed, strokes it gently, fingertip sliding over the sensitive skin between his fingers, over his palm.
Xiao Xingchen swallows hard. He’s trembling too now, heart pounding, the warmth flowing through his limbs gathering to pulse gently in one confusing, embarrassing place.
“Ever done this before?” Chengmei asks, almost murmurs. His voice is a mere shadow of its usual blunt, teasing self.
Xingchen twists at the sheets with his free hand, trying to keep his voice steady. He must be mistaken. Concussed, perhaps. Hallucinating. The pulse between his legs has become a throb, and that’s not helping his perception of things, either. “No, it’s not something I…get…get up, Chengmei, we were having a serious conversation. If you were to be seriously hurt, I don’t know what I’d—”
Again Chengmei cuts him off before he can finish. “You almost died tonight, daozhang. Let me take care of you.”
“That’s not what—” He gasps slightly as Chengmei’s hand moves back to his leg, creeps over his inner thigh, just grazing the half-hard flesh he wishes he could somehow hide.
Heat rises in his cheeks. He wants to pull away, cover it before Chengmei notices, but there’s a brush of fabric, a whisper of warmth breath, and then his half-hard—his half-hard cock is plunged in wet heat.
“I’m—I’m not—”
The wet heat disappears. “Is that a no?”
“It’s—” And suddenly all he wants is a return of the wet heat. Proof that Chengmei is still alive, still warm. “I’ll tell you when to stop,” he says. Trying to compensate for his inexperience, it comes out more commandingly than intended, but Chengmei gives a little whine and eases Xiao Xingchen’s knees farther apart, his bad arm wrapped around one leg, good hand wandering, slipping underneath him, brushing the soft, sensitive spot he’s never thought of touching before, fondling his—
“Not there,” he wants to say, but all that comes out is a little whimper that sets a flush of shame rising in his already-hot cheeks. Reflexively he digs his fingers in Chengmei’s hair, tugging it slightly, and Chengmei gives a little moan that sends vibrations over his painfully hard cock.
Chengmei’s head is moving now, up and down, tongue gliding along the sides of his cock, sucking hard on the sensitive nerve bundle beneath the tip, taking him deep into his throat. Xiao Xingchen forgets to breathe as he digs his finger deeper in his hair, tugging it again, and Chengmei full-on gasps, throat clenching around Xiao Xingchen in rhythmic convulsions.
Xiao Xingchen comes, spilling deep into Chengmei’s throat. Chengmei swallows, an embarrassingly filthy wet choking sound, and Xiao Xingchen pulls his head off of his cock.
“I’m so sorry—” he starts, but then he’s on his back on the bed, and Chengmei is kissing a string of bruises into his throat, branding Xiao Xingchen.
“Good thing A-Qing isn’t home,” Chengmei whispers, and Xiao Xingchen laughs, shame gone.
“Let me try it,” he whispers. He feels like his bones have been ripped out, limbs calm and relaxed, but his heart is still fluttering.
The kisses stop. “Try what?”
“Lie down.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
“You want to?”
Xiao Xingchen’s heart thuds against his bruised ribcage. His hands are shaking slightly, and he hopes Chengmei doesn’t notice. “Yes.”
“I…”
“Let me try.”
And then Chengmei is on his back, and Xiao Xingchen is trailing his lips down his bruised chest, down his naval, working himself up to do the thing he’s afraid of wanting as much as he does.
A tinge of shame returns. To want to do something like this—
But Chengmei is warm, Chengmei is alive, Chengmei is his.
He takes Chengmei’s cock in his hand, squeezing it gently, examining it with his fingers, rubbing his fingers along the hot, firm sides, smearing it with the little pearls of moisture leaking from the tip. He’s never been so close to another man’s cock before. A new pulse rises between his legs, prickles over his legs, clouds his thoughts with renewed need—
And then Chengmei’s cock is in Xiao Xingchen’s mouth, a living thing, silk-smooth and pulsing with life.
It fills more of his mouth than he’d expected. Thicker, hotter. Heavy on his tongue, pressing up against the back of his throat, making his eyes tear up and jaws ache.
“You don’t have to—” Chengmei whispers, fingers of his good hand tracing the top of Xiao Xingchen’s blindfold, thumb stroking the bridge of his nose, and Xiao Xingchen makes a little humming sound to let him know that it’s all right, that he wants to do this—
Chengmei pulls him off his cock moments before he comes, ejaculating into his own hand.
A flash of disappointment, as if he’d wanted to take Chengmei deeper into him, swallow him down, ingest him, absorb him.
Bind him to him.
He bends down to lap at the wetness slicking Chengmei’s cock, cleaning it with his tongue. Chengmei gives a little whimper but doesn’t push him away. Xiao Xingchen licks at the cum, thoroughly cleaning him before turning to Chengmei’s hand.
Chengmei, who has been lying very still, breath coming in soft little starts, suddenly comes to life. “Don’t—”
“It’s fine.”
“But—”
“Shhh. I want to.”
Carefully, Xiao Xingchen runs his tongue over Chengmei’s palm. It tastes of blood and the salty tang of his cum. He cleans the palm, between the fingers, taking two fingers into his mouth when he’s done. He likes the feel of having Chengmei inside him again, even just his fingers. Warm, alive —
Chengmei raises his legs slightly, framing Xiao Xingchen between his thighs. He tilts his knee, sliding his foot under Xiao Xingchen’s groin. He moves his finger inside Xingchen’s mouth, sliding over Xiao Xingchen’s tongue, soft and slow. Xiao Xingchen sucks harder, rolling his hips into Chengmei’s ankle, one hand on his knee, the other on his hip.
He doesn’t quite come, not so soon after his last climax, but the friction feels good against his groin, Chengmei’s legs solid against his sides, the pain of his bruises reminding him of how fortunate he is to have Chengmei here, Chengmei beneath him.
He releases Chengmei’s finger and inches up to lie beside him. Chengmei rolls into him, nuzzling his throat with his nose.
“If your body is shattered in six places, we can’t do that again,” Xiao Xingchen murmurs into his hair. Chengmei’s heart, pounding against his chest, beats faster, but Chengmei’s tone is his usual flippant one as he asks, “Again?”
“If you promise to take better care of yourself. No more stunts.”
“I promise. Word of honor.”
“That’s what you said when you swore you’d stop teasing A-Qing.”
Chengmei laughs, the vibrations soothing Xiao Xingchen’s aching ribs. “Yeah, but I actually mean it this time.”
Shaking his head, but smiling to himself, Xiao Xingchen pulls him closer.
* * * *
Chengmei is up before him that afternoon. He’s prepared a meal of eggplant and rice he just saves from scorching, something he only manages about half the time. Xiao Xingchen isn’t sure what there is in the Coffin House to get diverted by, but Chengmei is easily distracted.
“And then I have a surprise for you,” he tells Xiao Xingchen. He rocks back and forth on his chair the whole meal—he’s never been good at sitting still—and jumps up to clear the dishes when Xiao Xingchen has finished eating.
Xiao Xingchen sits and lets him despite Chengmei’s broken arm, afraid of mentioning the injury and bringing up what had happened the night before. Everything is all so—so normal, and he’s afraid that if he so much as asks Chengmei how he’s feeling, the spell will break, or worse yet, last night will have been revealed to have been a dream.
“I brought you this,” Chengmei says when he’s finished, setting something down on the table. He takes Xiao Xingchen’s hand and lays it on the pouch set down on the table, then pulls his hand away quickly, as if the touch of Xingchen’s skin is something forbidden.
An awkward silence. The warmth of Chengmei’s touch lingers on Xiao Xingchen’s hand—
Xiao Xingchen reaches up, lays the hand on Chengmei’s elbow, and the awkwardness is dispelled as if it had never been there. Chengmei leans over his shoulder, reaching around him. His cheek grazes Xingchen’s, as warm as his hand had been.
“I removed the beast’s core last night,” he says. “It was a spirit beast, the first I’ve seen in years. The core is strong. You can—you know, take it, use it to make spiritual tools or whatever…” He pulls away, and Xiao Xingchen quickly turns to glance sightlessly up at him over his shoulder.
"A real core?"
"As real as they come."
It’s an impressive gift, the core. The spirit beast’s magical essence, it can be used in elixirs and spiritual tools. Xingchen has never encountered a beast with a core potent enough to do more than make healing draughts and powders, but he can sense the thrum of power clean through the containing pouch.
Instinctively he knows that this is more than a mere gift. That for someone like Chengmei—a survivor, a forager, a scrounger, a child of the streets—to give up such an advantage, something that he could use—
He rises, pouch in hand, and lays the other on Chengmei’s shoulder.
“Thank you, A-Mei,” he says.
He has nothing to give Chengmei in return except for that—“A-Mei”—but it seems to be enough.
Silence. And then, “Well, I’d best be letting you play with your new toy,” says Chengmei. “Be careful with it. It’s got more malevolent energy than I’ve seen anywhere for a while. You wouldn’t want a corrupted spiritual tool killing you in your sleep, would you?”
“Could that actually happen?”
“I wouldn’t let it happen,” says Chengmei, a bit too emphatically, and he slips out of the house as if he’s said too much.
Xiao Xingchen sits back down. He wants to rush out after Chengmei, plead with him to be careful, to not exert himself with his wounded side and broken arm, but instead he smiles fondly after him, hoping he’s looking over his shoulder, and turns to the pouch.
After a moment he rises, rummages through Chengmei’s small store of things. Normally he would never look through his things—(“Look.” Ha. What would Chengmei have to say to that?) but this is going to be a gift for Chengmei, as he’s not so presumptuous to think a pet name is much of a gift.
But this will help him keep Chengmei safe, and he would do anything to keep Chengmei safe.
Carefully, he cuts a paperman out of Chengmei’s talisman paper and lays it flat on his hand.
He’d only done this once before, under Shifu’s supervision, and it had drained his spiritual powers for a week afterward.
He’s stronger now than he was then, but he still knows the dangers of being trapped outside his body, of fracturing his mind between two loci, of the damage to his psyche if the paperman is harmed while he’s still in it.
He hasn’t dared risk anything like this since losing his eyes. He’s relied too heavily on his spiritual energy to find his way around and defend himself to risk losing it for a week. Had no one to protect his body while he was in the paperman, keep him from the thousand dangers of the road.
But he has a home now, and he can rely on Chengmei to look after him if he drains his powers for a few days. And he doesn’t think he will drain them—the beauty of the core is that it will provide an alternate source of power for the consciousness transfer.
Or rather, consciousness splitting.
If all goes well, he can split his consciousness between his body and the paperman on night-hunts, seeing through the paperman’s eyes, being able to see threats, monsters, demons, beasts, defend himself and Chengmei, so that last night’s events will never be repeated.
And—he can’t help but blush at the thought—he’ll finally get to see what Chengmei looks like. It’s not as if it matters to him. Chengmei is Chengmei. He’s his, no matter what. He already knows he’s good looking, going by overheard scraps of conversation, but that had meant nothing to him as a blind man, and he knows it will mean nothing even after he sees his face.
But to be able to gaze upon his face as he lies next to him in bed, look across the table at him at dinner, see the light catching in his eye as he laughs, finally see the smile that sounds so very infectious—
It’s worth the risk involved in splitting his consciousness between his body and the paperman.
And the risk in using the malevolent core. Chengmei was right—there’s a strong dark energy in the deceptively bright and golden core.
But he can handle it. Use the light, leave the darkness in the pouch.
He wonders how long he has till Chengmei returns. He checks the shelf—so he took a basket with him, that must mean he was going to the market. Not something he should be doing in his state, but at least it gives Xiao Xingchen a bit more time before he’s expected back.
He sits cross-legged on the mediation mat beside his old coffin—they really ought to move that out, make more room in the house—what will they tell A-Qing?—he’ll leave that up to Chengmei—he doesn’t think she’ll care much, but they’ll have to swear to secrecy; he can’t imagine the neighbors will like having two cut-sleeves in their town—
He takes a deep breath, trying to order his thoughts, but for once they refuse to be calmed.
Is he a cut-sleeve? Is that what this is? Outside friendship, he'd never had so much as a flicker of interest in anyone before, man or woman, but he’d taken an innate interest in women for granted. He should go back and examine the last ten years of his life, recontextualize the last fifteen years of his life, see if there were signs, revisit his time with Song Lan—
Another deep breath. None of this matters now. What matters is that Chengmei will be home soon, and Xiao Xingchen wants to surprise him. And how now Xingchen willl be able to examine last night’s stitches, make sure the splint is in correctly place, ensure that Chengmei heals properly.
Eat dinner on the porch, watching the sunset together.
See the moon.
Lie on his back, looking up at the stars....
Best not think about that. Best not get his hopes up in case he fails—
He does not fail.
It’s like a red-hot razor is slicing slivers from his brain, carving it in half. He’s about to cry out when the agonizing pain is gone and only the heat remains.
His own face looks down at him, its wide mouth hanging open slightly, eyebrows raised above the blood-streaked blindfold.
He drops the paperman in shock, and the room dips and whirls around him. Dizzied by the sense of motion despite being still, he immediately bends down to snatch at the fluttering paperman, stop its fall. It eludes him as, nausesous, he watches his giant hand snatch at his paperman face like an enormous white hawk grasping at its prey—
He slams his head into the table and falls off his chair.
Sitting on the floor with the paperman tucked safely in his robe, queasy with motion sickness, he laughs to himself at his own clumsiness.
He can see.
He can see.
He can see.
Xingchen is about to rise, look around, examine every nook and cranny of his suddenly-new home, when he hears off-key whistling from outside.
His pulse quickens. Chengmei is home, sooner than expected—
Chengmei steps over the threshold.
“I’m back, daozhang!” he calls. “Where are you hiding? I bought you some fresh apples; I thought we could cook them in honey or something, maybe add some sweet wine—”
Xiao Xingchen gazes at him in mute horror through the paperman’s eyes.
It’s him.
That’s Chengmei’s voice. His familiar cheerful, irreverent voice.
But the face—
Xiao Xingchen leaps to his feet, stumbling backwards over the chair and falling in a tangle of limbs to the floor.
Chengmei—not Chengmei—the imposter—is beside him in a moment, apples rolling across the floor and smashed egg oozing from the dropped basket.
“Daozhang!” He lifts him to his feet with his customary combination of gentleness and roughness. “I knew I shouldn’t leave you alone with your head injury!”
Xiao Xingchen’s knees give way. “I’m—I’m—you—”
Chengmei—the imposter—Xue Yang’s—eyes are wide. “What is it?”
“I—you—”
“Lean on me, daozhang. I’ll help you to bed.” Looping Xiao Xingchen’s arm over his shoulder, Xue Yang half-carries him to bed. The paperman is nestled inside Xingchen’s robe, vibrating against his skin. “You just lie there, and I’ll peel you some apples. Perk you up a little. Maybe don’t go to sleep for a bit, I once half-cracked my skull, and I passed out in a ditch, and when I woke up I—”
Xiao Xingchen doesn’t hear the rest of his story. Weak with horror, he stares at Xue Yang as he slices apples at the table, holding the fruit steady with the elbow of his bad arm.
Bad arm. The arm with the hand that—that—
He hadn’t felt the glove the night before. Xue Yang must have taken it off.
Taken it off when they had—
He rolls over on his side and vomits into the water jug.
* * *
Like it? AO3
#xiao xingchen#xue yang#xuexiao#yi city#you look so pretty with blood on your face#lotus writes#mdzs fanfiction#cql fanfic
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hey i just wanna say the long posts genuinely make my day. also can you talk more about gordon freeman character because the way you write him makes me quake in my gay little boots
i would love to talk about gordon freeman. thank u for the opportunity
the first thing i need to communicate about gordon is that this dude sucks. and i say this in the fondest way possible. he is a bitch from the moment he drops into the world until the moment he goes out. if you dont believe me, give it another watch! gordons mouthy and rude for no real reason, at least so far as “being a regular dude on his way into work” goes, and this dude goes around calling his coworkers names with zero provocation. (of course, we all know that the reason is because its a funny guy improv stream that borrows a bit from freemans mind, but im talkin from a character sense.)
but my argument isnt just that gordon freeman sucks. its that he sucks in a very specific way that i find insanely endearing. i love this dude. i love to hate him. hes awful in a very mundane sense - weve all known a guy like this, at least if youve spent too much time online - and its cathartic to watch him suffer because of it.
gordons a smart guy. as written, hes gotta be - hes a recent MIT grad, on his way to work at a top-secret research facility to do weird shit with crystals and theoretical physics. but the thing about smart guys is that theyre often......selectively intelligent. we can see this in the way that he has a hard time navigating his surroundings, and needs the science crew to guide him through it and keep him alive.
this is one of those things that is a natural consequence of somebody going through the game for the first time, but that i am interpreting as “gordon is kind of stupid sometimes”. its uncharitable but its not like he doesnt deserve it. he likes to boss around the crew as if he knows what hes doing, when he often very much does not, and is fond of demeaning their intelligence. hes real bad about this with tommy in particular, treating him like hes a kid whos playing at being a scientist when tommy is actually a decade older than him. all i am saying is that gordon ought to stay humble. hes awful cocky when he perceives himself as better than others.
which, i think, tracks with how cocky he gets when he gives up on the whole “well-meaning citizen” thing and just unloads bullets into people. he puts up a front of being a Nice Guy, you know, just some dude caught in a bad situation who doesnt like seeing his companions obliterate every NPC they come across, but that doesnt stop him from cackling like a fucking madman and mowing down aliens (and soldiers) every once in awhile. when he stops seeing himself as helpless and starts seeing himself as the one in control, the gloves come off. he gets mean. and i think thats very sexy of him
this, among other things, is why i am insistent that gordon freeman is a control freak. he desperately wants to be in control of the situation at all times, shepherding around the science crew primarily by bitching at them, but its of limited success. its futile. sisyphean. tommy, coomer, bubby, and benrey exist almost to torment him with exactly the thing that would make him suffer the most: a gaggle of people running around causing problems for him, but he cant go anywhere without them b/c hes reliant on them to make it out alive.
its perpetual suffering, and its cathartic to watch. and funny, too. and if youre a little weirdo like me, its very, very enjoyable. how twisted up he gets when nobodys listening to him! how sweaty and frazzled he must look. its cute, and it also makes me want to reach through the screen and shake him and tell him to just be a little nicer. he wants control but he doesnt know how to attain it, he doesnt know how to play nice like a real leader. i think its a neat contrast to gordon freeman as we know him in HL2, where he literally is the leader of the resistance and has to live up to it. this is gordon freeman but if he was moe through helplessness.
“helpless” is, i think, a great way to describe him. a core bit of imagery in half life is this sense of railroadedness and helplessness, with gordon freeman being put into play like a chess piece and having no choice but to move forward. and this iteration of gordon leans into that by being totally dependent on the science crew in order to make progress and Not Die. and hes also subject to the whims of benrey, local eldritch weirdo who has basically made it his life mission to fuck with gordon.
gordons anxieties dont help with that. if he wasnt so fun to stress out and fuck with, the science crew probably wouldnt do it so much! too bad for him that they like fucking with him so much that he was driven into a panic attack (multiple times, even, depending on your interpretation). hes got that real neurotic mindset. always worrying about shit that could go wrong, and attempting to exert control over his surroundings in an effort to control the anxiety.
IMO the real way to nail the Neurotic Gordon Freeman Experience is to combine the ever-present anxiety with his pervasive sense of self-loathing. he openly states that he has no friends and nobody seems to like him, and to that, i really gotta say, i wonder why. he doesnt really seem to factor in that hes kind of a bitch, and has way too high an estimation of his own intelligence relative to everybody elses. its really one of the worst ways to be: aware that people dont like you, but unaware of exactly why. if he was like, 10% nicer, he probably wouldnt have had half as many issues getting through black mesa, but also, its funny to see him squawking his way through the game. so, you know.
its stuff like that that makes me headcanon him as a dude with low self-esteem in general. convinced that hes not likable, not attractive, out of his element......impostor syndrome, except that theres some truth to it. this is a guy who truly does not realize how good he has it: he really is just an average shitty dude, and yet, somehow, benrey took a shine to him. some poor motherfucker out there actually likes him and wants to suck his dick. thats dedication
also, i keep bringing up “repression” when i talk about gordon. and hopefully, what ive been talking about helps explain why. he has a strong desire to be a regular dude, not just murdering his way through black mesa, but if hes pushed hard enough he leans into it. gets bossy. picks up a cigar off a dead soldier and takes a long drag, before smacking forzen around with a pistol and ordering him around. gordon freeman is a regular, kind of anxious guy who likes competitive swimming and streaming on justin.tv and making anime references, and he is also a guy who takes a filthy pleasure in making a trained soldier his bitch. and i didnt make up any of this shit - this is purestrain canon, baby. this is a guy with problems
to me, this screams the kind of guy who represses a lot of shit b/c he doesnt feel like its morally decent. you run into this guy a lot online: the wokeboy, the online leftist, the guy who spends too much time on social media websites. (like reddit. i think he would actively use reddit and he would never get any appreciable amount of karma but he never stops posting. its sisyphean! cathartic.) from the way he talks about “bootboys”, i think it tracks. he knows about imperialism, he knows about feminism, but at the end of the day hes your average american white dude who struggles with internalizing it.
a lot of those dudes struggle with sex and gender issues. (dont we all.) when youre trying to be a Good Person(tm), you spend a lot of time thinking about your own relationship to sex and kink and all that shit. and i maintain that a too-online dude who buries a lot of his control freak tendencies would also try to bury a lot of weird sexual shit in an attempt to seem Normal and Well-Adjusted and not like a little freak. i justify this by the sheer number of times gordon blurts out weird sex shit as a joke. there are only two outcomes to making that many piss jokes: either youre secretly a piss guy, or you lathe-of-heaven yourself into becoming one. i will stand by this
ive talked a lot about why this dude sucks. now, let me talk to you about what makes gordon so much fun to write. first things first: hes funny! a subjective evaluation, yeah, but both in- and out-of-character, hes aiming to be funny. and being the straight man to everybody else plays into that whole “helplessness” thing.
secondly: underneath it all, there is a good dude under there. gordon worries when his companions get hurt, he tries to clean them off and patch them up, and hes got his lil leftist heart in the right place. you could even read a lot of his bossy, bitchy demeanor as him wanting to make sure everyone gets out okay and doesnt hurt themselves. when it comes to animals and anti-imperialist sentiment, gordons a pretty good guy.
hes the kind of guy who would probably see a dog on the street and get excited and play with it, but would get really prickly about the correct way to put dishes in the dishwasher. control freak tendencies.
finally, subjecting such a miserable, tormented guy to even more psychological anguish is really, really fun. you feel a little bad for him, but he kind of deserves it. so many problems he goes through are purely of his own making, and if gordon would just relax and quit trying to hard to maintain control - of himself, of the people around him - and own up to having Problems and Issues, he would be a happier guy. but thats why its fun to bend him until he breaks. being a little control freak myself, putting gordon freeman thru psychosexual torment is cathartic.
when it comes to writing his thought processes, the fact that he is canonically some kind of psychotic (yes, i am boldly claiming this. suck me) and i am also canonically some kind of psychotic makes it easier to write what i think his thought processes are. i just give him my brain issues of “getting lost in thought” and “overthinking fucking everything”. a touch of paranoia helps. even if i dont explicitly label him as schizophrenic please know that i am writing him as a paranoid little nutcase at all times because, uh, you write what you know.
paranoid. anxious. of the mindset that everyones out to get him (which isnt helpful when everyone is out to get him). repressed and deeply Not Normal but trying so very fucking hard to be normal and well-adjusted. a control freak with sadistic tendencies who also really, really likes getting bullied by his best frenemy. a hapless little nerd who sounds really cute when his voice starts to break from nerves. and, most importantly, a dumb jock. do not ever forget this.
thats gordon freeman, babey. hope that helps
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Shapeshifter Au 6
Heads up at the top this one is our “Last Wish Special”. It’s extra long and what should be no surprise to anyone- Jaskier does not have a good time! Please take care of yourselves as we move into plot territory.
Part 1 Part 5 Inspired by @spielzeugkaiser art here And Also now on Ao3 cause that’s probably easier for everyone.
Sometimes, when Geralt got hurt, he’d use his shapes against him.
Help was the word he’d use. To help him. But if Geralt preferred to think of him using his shapes against him then so be it.
“Get off me Jaskier.”
He looked down his snout at Geralt and grumbled his reply before returning to his composing. They would at very least wait until the bleeding stopped to ride back. Since Geralt insisted the injuries were not so grievous as to require proper attention.
He might very well have been right about that. Which meant they could afford to wait for it to stop before returning for the reward.
If Geralt wanted to treat his wounds then he’d let him. But he wasn’t going to let him ride off and make everything worse because he was a stubborn ass. That was Jaskier’s job. Being a stubborn ass. Not that he made a habit of being farm animals. The risk it would sour him to the taste of their meat was far too great. He refused to be vegetarian. Grass just did not taste very good. No matter what Roach claimed.
“Jaskier get off me or I will throw you off.”
He shifted more of his near 400 pound weight onto Geralt’s torso to demonstrate exactly what he thought about that.
“I can.” He growled.
He puffed up his fur telling him exactly what would happen if he tried.
He had bigger forms yet. If that’s how he wanted to play- well. He wouldn’t bet on Geralt winning. Witcher enhancements be damned.
Geralt, seemingly having realized this, ceased his struggling and ventured a new tactic.
Insulting him.
Which got him grumbling and growling at Geralt. But didn’t get him off him. Geralt knew well enough what he was saying. He didn’t need to transform to express his displeasure.
Geralt, a versatile and clever man, switch tactics yet again.
Reciting history facts but slightly wrong- the year was 1123 and he was a duke not a prince Geralt- asking questions about agriculture – cereal crops deplete the soil of nitrogen. Legumes fix this. A fallow field is left for weeds and grazing. The three fields are rotated. Together this system allows farmers to plant more crops and increase production. – and finally just asking him to play for him.
He, personally, admitted that his bear vocals left something to be desired but he didn’t let that stop him from belting out a few heavily modified versions of his favorite tunes.
Geralt covered his ears and glared at him.
It was only after three verses of Fishmonger’s daughter that he finally popped down into his human shape to do the finale justice.
Geralt shoved him off breaking his sustained note.
“Rude.” He squawked from the dirt as Geralt stood.
“I stopped bleeding three songs ago!” He growled at him.
“I’m well aware.” He grinned. “But I do so enjoy a captive audience.”
Geralt threw the bedroll at his head. Which did hit him. But he managed to catch it on the rebound, which counted as a win in his books.
“I don’t need you mothering me bard.”
“Is that what you think this is? I’m trying to keep Nenneke from murdering me next time you need her services. The woman terrifies me Geralt.”
She did. A little. Not in the way he suspected she expected to be feared though.
It was because her eyes always held too many questions about why he’d arrived before Geralt, knowing exactly the condition of the man’s wounds, even though he lacked a horse while Geralt road in on Roach.
He’d fly ahead, unhampered by the twisting of the roads, and set them to prepare for Geralt’s arrival. Or, when the situation was far graver, have them send a cart to meet him. Transforming on the road just outside of the temples view.
His skin itched when she stared at him too long. Like she almost knew what he was and if she watched him closely enough she might figure it out.
Luckily, “I mean the woman already hates me Geralt.” She was easy to annoy into not looking closely. “No need to worsen her to me by damaging the one reason she even tolerates my presence at the temple.”
If all she wanted to see was an airheaded flop of a bard that was all he would show her. Staying within the confines of expectations worked well enough to keep people from digging.
“She does hate you.” Geralt agreed with a smirk. Pleased he’d befriended someone Jaskier had not.
“Naaaah deep down she likes me.”
Geralt bobbed his head, half conceding the point.
People were complicated like that. She hated Most of him. But she liked that he cared about Geralt. Even if she didn’t always agree with how he cared about Geralt.
With how they cared for each other.
So maybe he shouldn’t have poked the insomniatic bear that was Geralt as he dredged up the lake at Rinde. But he was a bear often enough and he didn’t mind being poked. Sometimes Geralt needed to buck up and face his problems head on!
Then his throat started closing.
Which was scary. Sure. But there were plenty of forms that didn’t need his throat to breath. He’d play catfish or pike or bream or – he was just listing fish again- something while Geralt sorted out the curse the djinn smacked him with.
Except.
Except none of them would come.
He tried to shift bigger and his skin pulled too tight like it was yanking away from the muscle and he tried to shift down and his organs compressed in his chest. And he was left folded over in pain from his throat and his lungs and from being trapped.
Trapped in one form. Perhaps forever.
“Can you shift?” Geralt asked him, looking between him and Roach. Debating.
He managed a ragged sob that Geralt translated as the ‘no’ it was.
There was the bumpy ride on Roach- poor girl they weighed far too much together- and the elf with the painkillers – which helped a little. But the world continued its painful descent into darkness.
Geralt was scruffing him by the doublet. Dragging his limp form. Somewhere. He liked being scruffed. It reminded him of the old mouser in the kitchen who’d claimed him as kin when he was barely a boy. Whenever he got in trouble, or was lonely, or scared he’d just run to the old tom and pop down into a kitten. Instantly be scruffed and pulled under the cabinet for a bath and cuddle.
Scruffing meant that soon everything would be okay. He was in pain and terrified but soon. Soon everything would be alright.
Everything was not alright.
There was a very scary woman with an amphora on her belly and-
And she was a mage.
A powerful mage.
Something in him was singing. Singing at her notice. Her attention.
He didn’t much like that part of him.
His knees near buckled under him as she gripped his nethers and pressed a knife to his throat.
“If you want to keep all you have familiar,” She squeezed him tighter. The singing and terror crescendo-ing in his ears. What do you want me to be? It sung, heart racing in his chest. “Make a damn wish.”
He reached. Reached for. Something. Some shape that would get her away. Small or big or cute or monsterous or something.
Her magic threw him to the floor and it crackled over his skin- she wants you to be human so that is what you shall be – lighting up every nerve with delicious power – do as she says. So that the powerful one might keep you – and burning the tapestry of thread he didn’t know was woven underneath his skin.
“Make your damn wish! Do it now!”
This one is better. Powerful. Be what she wants. “I don’t- I don’t know!” Lightning ran through his veins and fire blazed through his chest and- and- Be her’s. Wish to be hers. Exalted one.
He didn’t want that.
“I wish very much to leave this place forever!”
She turned from him, the burning fading. The singing loud in his ears. Scolding, screaming, begging him to go back to her as he scrambled from the building.
And Geralt was there.
Geralt was alive.
Geralt left him to that witch.
“Jaskier. You’re okay.”
“I’m glad to hear that you give a monkey’s about it.” He fumed.
The singing was quieter now. The smoldering in his chest easing next to Geralt-
Geralt was going back inside.
The building collapsing.
“She could not have survived it.” The elf from earlier- Chireadan- said.
There was coldness in the shape of the lightning flowing through his veins. Ashes in the stitching of his soul where Geralt once resided.
“Why did Geralt go in there? It doesn’t make any sense. What, to save a mad fucking witch?”
“Because she was magnificent.”
She was. The song wept.
His knees hit the ground, the pain of the gravel collision distant, over the shapeless void that pulled him to nothing.
“What am I supposed to do now, hm?” What would be left when this form collapsed into the emptiness in his chest? “It wasn’t supposed to go this way.”
You should have died with him.
No.
“I’m gonna write you. The best song. So that everyone remembers who you were, what we did, everything we saw.” There was a lifetime there. In the spaces they shared. Not a human lifespan perhaps. But it wasn’t like he was human anyway. “And I will sing it. For the rest of my days.”
“He always said I had the most wonderful singing voice.”
A joke. Between him and a dead man.
If he wanted to correct him he should have stayed alive.
Chireadan knelt before him, laying a hand on his shoulder. A tiny beat of comfort in a symphony of pain.
“They’re alive.”
They were very alive.
He ran his fingers down Roach’s neck, unsure how he was supposed to feel.
Relief that Geralt was alive? Jealously that he’d gone to Yennefer? Jealously she choose him over you?
Anger?
Joy?
Hollow. He felt hollow.
Roach nudged him.
He was nearly draped over her.
He wanted that old tom cat to scruff him and pull him under the cabinet. To lick and squish and purr him back to whole.
What would he be if he shifted now?
Nothing. It called to him that nothing.
Nothing wasn’t a shape. Nothing wasn’t Jaskier. Jaskier wasn’t nothing.
Still it called to him.
Roach lipped at a saddlebag. The one he’d nested in as his wing healed.
He shoved his bloody shirt in as a makeshift nest and fluttered in.
If Geralt wanted his peace he could dump him on the side of the road.
Until then. He breathed in the way the leather bag blended Roach and Geralt into itself and fell asleep.
He drifted back to the shores of sleep welcomed by the gentlest smoothing of his feathers.
He readjusted, further nesting into the callouses of Geralt’s hand.
“I thought.” The pain in Geralt’s hesitating voice forced his eyes open. “That the djinn took your voice and your shifting from you.”
Geralt was laying down on their bedroll watching him with those big sad eyes. Which hurt.
But not as much as the fact Geralt had stopped petting him. He shifted into Geralt’s petting hand demanding he get back to work with a sharp chirp.
Geralt resumed his gentle stroking, lips twitching slightly upward. “So bossy.” He complained.
They laid there as the sun went down; quiet and exhausted.
“We used to do this a lot. When your wing was broken. It was nice.”
He softly trilled an agreement.
“I could smell you on Roach when I got back you know? I thought you had left. I understand if you’d left. After what I did.”
He blinked tiredly at Geralt before standing to shift up. He didn’t want to have this conversation now but if Geralt did then. Well then they’d have it now.
“Don’t.” Geralt’s hands shifted slightly, like they were caging him in. They weren’t. He knew he could get out. Knew that if he wanted to leave Geralt would let him.
He settled back into Geralt’s fingers, more than happy not to.
“Tonight. Can we be that again? Just for tonight.”
Be simple. Be easy.
Nenneke always scolded Geralt for thinking he could deny destiny. Because she cared about him and knew destiny would have her way, willingly or not. It would he agreed. Geralt couldn’t run away from her forever.
But he did help him run away from it. Sometimes. Like tonight?
Tonight destiny could go fuck itself.
Tonight they were just a bird and a man sharing each other’s company.
Tonight they were easy.
#Geraskier#geralt x jaskier#shapeshifter au#shapeshifter!Jaskier#geralt#jaskier#post in the tags darn you#writing
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this one’s for you squirrel xoxo ty for the writer’s block cure
not sure if I’ve ever talked about Tyrhzu on this blog? oh well, have this anyway.
mykie your space-themed naming conventions for pets has ruined me. also hope you don’t mind me using clover and indoril I NEEDED PET OWNERS ANd they run an animal sanctuary so. best option.
unnamed aubilon worker my beloved
~~~
Ten minutes. That’s all his incompetent coworker was supposed to take - and, since when was he assigned work with other people anyway? If he didn’t know any better, he’d assume Kirren was trying to get the kid killed (but if that were the case, he would have just been asked, like every other time). He sighed and checked his watch. Thirty minutes. Half a fucking hour he’d had to spend in the porch of this dumb animal shelter, waiting for this idiot to pick up… whatever they had been asked to pick up (honestly, he hadn’t been listening; he didn’t particularly care), and having to deal with this… dumb dog.
He wasn’t quite sure what breed it was (again, he didn’t care), or even what it was for, but the owners - these two elven women with matching tattoos, one of them clearly far more confident than the other - had assured him that it wasn’t dangerous. Which he had laughed about. Because the thing didn’t look dangerous: it looked stupid. It just kept… trying to be around him, no matter how much he shooed it away or ignored it, with a clear disregard for its personal safety. He muttered a few curses and shoved it away again, letting out a short laugh as it slumped down, dejected, at his feet.
“Fuck off, mutt,” he hissed, laughing internally about the familiar terminology coming from his end, this time. But the dog seemed to take this as an invitation rather than a curse, and perked up as if its name had been called, standing up and wagging its tail emphatically just in front of the bench he was sat on. He considered kicking it.
“Luna,” he murmured, grabbing the thing’s collar and reading the name aloud. And he laughed - audibly - at the irony of the whole thing. “Fucking Luna.”
The dog - Luna - perked up again, resting its head on his lap and staring up at him with wide, excited eyes while he considered the pros and cons of impromptu canicide.
“Piss off.”
It whined, nuzzling its head into his thighs. Avarice groaned.
“Really. Go do… whatever it is you do. Somewhere else.”
It didn’t move. Just kept staring at him.
“You’re annoying.”
Nothing.
“Move.”
Still nothing. Just a long, mute pause and heavy eye contact, until Avarice finally sighed and relented, irritably moving one hand to ruffle the fur on the top of its head - because maybe that’d make it go away - and pointedly avoiding eye contact when it got excited.
“Now will you leave me al-” and the dog was already in his lap. He gave up fairly easily after that.
He laughed quietly when Luna curled up on top of him, letting him absentmindedly stroke her fur as he spoke, with a soft kind of intonation that anybody who knew him would bolt at the first sound of.
“Persistent little darling, aren’t you?” he chuckled. “Well, I hope you’re happy. If you were a person, you’d probably have lost a limb by now.” He laughed again, and then paused. “But then, I suppose no person would have the guts to get close enough. I respect it.”
And he paused again, contemplating. And he laughed.
“It’s funny, actually. I could break your bones with my bare hands, if I tried hard enough. I probably wouldn’t hesitate,” and his voice started to waver, “I could cut you open and watch everything that keeps you alive spill onto the floor. There’s every chance I’ll murder at least one of your owners, in the future. I’d watch you bleed out and feel nothing.”
He was raking his nails across the skin of his left arm, now, bleeding from the mistaken incisions. His breath hitched. “I’d watch anyone bleed out and feel nothing. I have. And I do feel nothing, because I’m not a coward, I’m useful, I’m better, I’m not-”
And he suddenly started to realise how much his arm stung, and felt the blood dripping onto the poor dog’s coat, as Luna nuzzled the offending hand away from his bleeding arm and firmly back into her fur. He laughed. “Ah- my apologies for stopping, darling,” and continued running his hands smoothly down her back, letting her settle down again. He’d have to clean his arm later.
It was silent for a few more minutes, Avarice absently petting the excited ball of fur in his lap and trying not to think about his wounded upper arm, before he spoke again, more wondering aloud than anything else, not even bothering to look at the thing.
“Why aren’t you scared of me?”
Silence.
“I suppose it’s just stupidity. Although, animals are supposed to be able to sense danger, aren’t they? There’s no reason for you to be this close. Especially to… to someone like- ah-” he paused: took a deep breath. “To someone like me. Oh- don’t look at me like that, you know what I mean. I’m not exactly a good person, am I? Or… particularly safe. But I’ve gotten better!” he insisted. “In terms of being safe, I mean. I’m better than I was, aren’t I? I don’t- except, I never did, because I’m not- because I didn’t- because I’m not him, I’m not, I can’t be-”
His words were choked out of him in a strangled, dry sob. And everything was quiet while Avarice gathered his thoughts. Thoughts that were his. That came from him, and nobody else. Because he was himself. And never anything else. And he buried his head in that stupid dog’s fur and tried his hardest not to cry, because he refused to, because he didn’t need to, because-
Because the last time he cried, he wasn’t him. And he wouldn’t go back.
“Fuck, I miss Tyrhzu,” he whispered, barely audible, still buried in Luna’s coat. And it was the first time he’d said that name in well over eight years, and it felt unnatural, wholly wrong. And everything came back. The laughing, the fights, the chatter, the comfort; the screaming; the feeling of a blade deep, deep in flesh; the raw, unadulterated grief that had consumed him so wholly for years; the feeling of reaching in the dark, screaming until his throat was hoarse for someone (for him) and grasping only silent air. And he was sobbing, now: weeping into this dog’s fur, who just curled up closer to him and let him cry - or, rather, everything but, because he yelled and sobbed and the stinging in his throat became unbearable, and nothing came out but noise. He was screaming. Screaming eight years of repressed grief into the fur of a creature that hadn’t been scared of him. And when he got up, he breathed in deeper than he had in months. And he muttered a “thank you” to the dog as he continued stroking its silver-speckled fur.
-
When his coworker returned, along with the two elven women, he didn’t mention it. He just shooed the dog off his lap and claimed it had “insisted.” Which was true. And he had sorted the problem of his injured arm by simply glaring violently at anyone who looked like they were going to bring it up. The taller, red-haired elf seemed concerned about the dog’s condition - which was fair - although the smaller didn’t look worried at all. She just smiled, reached down to pet the dog’s neck, and looked up at Avarice.
“Say, did you know that dogs can tell when their owners are upset?”
“Excuse me?”
She laughed. “I didn’t mean it to be an accusation! Just a fact. Luna here-” she reached down to ruffle her fur again, “-has always been good at that. Very good with people, too.”
“Can you tell she plays favourites?” the taller elf murmured, nudging Avarice with her elbow and laughing at her partner’s affronted expression. He echoed that laughter.
“Quite. I… daresay I’d do the same.” And he reached down to stroke her again, leaving his coworker dumbstruck as they began to set up their belongings to leave. “Oh, and by the way?”
The coworker nodded tentatively in acknowledgement.
“You make me wait that long for anything, ever again, and you’re dead.”
#tyrhzu my beloved#AVARICE my beloved#luna. my. beloved.#i swear to god i almost choked when i asked for the name of their dog#kinda funny#unnamed aubilon worker my beloved<3#avarice kiriatta#i'll make a post about tyrhzu later#just for context#in the meantime. just.#guess <3#hurt/comfort#tw self harm#oc#oc writing#oc hurt/comfort#tw grief
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@ the anon who asked for kandreil angst: THIS IS YOUR RESPONSE tumblr fucked up the editing of the post so I copied the response to a new one whoof
see my first thought was, death
but the thing about writing about death.....see death in fiction is never as important as death in real life, right? oh it still can hurt a shit and a ton, but at the end of the day, nobody real has died, and you can read the beginning of the story again...
so what would be worse?
:)
(3 guesses if you can figure out what I’ve been reading in quarantine, starts with p and ends with ercyjackson,)
---
The dawn wind rose from the spray of the sea, briny and humid up the pitted rock of the cliff to ruffle the flight feathers at the base of his thumb, tickle the fringe of his secondary coverts. Andrew grumbled and lifted his head from under his wing, snapping his beak a few times to get the sleep-taste from his mouth. He would have preferred a lie-in.
Eat, little cousin, the wind said. Its tone was amused. Patronizing. Andrew wanted to bite at it, but he could feel the edged ache of emptiness in his stomach and crop both; the wind was right, today was a day he could not fail at hunting. Already the wind was carrying to him good smells, food-smells, fish-smells, sweet and fatty. His stomach rumbled.
Nicky was always telling him to stretch his wings properly in the morning so he wouldn't cramp. Andrew took a special pleasure in ignoring that advice, unwrapping his wings from his body and hopping off the edge of his nest on the next up-draft. The muscles of his breast and shoulders soon lost their morning stiffness to slide into familiar rhythm, gliding lazily down towards the flashing waves. Silvery scales, just under the surface, promised a filling breakfast. Andrew considered for a moment, but his tongue was insistent; he was tired of fish. Something different, then, today. Andrew turned his head towards the sandy shore.
There were food-smells here, rabbit and mouse and other mammal. With no-one close enough to hear, Andrew allowed himself a quiet chirrk-chirrk-chirrk of anticipation. His brother-nest-mate told the others Andrew didn't like anything, and Andrew figured that was correct in all the ways that mattered. The hunt, the chase and dive and tearing of talons in flesh, all in instinctive drive to soothe the ache of hunger-- it wasn't that Andrew enjoyed it. It was that he appreciated the brutal utility of it. The plants ate the the sun, which Andrew could not; the fish and rodent ate the plants, which Andrew had not the beak for; and so Andrew ate these small things, these creatures too weak to cling to life. Muscle to muscle, bone to bone, and Andrew kept alive another day. Apollo and Demeter were no matter to a hunter, though Andrew had never sworn the heart-oath to his father he was commanded. He was free as the wind itself; freer, for he rode atop it.
A new scent had him ducking in-- not interest, for that was too strong a word, but attention, maybe; a large creature this, larger than was safe even for a bird of Andrew's size, but today Andrew had a mighty hunger. He banked left and followed the meat-smell to a jagged rock jutting out from the cliff into the sea, streaked with generations of excrement from fowl and creeping lizard alike. The churning of the waters around swallowed the cries of the poor creature, and so Andrew was right against the rock before he realized how big the thing was. Quickly, he landed on a spike hidden on the backside of the outcrop, poking his head over the top to catch a glance of what was on the other side. It howled in pain and confusion, struggling; why was it not running?
Andrew saw why a moment later, the iron manacle chaining the animal to the rock. So: a stroke of someone else's luck (for Andrew never had any luck of his own). He was surprised no-one else had come to pick at this choice offiering. Perhaps they were waiting for the correct hour. Andrew would take it then, while it was still early, before it could be stolen away.
With such a feast there was no need to stint himself. With a cry Andrew spread his wings and rose up over the sea-cracked rock, diving towards the softest meat of the animal's belly. Skin gave easily beneath his talons, spilling the warm viscera from within. Andrew stuffed his beak again and again, lost to the frenzy of eating, the wholly sensate experience that was the only time he felt truly in his own body. His stomach bulged now, yet Andrew knew he could fit more. He dug into wet meat and felt the blood spray across his feathers.
Look, the wind said, look at what I've given you…
Fuck off telling me what to do, Andrew thought at it, but he was a suspicious bird by nature. He chanced a glance upwards as he paused to draw breath between bites, talons tightening in his prey. The face that looked back at him wavered strangely. Andrew blinked, lifting his beak to smell, and all at once the face and his memories sharpened into awareness.
"Andrew," the face was saying, tear-streaked from pain. "This isn't you, I know, think, remember," a wave cut the words off, dashing the side of the rock and filling the mouth with saltwater. When it turned to cough Andrew saw the thin marking of a number two.
Why--
How--
What had Andrew done?
He tried to throw himself backwards, horror rising like bile in his throat, trying to carry Kevin's bodyflesh back out of it, but Andrew was trapped, his talons twisting stuck in bleeding muscle. Andrew cried out, beating his wings. He only succeeded in battering Kevin's face, making him flinch backwards more than he already was.
Ah, the wind said. Ah ha, ha ha ha…
If Andrew could not get away, he would at least stop this. Against his trembling panic he made his muscles relax, seeking to keep himself as far back from Kevin as he was able, giving his wings only enough lift to keep from dragging Kevin's skin down under his hanging weight. For a moment he managed it, and he saw Kevin's eyes fix on his, hopeful; hopeful, even though Andrew in the worst of senses tearing him apart. But then against Andrew's explicit instructions his muscles seized, drawing him closer. He watched as his right claw rose without his own permission, diving deep into Kevin's guts. Kevin threw his head back and screamed.
Another scent rose on the laughing wind, like Kevin's, man-scent and metal. Andrew wrenched his head to look, and before he was wrenched with a compulsion like iron to bite again, he saw a lone figure toiling over the algae-slick rocks, sword held aloft and red hair tangled from the brine.
Your hero. This is my favorite part…who do you think wins this time?
Why are you doing this? Andrew cried to the cruel wind, fighting against bonds he could not break to stay his ravage of Kevin's body. The fresh meat tasted good; that was the worst part, and Andrew gagged to know it. The flat of Neil's sword caught the sun and shone into Andrew's eyes, but he was not permitted to close them, to hide from the sight of his own inescapable gluttony.
Why? Why, because I like it. I think it's fun. Don't you think this is fun, Andrew?
You can't keep Neil from killing me. I won't stop him.
Ah, ha. But for that he'd actually have to make it to this rock, no? I've reconsidered, I think this is my favorite part, the wind said. It was high-pitched now, too cold for summer, stolen from some place where ice froze too thick to stand grain. Every day, you still think you have a choice. Oh, yes, and Andrew's horror grew to blot out the sun, have you forgotten? That's okay, I can tell this lesson tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrows for all the rest of time...
#all for the game#the foxhole court#kandreil#my fics#this gets a lil bit gory but like....greek mythos......so there will be blood#i've deffo written worse#half also an excuse to write andrew as a bird#Anonymous
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102.) “I take care of myself, that’s what I do.” Happy pre-4th!!!
Thank you for the prompt. :D
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The meeting at the bowling alley had put a foul taste in her mouth that Eve could not, would not shake. That woman, Dasha, was the sort of beast that crawled down your throat and stuck there, the twisted frog in your gullet that you could never truly shake until it slipped down and latched on to your heart instead. Dasha, she realized now with perfect clarity, had stabbed Niko and had left that note there assuming that Eve was stupid enough to believe that the blocky, inelegant handwriting was hers. She had done so believing that Eve, in her grief, would blame Villanelle for it. That, in her grief, Eve would rail against her, would lose focus, would want Villanelle dead the way she had in the past. Further, she believed that in her confusion about the rekindled rage, Villanelle would either kill her or would distance herself enough for Dasha to squeeze her last limb around her heart like the parasite she was.
Niko, however, was alive, and Eve still recalled the strong, curling script that adorned the note inside the perfume box.
If Villanelle had decided to kill Niko, he would be dead.
And Eve was tired, too tired for grief.
That was why Eve now sat in the drivers seat of a rental she had bullied Bear into ordering for her across the street from a hotel in Bucharest, Romania.
She had followed her for a full twelve hours. Maybe more. She hadn't slept. She had barely eaten. She stalked and waited, a leopard cat crouched with wide eyes in the brush, her prey making its way towards its burrow. Eve had followed her all the way to Romania without stopping, determined, knowing that Dasha would lead her to Villanelle. She spoke about Villanelle as if she were a machine detached from higher purpose, a murderous automaton who obeyed command without question, perfect and flawless.
“I took raw shit and molded it into steel.”
“I broke her back and gave her wings!”
Villanelle was anything but perfect despite her outward confidence. She was broken in a way that was so profound that it would take Eve years to unravel all the layers if she tried. Eve had always assumed that outside forces had forced Villanelle into her path, taking a young girl with violent tendencies and a poor upbringing to “mold” her. It made Eve feel sick to think of, that Villanelle was targeted and groomed in such a way. It made her sick how much she cared, even after everything Villanelle had put her through. Her shoulder throbbed at the memory of her and she grimaced, rolling it as she saw Dasha enter the hotel.
She had no plan.
She had no real strategy.
All she knew was that she needed to see Villanelle, and that Dasha would show her where she was.
She exited the rental and crossed the street, not caring enough to lock the doors. She wasn't even sure she closed the door the entire way, so focused was she on her task. She followed silently after Dasha, keeping her eyes trained on her until she hit the elevator. Eve slipped in behind her, slamming the door close button before anyone else could follow. Dasha's eyes went wide when she realized who it was. Eve stared at her, hard, stared in a way she hoped to god was intimidating or at least crazy enough to come across as a threat.
“Turtleneck. So nice to see you again. You come for a rematch? I didn't bring my ball.” Dasha said, thin brow raised.
“Where is she?” Eve asked, teeth gritted. Just the sight of Dasha angered her, made her want to... something. She didn't know what she wanted to do to her. Hurt her. Force her to admit everything she had done. Force her to admit that she speared Niko – force her to admit what she had done to Villanelle in the past. Anything to explain why Villanelle was the way she was, and why Eve was the way she was now by association.
“She is in a room in this hotel. She doesn't want to see you, Eve. Go back to England. She doesn't need you anymore.” Dasha, small though she was, crowded Eve, tried to puff herself up all big to intimidate her.
But Eve was tired, too tired to be intimidated.
She was tired, and angry, and sad, and confused, and Dasha was small and vile and at least partially responsible for Eve's self-destruction.
Without further thought, Eve reached out and gripped her throat, hard, as hard as she could, and crowded her back to the other side of the elevator, shoving her stupid little head against the wall back there. It wasn't an arbitrary choking. She squeezed, pinched, aimed for the carotid artery, squeezed so hard her hands shook. She wanted to choke the life out of her, to see her die, to leave her in a pile of old, worthless bones. Dasha tried to gasp for breath, flailing her fists at her, one hand going up to try and gouge her eyes. Eve shifted her head left to right, and then slammed her forehead forward with all her strength. It connected with her nose and broke it, and Dasha's head hit the wall behind.
“Bring me to her and I'll let go. You can kick and punch and do whatever you want. I promise it doesn't matter what you do to me – I'll take you with me. I have nothing left other than my life, and I don't give a fuck about that either.” Eve hissed. It was as if some demon had taken hold of her tongue. She barely registered her own words, mind swimming in a pool of lava that trickled down into every vein. “Take me to her.”
Dasha could not move in Eve's grasp, eyes getting cloudy – she choked something out.
“Do it now.” Eve loosened her grip, but did not let her go. She walked her to the panel, where Dasha brought a hand out to stab a number.
“Let me go! I'll take you.” Dasha croaked when she had breath enough to do so. Eve watched her as she removed her hand.
“Try anything and --” Eve said, backing away from her. Her forehead throbbed from where it had connected.
“I can see why she likes you. She's always had a... liking, for women like you.” Dasha muttered, tilting her head back to pinch her nose, aiming to stop the bleeding. The other hand massaged her quickly bruising throat.
“Don't talk to me.” Eve snapped.
“Why are you here, Eve? Do you expect she'll be happy to see you – or do you come here to kill her? She doesn't want you anymore. She is strong. She was promoted, you know – she is a Keeper now. My hard work with her finally paid off. Soon, I will go home...” Dasha seemed incapable of shutting up, and her voice was like nails hammering into her brain. Eve stepped off the elevator the moment it opened, looking to her.
“Bring me to the room.”
“So serious!” Dasha scoffed. “I could kill you right now...”
“You won't. Because then she'll kill you. You won't even touch me because you know what she'll do to you. She wouldn't make it fast.” Eve snapped, taking her by the shirt and yanking her forward. “So go. Walk. Bring me to her.”
It took only a few moments to get to the room; Dasha produced a keycard, which Eve snatched away from her.
“Now leave.” Eve demanded.
“I'm not leaving. You'll have to kill me. Open the door and we'll go in together.” Dasha said it dismissively.
Eve considered her options... Then sighed, moving to the door to open it.
Before Dasha could react to get in behind her, Eve slipped in and shoved the door shut behind her.
“Hey! You little shit, open this door!” Dasha yelled from behind it, pounding her fist against it.
“Go home, Dasha.” Eve muttered, looking around.
The pounding persisted, but Eve's focus became singular the second she saw it. A droplet of blood, and another, a slow trickle that led through the hotel room to the bathroom. Her heart lodged itself in her throat as she followed, and more firmly when she heard something. A soft, pitiful weeping. She raced towards the noise and opened the bathroom, where she was faced with a sight that broke her in more ways than she could ever have anticipated. Villanelle – no, not Villanelle. Oksana sat on the bathroom floor against the tub, sobbing softly, trying with a shaking hand to stitch a wound on her arm closed.
“Villanelle...” Eve mumbled, moving to her and sitting on her knees.
“E... Eve?” Villanelle choked through tears.
Her hair was a wreck, and her body seemed so small compared to normal. She looked so out of sorts, so... terrified, so unlike Villanelle. It was Oksana she saw there; a young woman whose life had never been her own. She brought a hand out to gently, tenderly stroke her cheek, as if offering it to a wounded animal to show she was no threat. Her eyes closed and her features bunched together as a sob escaped her throat, cheek pressing into her hand as if desperate for the touch.
“Eve... I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want – I -I want to be free.” Villanelle sobbed, bringing a hand up to rest over Eve's, to make sure she didn't pull away.
Eve had seen her fake tears before. She had seen her play at emotions she didn't truly understand but had observed in others. She had heard her say that she didn't want to continue the life she led before in an effort to manipulate her. This was different, though. Oksana was raw, laid bare and vulnerable on the bathroom floor, face pale and blotchy pink from tears and blood loss. She was uncomposed in a way that Eve had never seen her before, and she almost couldn't bear to see it.
“Here... This wound needs to be taken care of, okay? Let me help.” Eve said.
“No... It's fine. I take care of myself. That's what I do. That's what I always do, it's – it's...” Oksana's voice broke again as she spoke, disarmed by the way Eve's thumb stroked her cheek.
“Let me help.” Eve insisted. All the anger had drained out of her, all the acidic vitriol burning up her insides dispersed. “You have to walk me through it, but let me help. You're shaking.”
“You don't need --” Oksana began to insist, but Eve shook her head.
“I'm not leaving, and I'm not letting you do this alone. So either shut up and let me fumble through this alone or walk me through it.” Eve insisted, pulling her hand away and looking to the wound. It looked horrific, half-stitched and still oozing.
“Okay...” She mumbled. “I'll pinch it closed. Just... stitch it when the sides are together. Don't do it too tight.”
Eve nodded; slowly, she stitched the wound closed, hyper-focused on the task and frowning heavily at the whimpers that Oksana let out. She kept mumbling hurried apologies as she worked, to which Oksana gave no answer. When she finished, she went to fetch a wet cloth to clean her with, removing the remnants of blood first from her arm, then the area around her. She cleaned to busy her mind as well as to take care of the woman on the floor, whose eyes closed to take in the relative silence of the room. When she finished, she sat beside Oksana and, compelled by some need she didn't entirely understand, pulled her into her arms.
She pulled Oksana into her arms, and Oksana folded, crumbled against her, body going limp and chest heaving with sobs. It was the sort of cry that came from somewhere even deeper than just within the chest. It came from the soul and shook the body, and all Eve could do to offer comfort was to hold her and let her weep. She wept out every emotion she had been holding back for years, every hurt, every bit of pain that she had never allowed herself to express before. She wept for her fate, for the fates of those whose lives she had taken. She wept for what she had become. She wept, perhaps, because after everything, Eve was the one who had come back to her and was holding her, consoling her.
Eve asked no questions, and expected no explanation. She offered no words of consolation, no platitudes to soothe Oksana's mind; that wasn't what she needed. Eve didn't know how she knew, but she knew that all Oksana really needed was to be held, to be looked after, and to be understood.
She needed the only thing that Eve had left to give; herself.
And Eve would give it freely.
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Escape- pt 21
pt 1. pt 2. pt 3. pt 4. pt 5. pt 6. pt 7. pt 8. pt 9. pt 10. pt 11. pt 12. pt 13. pt 14. pt 15. pt 16. pt 17. pt 18. pt 19. pt 20.
Jane Seymour has stayed with Henry long enough. Cue Catherine of Aragon and the rest of the girls to save her (Aramour)
Catherine and John have a chat.
“Beale!” The head of the police department barked. “We have a lead on Tudor!”
“He’s heading to where Seymour is?”
“Someone was spotted that looks like him. He’s not quite near her, but if he knows where she is, he’s heading there for sure. You need to warn Seymour and Aragon.”
“Sir, we can’t. She’s nine months pregnant. If we bring that stress to her, it won’t be good for her or the baby. We have to find him before he finds her.”
“And how do you suppose we do that?” The boss raised an eyebrow at his number one officer.
“We have to figure it out. She can’t be under that much stress. I’ll drive out there myself and protect her if I have to. That poor girl has been through more than enough to last her a lifetime.”
“Seems like you have quite the attachment to this case Mr. ‘I-hate-everyone-and-everything.’”
“She just really deserves what she has now, okay?”
“Fine. Go.”
“Thank you sir.”
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Thomas caught a glimpse of Henry at a rest stop.
“Thomas?”
“You’re not going to get to her before I do.” A look of horror flashed onto Henry’s face before going blank again. The two tried to remain quiet.
“What the fuck are you yelling that for? Are you trying to get us both arrested?”
“I’m not in any trouble. It’s just you they’re out for,” Thomas stated simply. “You’re not getting to her.”
“Yes I will,” Henry gritted his teeth. “Even if-”
“Even if what?” Thomas seethed.
“Even if I have to kill you myself. She was my girl first, and she’s still mine.” Henry left.
“So,” Catherine sighed when the couple walked through the door to the house.
“So?” Jane mimicked.
“I think we shouldn’t tell anyone about the engagement yet. I mean, I love that you’re my fiancee, but-”
“You’re already losing interest in me, aren’t you?” Jane’s eyes welled up with tears.
“Are you stupid? No, I’m not losing interest in you.”
“You know pregnancy brain doesn’t just disappear after the baby escapes the vagina right?”
“Escapes?” The older woman stifled a laugh.
“Yes. I may have been brought back in good health, but my body still has some healing to do,” she said pointedly. “Now, why don’t you want to tell people about our engagement? We already told the girls. Really, the only people we have left are to tell our parents.”
“We couldn’t really avoid telling the girls. But I think we should just let it be for a little. It’ll upstage Eddie.”
“I was wearing my ring when they all came to the hospital,” she argued.
“And no one noticed because they were busy looking at this handsome little boy of ours,” Catherine cooed at the baby in her fiancee’s arms.
“But,” Jane racked her brain for another reason to tell her family. “I like wearing my ring.”
“Jane.”
“You’re right, but I just want to proudly show it off that I’m finally going to be married to the woman I was destined to.”
“In time, you will honey.”
“He’s the first love of my life.”
“I think I’m okay with taking second to him.” The pair watched their child sleep for a few minutes when Catherine’s phone began to ring.
“Take it. I have to feed and put Eddie down anyway. I think I’m going to try and sleep after.”
“Okay. I’ll be in after.” Catherine began to walk away before turning sharply. “Hey.”
“What’s up?”
“I am so in love with you, and I hope you know I will never lose interest in you.”
“I love you too,” Jane smiled as she went to walk up the stairs.
“Do you need any help?” Kat was waiting for her in the hallway.
“I’m just going to feed Eddie and put him down for a nap, but if you want, I would enjoy the company.”
“Okay Mom.” Jane’s heart fluttered when Kat used the term so loosely. She couldn’t wait until Edward would speak those same words.
“Cath here,” she grinned into the phone.
“It’s John. You have a second?”
“Yeah. Janey’s feeding the baby.”
“And she’s in good health still?” The father was quite worried about his daughter.
“From what I can see. The angels or whoever she met kept their promise, and aside from her body changing after giving birth, she seems to be just fine.”
“Good. I’m glad. I wasn’t ready to lose my sweet girl.”
“Neither was I. I’ve been thanking the heavens for keeping her with us.”
“Me too.” The two sat in silence for a few moments before John spoke again. “Did the two of you get engaged and not tell anyone about it?”
“I knew you knew.”
“Of course I knew. I’ve been waiting for a ring on her finger since she told me that she had run away with you. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Well, you know,” Catherine laughed. “Between the whole ‘having a child’ thing and then the whole ‘I’m pretty sure the love of my life is going to die and leave me with her newborn son’ thing happening, I didn’t think announcing our engagement at the time was quite right.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. But uhm, don’t say anything. We’re trying to keep it quiet for a little bit, at least while Eddie is so new to us all.”
“But Marge and I have some money riding on this and-”
“Wait. You’re telling me that you have a bet going based on your daughter’s love life?”
“Uh,” John stammered. “No?”
“You two really are something.”
“It’s a really good bet though,” the older man practically whined. “I won, and I want my-”
“Please.”
“Fine. But uh, how did you ask her?”
“I asked her not even an hour after Eddie was born. We were talking to a nurse about the name, and they said they would just refer to him as baby boy Seymour. Janey insisted he take my name because I’m going to adopt him anyway, and I just kind of blurted it out. I didn’t mean for it to happen like that though. I just kinda of-”
“She said yes. You’re lucky.”
“Oh I know John. I’m the luckiest woman alive.”
“No, you really are lucky. It must’ve taken me three tries before Marge said yes. Liz’s husband asked her five times, if I can remember correctly. You lucked out on the first try.”
“Well, you know I tried once, but it never got that far.”
“Yes, but she doesn’t have to know about that.”
“She find out about it eventually I’m sure. She always does. And she’ll laugh about it too. I really do love her.”
“I know you do.”
“Ask me why.”
“Why?”
“Just ask.”
“Okay, why do you love my daughter?” John inquired. “You know, I already blessed the marriage. I trust you.”
“I know, but I just need to say this.”
“Okay, on with it Cath.”
“I don’t even really know where to begin. She’s gorgeous, and beautiful, and simply stunning. The way her hair falls when she runs her fingers through her hair drives me insane, and when she has bedhead, I think it’s the most beautiful I’ve ever seen her. I’m never going to tire of waking up next to her. I crack up when she gives me the eyebrow. It’s so cute. Her eyes give away everything. It shows me all I’ll ever need to know about her. They light up when she’s excited, they sparkle when she talks about something she loves.”
“They always did. That’s how I knew she loved you.”
“I-” Catherine didn’t know how to respond, so she continued. “When she scrunches up her nose, I can’t help but stare. When she’s confused or mad, I just can’t help. She’s so endearing. And her smile, oh my gosh. It kills me.”
“That’s how I feel about Margaret’s.”
“I’ve never seen a smile so bright, and so genuine, and so full of hope. I really hope Eddie gets her smile. She’s just so passionate. I’ve never seen a woman so passionate about everything. When she’s happy, she just glows. She has this way about making everyone else feel so much lighter and fuller. You’d have to ask Kat about that. She’s hilarious. God, I’ve never met someone with such a twisted sense of humor, but it’s hilarious. She literally laughed when we were all shocked that she was alive and said, ‘Man, I really had you guys scared’. Like, who even thinks to say that when they just defied the laws of life?”
“She gets that from me.”
“And I love the way that she twiddles her thumbs when she’s nervous. I always know when I can try to help her relax. I love when she talks a mile a minute. She gets so animated, and I have to stop myself from kissing her to get her to take a breath. When she gets mad at me, she puts her hands on her hips and pouts, and I just melt. I can’t stay mad at her for much longer when I see her like that. And her puns? They’re, as she would say, ‘punny’. The rest of the girls in the house just groan, but she loves them so much that I can’t help but laugh. I love when she acts like I’m physically right next to her when we’re actually on the phone and she nods to say yes. I love that she has so many different laughs. I love when she laughs so hard so snorts, and then she continues to laugh and no noise comes out. I love the way that she loves me with her whole heart, or at least I would hope. I love the way that she’s already a mother to Kat and Eddie, and she’s the best mom. It’s just the most amazing thing. She just- god John. I love her so much. I can’t even get into details.”
“Those weren’t details?” John spoke after listening to the entire ten minute rant Catherine had presented him with.
“No. She’s just so incredible. Every little thing she does makes me fall more and more in love with her, and I know if she heard this, she’d tell me I just made up this image of her in my head, but I swear I didn’t. She has this whole universe inside of her. It’s a wonder that she holds in all of her 5’7” body, even though she tells everyone she’s 5’6” because ‘Cath, 5’7” is tall.’ I wish she saw herself the way I see her, but if I have to spend every day telling her why I love her, I’ll do it.”
“Cath, she’s very-”
“You know what though?”
“What?”
“You didn’t ask me why I’m in love with her.”
“Didn’t I?”
“You asked why I love her. There’s a difference.”
“Well, why are you in love with her?”
“I couldn’t tell you exactly why. There’s not just one thing; it’s everything. Words can’t even begin to describe how deeply in love I am with your daughter. I couldn’t- I went over ten years watching the girl I was in love with fall in love with someone else. I watched her get let down time and time again. I thought every New Years, I was going to tell her. I remember the night I found her, all broken and bruised. She was still beautiful. Sick, right? I was there for her through it all and-”
Jane walked in and interrupted, “-And beautiful things really do come from terrible nights. Just like that one song says. Daddy, I need to steal my girlfriend now.”
“Fiancee,” Catherine laughed. “He knows.”
“Of course he does. Dad, I need to steal her. I love you. Bye now!” She hung up the phone. “Eddie’s down for now. Kat is upstairs watching him. He’ll be up soon though because we fell asleep while eating. For now though, you are so incredibly sexy. I heard all of that. All of it, and god, I am so in love with you.” She kissed Catherine deeply and moved down her body.
“Shit Jane. We can’t-”
“We need to stop. I know.”
“Catalina laughed, “Just know that the second you’re cleared...”
“You’re the worst.” The blonde smacked her fiancee lightly.
“How am I the worst? You just came in here and tried to seduce me in the kitchen!”
“Shut up. So, how does Dad know, and is he going to spill to Mom?”
“He told me he’s been looking for a ring since you broke it off with Henry. He saw when they were visiting. And no, I made him swear not to, but you might want to ask him about his bet.”
“A bet?”
“That’s definitely his story to tell. Anyway, do you want to wait to get married or?”
“Lina, you saw how long my last engagement was. Honestly, if we went to the courthouse today I would marry you.”
“You better not have a courthouse wedding!” Anne shouted from the basement.
“Well, I guess we can’t do that,” Jane laughed.
“Guess not. What about August?”
“Like, two months from now August or next year?”
“Two months from now? We can just have family over.”
“I think I’d like that.”
“Who’s going to be whose bridesmaid?” Anne ran up the stairs.
“Hey Marge?”
“What? What happened? I wasn’t trying to- I wasn’t doing anything!” Margaret desperately tried to cover up the fact that she was trying to listen in on her husband’s phone call.
“You're an insane woman. Just call Janey for me and ask her why she loves Cath.”
“Don’t you-”
“I asked Cath, and I learned that woman loves our daughter more than I ever thought was possible.”
“For-”
“Then I asked her why she was in love with her.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“That’s what I thought, but boy was I wrong. I was so, so wrong. That woman is the best for our sweet angel.” John’s eyes sparkled the same way Jane’s did.
“Okay. I’ll ask her tomorrow. Tonight, I made something special for dinner. Come on.”
#six the musical#six musical#six fanfiction#six the musical fanfiction#six fanfic#six musical fanfic#six the musical fanfic#aramour
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Mirror Barrayar
I’m not writing this fic, but I wrote out a bunch of world-building/bios for a Barryar Mirror Universe while I was trying to write something else that ended up being too dubcon to fit into canon, and instead went sideways into this.
The concept of Mirror Barrayar is basically like the Star Trek version. The main difference is that the Terran Empire in Star Trek is inherently atomized and selfish; everyone is murdering/sleeping their way to the top on their own, with no personal or community ties except to The State. Mirror Barrayar still has the feudal aspect to it, so it’s different, in that you do have some residual notions of Family, Honor, and Loyalty (especially loyalty), but there’s a great deal of F You I Got Mine, as well.
Generally, the Vor see an obligation to their proles and liegemen, but its the same way you might see an obligation to a pet. It’s reprehensible to, say, chain them outside with no food, or beat them for personal entertainment, or abandon them. But it’s also reprehensible to just let them do what they want, because they’re animals; if they snap, it’s because they’re poorly trained, and if they’re obese, it’s because you overfed them. You have absolute authority over their lives, so you need to step up and exercise that authority responsibly. But you don’t go through the motions of making sure your terrier wants you to pet it, that’s ridiculous. If it doesn’t growl, it’s fine - and if it does growl, obviously it needs more training. Keep them well-fed and happy, but never make the mistake of offering them respect.
Bios behind the cut because Long.
Emperor Gregor is recognizable, but much more Ezar-like; sharper, less concerned with ethics and more concerned with keeping power. Vordrozda was a much more conscious ploy to smoke out any actual disloyalty of Aral’s; he knew what Vordrozda was doing, and he played both sides against the middle. He didn’t want to execute Miles, but he would have done it without an existential crisis; he’d rather keep the campstool than his cousin. Not only is the position of Emperor intrinsically valuable, but it’s the only way he stays alive. Ride the tiger, however many of your friends it eats.
He’s still depressed (neurotransmitters are a bitch), but his saving grace is duty, which he knows he can do better than anyone else - he took a swan dive on Komarr primarily because he was temporarily convinced otherwise. He wants to avoid civil war, because that needlessly endangers proles and civilians, but he’s not remotely above strategic assassination. He found Cavilo entirely attractive, and very Vor, but he didn’t really want to sign up for a marriage where he’d always have to watch his back. He doesn’t really want a partner, either; feudalism doesn’t understand the concept. Sorry, Laisa; you (and his conception of Kareen) are more like chivalrously-accommodated pets. It’s less male/female than political combatant/civilian, but the distinction is definitely there. He respects and relies on Alys, but he watches her like a hawk because he knows she has ambition. He almost wishes Ivan were a woman, because he’d hate to have to execute his favorite social General for treasonously plotting his replacement. Maybe they can come to some arrangement anyway...
Aral Vorkosigan really is loyal, because he recognizes Vorbarra authority as legitimate and therefore voluntarily submits to it. However, he’s more apt to seize power himself as a “last” resort if he feels Gregor couldn’t keep it in his own right; better, in his version of honor and duty to Ezar, to have Gregor as a puppet than a corpse. He’ll be glad to step down as Main Power Broker in Gregor’s favor, but mostly because that shit is exhausting and he’d rather retire than die. The post to Sergyar is less a compassionate sinecure and more a board-clearing move on Gregor’s part, that happily also allows him to avoid killing them (he really does like Aral and Cordelia, but you can’t make compromises on power). On a personal level, Aral is the “switch” he sort of is in canon, except he’s not remotely that self-aware, and just chalks it up to Authority Moving As It Should, i.e. Sempai Is Always On Top - which is also why he and Ges were so explosive. Technically Aral, as a Count’s heir, outranked Ges, but they weren’t in each other’s chain of command, feudally or militarily, so they had to continually fight about it. That’s what made their affair so transgressive, not the m/m aspect.
Ges Vorrutyer needs no alterations.
Neither, for that matter, do Ezar and Serg. Really, this is just a universe where Barrayar never socially progressed beyond Dorca’s Game of Thrones bullshit, except that now they have spaceships and fast penta.
Cordelia Naismith ran ALL the way out of fucks to give after Mehta, and is much more convinced that nice gets you killed. She still wants to be nice, if it’s possible, but she’ll shank you pdq if you might be a threat. Her advice that Aral execute Carl Vorhalas was on purpose, here: show them you’re ruthless enough to kill their sons, and they’ll fall in line. And if they fall in line, they won’t threaten our own children, so win-win (except for Carl; sorry Carl. But not too sorry). Aral’s “fountain of honor” is, uh, a very relative term. (And then, of course, her Carl Vorhalas ploy backfired horribly, because that sort of relentless back-stabbing is what the Mirror Universe attitude generally gets you in the end.)
Piotr Vorkosigan died much earlier on; Cordelia isn’t taking those chances with her son, and Bothari knows which way his bread is buttered, too.
Miles Vorkosigan is much more like the caricature of himself that he and Gregor feed Cavilo, except not nuts; that same scene happens here, but it’s full of a lot more barbed back-and-forth between them, with Elena watching not in incredulous giggles but in the kind of silence that means you’re storing up actionable intelligence for later use. He loves Admiral Naismith because it gives him a stage for the plots he’d be executed for in Vorbarr Sultana, and Gregor likes it because, again, he can make use of his family members without having to execute them for being themselves. Miles nearly gets executed for his Memory falsified report business, because if Gregor can’t trust him absolutely then he just has to die. He definitely sleeps with Bel; if he can’t swear it into his service personally, establishing a sexual pair-bond is the next best thing - and besides, it’s a willing subordinate and it’s hot. Likewise, the Elli/Miles relationship is much more fraught, and Miles’s involvement with other people is much more pointed in her general direction. Elli has too much non-Barrayaran self-respect to take the hint and *submit* to Miles, but she likes him enough to put up with way too much of his power-dynamic shenanigans anyway.
Elena Bothari is much more ruthless. She leaves Barrayar because she’s tired of the barriers put in place on her gender AND her class. She wants to play the game, to be a combatant and not a civilian, but on Barrayar she was born unarmed and would be trampled sharp-ish. And that’s why she wouldn’t ever marry Miles; she wants to be an officer, not a pet. And even though she has to leave the Imperium to do it, she’s still very much operating in the Barrayaran style. Baz, the poor puppy, still doesn’t quite know what hit him; but for a pardon, a Vorkosigan connection, and a kickass, gorgeous wife, he’ll do whatever she wants.
Lady Alys is the reigning domme of Vorbarr Sultana. She rules the entire social scene, and social ladder, with an iron fist, tastefully draped in very plush velvet. Marriage contracts for the High Vor go through her first, or good luck getting an invitation to any of the Residence events this year - and she absolutely insists on her version of droit de seigneur. Unlike in canon, she is very much not in a hurry to get Gregor married off, because then she’d have to step back, and fuck that noise. She may have sabotaged a few potential matches by fucking with their gene scans. If Ivan were a woman, that dynastic loop would have been closed yesterday. As it is, she’s been hinting since forever that it might be a good idea for him to cultivate a, ah, “closer” relationship with his cousin, ifyouknowwhatimean. And her relationship with Simon Illyan is equally pragmatic, though no less enjoyable for it. After all, if Gregor dies without heirs, who would be better placed to pull her son’s strings right into the campstool? “Dowager Empress” has a ring to it, don’t you think?
Simon Illyan, Negri’s student in every way, has internalized enough Barrayaran class sensibilities to accept, and even enjoy, reflexively submitting to the Vor - as long as they’re at least as competent as he is. He’s loyal to Aral, and to Gregor, as he was to Ezar before them - but in a much more “I have weighed the pros and cons and come out on your side” sort of way. Aral and Gregor both take proper care of their vassals, after all, and better to be 2IC in heaven than to scrabble for a fighting chance in hell. If Gregor died without heirs, he would have some serious problems trying to decide between Aral and Alys (i.e. Ivan), but until that happens, he is more than happy to let them both think him Their Man. If they require assurances of such in bed, he’s more than happy with that as well.
Ivan Vorpatril still has the whole “no ambition I prefer my head thanks” vibe, but it’s more pointed this time, because this Gregor would actually execute him if he put a toe out of line. He doesn’t want to get married, not only because then he’d have to deal with a wife, but also because it would put him in the middle of his mother’s schemes and potentially at odds with Gregor, and no thank you. The Arquas’ “analysis” in CVA that he’s been kept in the capital on purpose is actually accurate here; Gregor won’t risk such a photogenic descendant of Xav anywhere he can’t see him, and/or shoot him if necessary. Definitely potential Gregor/Ivan sequel here, in case this one doesn’t have dub enough con for you. Ivan generally tries to make himself as small a target as possible on that end of things - but he also does a great deal of “swiving” of his social inferiors, because he’s the Emperor’s cousin and he can. The Vor/“high prole” young women don’t like him very much, primarily because he expects something for nothing, but it’s easier to go on a few dates than to try to refuse. The “low prole” women who end up in bed with him… don’t bother to complain.
Laisa Toscane is as ruthless as the Barrayarans - all the Komarrans are. They cut their teeth on cutthroat capitalism, after all. Adapting to the feudal structure of the Imperium has meant some sacrifices, mostly of their pride - but pride doesn’t earn shares. She’ll bend both her knees if she can win her children, and her conglomerate, advantage in the process. Gregor’s not a bad husband - and the more he underestimates her, the more she can slip by him. Her gene scan came certified from a Komarran doctor straight to the Emperor’s personal physician - no Vorpatril fuckery possible. She hasn’t yet acquired the social capital to tell Alys to fuck off, but she’ll get there; she’s one of those Toscanes.
Duv Galeni is at least as ruthless as Laisa. He left his academic post for the Imperial Service Academy, because of course he did; he knows which way the bread is buttered, and he wants as much butter as possible for himself. His father was a naive idiot; fighting an overwhelming force for “principles” gets you nothing but pain. Duv, having learned from that experience, will do what it takes, whatever it takes, to get his. Bend over for the Butcher? Why not? It works for the Vor.
Byerly Vorrutyer only has one hand of cards, for the moment, but he plays it really, really well. He’ll suck anyone off for the social capital - and then promptly sell their pillow talk to ImpSec for extra points. Fuck you, pay me - twice, if possible. He may not be a high-level player yet, but give him a decade and a metric ton of blackmail material acquired along the way, and then we’ll see. Loyal to Dono, and to Gregor, to the extent Gregor can spare the attention; he’d gladly serve his Emperor in any sense of the word his Emperor wanted. Byerly’s attracted to power - in other people. What he wants for himself is security. His ideal endgame is to level up out of the game entirely, and just be someone’s pet - but he’s having difficulty finding anyone who would keep him in the style to which he would like to become accustomed. Dono doesn’t count - they both have had it up to here with the Vorrutyer penchant for incest, thanks. His second choice is to acquire enough cards to be untouchable in Vorbarr Sultana. Failing those, his contingency plan is to retire to the District on Dono’s pension and play court jester, but they both hope it doesn’t come to that.
Oliver Jole, bless his heart, is a junior prole officer whose competence is more military than social. He still has enough stars in his eyes to be dazzled by Vor authority, and he hasn’t been spoiled by having to serve a bad boss. On both a personal and a professional level, he’s completely in love with the idea of submission to the Vor - but whereas Simon is doing the same thing in self-awareness and as Part Of This Complete Strategy, young Oliver actually considers it some combination of personal choice and cultural obligation. It’s a good thing he’s pretty, and that Cordelia takes him in later, because the ingenue never quite grows up in that regard.
Admiral Kanzian, as a likely irrelevant-to-the-hypothetical-fic side note, is an absolute dragon of a superior officer. He got his position on the General Staff through both merit and social savvy (and, in his younger years, a bit of, uh, “personal competence”), and he’s not giving it up this side of the apocalypse. Junior Vor members of his office staff reportedly have to suck his dick before they start work, just to get them in the properly subservient frame of mind, for once. Rank hath its privileges - especially on Mirror!Barrayar.
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18. wine tasting that leads into 9. Ghost tour, drunk ghost tour!!!
from autumn fic meme here: 18. wine tasting + 9. ghost tour
this one was especially fun bc i am a biggggg fan of ghost tours myself, and i got to make up a bunch of fake lore for the “haunted house” hehe. you can decide where this is set……. (content warning for alcohol!)
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One of the rare occasions that Hermann actually acknowledges that he and Newt are a thing and lets Newt use romantically-coded words like boyfriend or love or feelings to refer to the two of them–instead of just a terse and incredibly vague this is my partner, Newton when he needs to introduce him to a colleague at work–is on their anniversary. Not that he’ll call it their anniversary, of course. It’s always that time of year again or their special day or flowers thrust quickly at Newt and a kiss pressed to his cheek while he’s brushing his teeth in the morning. Anniversary is too serious. Too intimate. And God forbid Hermann Gottlieb be intimate with someone; it took a month after they got together for him to even take his shirt off in front of Newt. Newt doubts he’ll even let him use the word when they eventually get hitched.
Anyway, it’s that special Time of Year again, Their Day, and Newt has taken it upon himself to book them a weekend getaway. Their first weekend getaway. Usually, for Their Day, they just sit at home and make out or something until their forgotten dinner burns in the oven, but Newt’s determined for them to start acting like an actual couple. Actual couples do things for their anniversaries, like go out to fancy overpriced restaurants. Or have beach vacations. Or rent a room in a cozy mountainside inn (surrounded by beautiful autumn foliage) for a weekend for a wine tasting.
“Yes,” Hermann says, “but most couples don’t go out of their way to hunt down a wine tasting in the most–allegedly–haunted inn possible.”
“That’s because most couples are boring,” Newt says. “We’re not boring. We’re cool.” He clinks his wine glass against Hermann’s. “And don’t say allegedly. It is haunted. I did my research.” He takes the suggested tiny sip of his wine (a sweet dessert wine that tastes more like straight-up honey than any wine Newt’s ever had before) and forces a measure of false casualness into his voice. “They, uh, have ghost tours and everything.”
Hermann groans and sets his glass down. “Oh, Newton, you didn’t.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Newt says.
Newt does know, and he did. Wine tastings are fun and all, and it’s a nice excuse to get Hermann to gussy up a little (because that grey suit he’s rocking tonight combined with his tidied hair is making Newt feel all kinds of hot and bothered) but they’re also a little boring. And gross. Spitting into a bucket for two hours while a bunch of wine snobs sniff their glasses and eat tiny crackers? Boring. Newt’s preferred method of ingesting wine is sticking a curly straw into a box of Sunset Blush Franzia and waking up on the bathroom floor twelve hours later. He just thought–well–he could spice up the experience a little. Especially since it’s October. People do these sorts of things in October. It’s seasonably appropriate.
“Look,” Newt says. “The ghost tour starts at eight, right when this ends, and it’s only an hour. Only around the inn. I already bought us tickets when I booked the place–”
“Newton,” Hermann groans again.
“–but we don’t have to do it!” Newt says, in a way that makes it clear he’d really like to do it. “I just thought it could be fun.”
Hermann scowls at him a bit more, but his shoulders sag. Probably doesn’t care enough to put up more of a fight. “We have a gas fireplace and a bathtub the size of a bloody swimming pool in our suite,” he says, “and you’d rather creep around in the dark and play paranormal investigator. I shall never understand you, Newton.” He takes a long sip of his wine. He doesn’t spit this one out. “I’ll be picking where we go next year. Now fetch us more red.”
“Next year,” Newt echoes happily.
“Don’t push your luck,” Hermann warns.
They have more red, and then they have more white, and then they round it out with some rose, by which point Hermann seems to have given up all pretenses of the tasting factor. Hermann is not tasting; Hermann is imbibing. Copiously. “I revoke my earlier complaints,” Hermann declares, after sloshing half a glass of prosecco down his poor clean shirt and grey suit, “this is a marvelous idea, Newton. I’m–” He sloshes more prosecco onto the tablecloth. “Enjoying myself. A great deal.”
Oh, jeez. “Oh, jeez,” Newt says. “Hey, babe, uh, maybe you should lie down for a bit, before–”
“No,” Hermann says. “I feel very fine. You ought to try this.”
He swings his glass towards Newt, and refuses to allow him to push it away until he’s had a sip. “It’s good,” Newt says, because of course it is–every single bottle here has been fucking great, and fucking expensive, as shit. He gets another taste of it (and about three other wines) a second later when Hermann swoops in and kisses him with no small amount of tongue. “Hermann,” he mumbles, “people are staring.”
Tipsy Hermann is a different breed of Hermann that never ceases to straight-up weird Newt out. It’s like all Hermann’s carefully constructed layers of repression finally unravel like a ball of yarn, like someone’s finally popped his cork and tossed out his filter and let every single mushy, horny thought he’s ever had come pouring out. Tipsy Hermann is handsy. Tipsy Hermann is flirty. Tipsy Hermann calls Newt things like lover and pretty thing and even just ooh, Newton with a little giggle and twirl of Newt’s hair.
Newt thinks he probably should’ve been keeping a closer eye on how much Hermann was drinking; he thinks this especially when they move on from the tasting (with two newly purchased, at Hermann’s insistence, and unopened bottles of the prosecco in Newt’s tote bag) to the ghost tour, and Hermann can barely keep himself upright, even with all his weight shifted to his cane, and Newt has to practically hold him. He’s going to be pissed at Newt for his hangover tomorrow. Because of course he’ll blame Newt.
Their tour guide is a young woman, probably an undergrad at the nearby college working the gig part time, dressed up in old-timey Victorian-looking clothing with an actual lit candelabra. She seems to enjoy her job, at least: she explains the logistics of the tour with a lot of enthusiasm and a lot of wild, animated gestures. (It’s an hour long, they’ll be walking up and down no more than two flights of stairs, one of the tour’s usual stops will be off-limits tonight due to construction, please silence your cell phones, she’s excited to be their hostess tonight!) “You sure you can manage?” Newt whispers to Hermann.
Hermann reaches up and tugs at Newt’s earlobe. “Certainly,” he says.
A hard maybe.
Their tour guide leads them to the narrow front lobby, and they file in in a circle around her as she begins to explain the inn’s origin. It was built in 1823 as a manor; it was converted into the building it is now during the 1870s; the room they’re in now was originally the parlor. “The painting above the fireplace is as old as the house,” she says. “It’s been hanging in that same spot since 1823.”
“Bloody ugly painting,” Hermann snorts.
Newt swats at Hermann. “Dude,” he hisses back.
“I’m only saying,” Hermann says. “They ought to burn it.”
Their tour guide didn’t hear, thankfully, and has gone on into describing the paranormal events of the former parlor. “You can still catch whiffs of his cigar smoke,” she says (referring to the original owner, whose name Newt missed, thanks to Hermann), “and some people have even claimed to spot a dark figure sitting in the armchair in the corner–” It’s faded emerald and ratty as hell, with a small velvet rope blocking it off from the rest of the newer furniture, “–also an original piece of the house, and his favorite spot while he was alive.”
The tour guide leads them down to the creepy basement next (haunted by the ghost of a former maid who’d been brutally murdered by the eldest son of the house–her lover–in 1859 and buried there), up to the kitchen (where servant bells still go off, despite the system being nonoperational and purely for show since the ‘70s), over to the bar (hidden behind a sliding wall throughout Prohibition and only recently re-discovered, where stools move on their own and translucent patrons flit around after closing) up more stairs to the former master bedroom-turned-unoccupied grand suite (where faucets turn on by themselves and strange shadows glide across the antique mirror), down the hall to the nursery-turned-honeymoon suite (where toys turn up out of thin air and ghostly babies cry in the middle of the night).
“‘S all rubbish,” Hermann declares at that bit. Still not loud enough for their tour guide to hear–not yet, anyway–but loud enough that a handful of people in their immediate vicinity turn and frown at him. “Ghosts are rubbish. Not real. I reckon they put--” He waves his hand. “Speakers, in the vents.”
“We fought off giant interdimensional aliens,” Newt says, grinning despite himself, “and ghosts are what you have a problem with?”
Hermann immediately gets snooty. “Kaijus–” (Newt cringes, because come on, how many times does Newt have to explain you don’t need the s?) “–had a logical reason for being here. And there was proof. Loads of it.”
“Stop being such a buzzkill,” Newt laughs. “This is just for fun, dude. No one gives a shit about proof.”
“That much is obvious,” Hermann sniffs.
“Is there a problem?” their tour guide suddenly says. She looks completely earnest, too, not angry at them for talking–like she’s genuinely worried Hermann’s upset or offended about something.
“No,” Newt cuts in quickly. He wraps his arm around Hermann’s waist and pinches his side to shut him up. It has the opposite effect of what he wants: Hermann doesn’t look affronted, but instead, very pleased at the sudden touch, snootiness evaporating. Of course. “Forgive my partner. We, uh, just got done with the wine tasting, and he missed the memo on spitting.” He cracks another grin.
There’s a small chuckle throughout the crowd that turns awkward fast when Hermann turns to him and says, in a faux whisper (too loud, too flirty, face too close to Newt’s), “I thought you preferred when I swallow.”
Newt chokes on air; he turns bright red. “Hermann!”
The tour ends on a mildly disappointing note. Their guide takes them up to the attic and passes around quote-unquote EMF detectors, with the promise that almost every group (to date) has caught something up here with them, but after twenty minutes of waving the little boxes around with not even the smallest beep it’s very clear their group will not be joining that number. If Hermann was sober, he’d probably say I told you so. He’s not, so instead, Newt says goodbyes and thank-yous for both of them, and Hermann collapses face-first into their ridiculous canopy bed almost the very second Newt gets him through the door of their suite. He doesn’t even bother to take off his shoes first. Or drop his cane--he’s still gripping the handle.
Newt shucks off his docs and tie, moves Hermann’s cane to rest against the clawfoot bedside table, and flops down next to him. He pokes Hermann’s shoulder. “You are not allowed to blame me for this tomorrow,” he says. “You got it?”
“Whatever for?” Hermann mumbles, sleepily, into his pillow.
“The hangover you’re absolutely going to get,” Newt says, “and for dropping sex life bombs on a group of strangers. That was all you, buddy. All you.”
Hermann turns on his side to face Newt, though he doesn’t bother opening his eyes. “You’re being awfully loud. Will you turn off the light, please?”
“Ugh. Fine.”
Newt has to shuffle all the way across the room to switch off the ancient floor lamp, and by the time he gets back, Hermann is already halfway to snoring, mouth open, drool at the corner of it, dress shirt rucked up from his waistband. It’s impossible to stay mad at him when he looks this cute. “I love you, you weirdo,” Newt says fondly, and leans in and kisses his forehead.
“Mm,” Hermann agrees.
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Possible snippet from Brothers in Arms: The Iron Man Dilemma
Summary, One, Two, Three
Tony has never been so happy to see anyone else ever in his life. Rhodes was alive. The man didn’t die with the rest of those poor kids. As it turned out, neither did the driver of his vehicle. They weren’t the only survivors but they were the only ones he knew the names of. He resolved to learn the rest of their names when he got to wherever this godsforsaken helicopter was taking them. Didn’t these forsaken humans know that proper Wolves didn’t hunt in Thor’s territory?! He’d strike them all for being so foolish, even in the middle of the day!
Thor did not, in fact, strike them down. The sky didn’t even seem ready to, and honestly, Tony could howl for all he was worth when his paws met solid ground.
He’s almost sure that he did.
He knows for a fact that his blue-eyed gaze met Pepper’s green one and saw emptiness as she waited for the plane to empty.
“Where’s Tony?” She demanded sharply. “You brought back his dog. I didn’t even know he took Ace with him! Jesus Christ, you poor thing…” Pepper ran a hand of ragged nails through his fur as she parted it, likely checking for wounds.
“We’re still looking,” Rhodes insisted. “He’s out there. He escaped. The place he left behind is crawling with our forces and most of them are reporting dead men, melted metal, and half the mountain blown to pieces. It’s a lot to go through, Ms. Potts, but we’re going to find him.”
“Alright…” Pepper exhaled roughly, breath caught in her throat. “Good God, I can’t believe he took his dog… but okay. If he escaped… that’s good. It means he can be found. And people know where to look now. Okay… okay.”
The redhead was panicking, talking about press conferences, finding a will, and getting updates on the search. While Tony desperately wanted to shift back and talk some sense into her, he wasn’t sure if he could. He didn’t even remember shifting in the first place, but everything ached and he was exhausted and he really, really needed to go home and sleep. So he nudged Pepper’s hand and walked over Yinsen and Ramirez, grabbing the former’s arm and yanking him over to the latter before nudging them both towards where Rhodes and Pepper were standing.
“The dog…” Yinsen rasped. “He saved my life, just kept running like the fastest cattle herder I’ve ever seen.”
Tony deeply resented that remark but saw it for the compliment that it was and did not nip Yinsen like he wanted to. He did flash his teeth, though.
“Ace doesn’t like being compared to other dogs,” Pepper chuckled fondly. “Tony’s got this poor thing thinking he’s something special when really, he’s just big.”
Tony definitely resented that remark and knew it was not a compliment at all. He pushed his head upward so that Pepper’s hand almost smacked her face.
“Oh, you little shit!” She hissed playfully. “I know you know what you’re doing! Just for that, you’re not getting any treats today. I had a nice chunk of deer meat all ready but nope, it can wait.”
Tony did his best not to roll his eyes and gave his best puppy eyes instead.
“Whatever, you adorable giant of a dog. You’re so weird.” Pepper laughed quietly before standing to face the others.
“We should get you all settled somewhere, likely a hotel to start with.”
And Pepper was off, making plans and being the most competent and put-together assistant Tony has ever had the pleasure of working with. She was handling this surprisingly well since she had no idea that Tony was in fact his own dog and that said dog was actually a wolf. Tony knew there was no further point in hiding it once he managed to shift back. Especially not with this… new contraption in his chest. Loki must have begged Thor for strength and extended his abilities because this was the only way Tony could possibly be alive right now. He wouldn’t question it until he had the strength to change back. So… what felt like another week or so. Loki might have to tap in his nephew, Baldr, to lend Tony patience instead.
The weeks go by slowly. Day by day, Tony feels less like he’s been blessed by Loki and more like the animal form he’s been blessed with. He wants to rip Obadiah’s throat open and scatter his entrails. He wants to get his jaws around every scrap of metal with the logo of Stark Industries on it and feel it crushed between his jaws. He wants a full list of every person who ever came into contact with whatever dirty operation that Stane is running so he and watch them cower under his claws and shit themselves when they see his teeth. He wants to go through Howard’s precious company one by one, each forsaken building of people that belong to the Stark name, and howl at them all until he gets a full picture of just what the fuck is going on and how deep it goes.
Sometimes, he just wants to rip into that deer chunk Pepper was talking about and gnaw the bones down until they were as thin and perhaps as sharp as his claws. Sometimes, he wishes he could talk to people in this form. Sometimes, he wishes the world would go away. That he’d been left at the gates of Hel like the Norns intended the first time around. What was the point of Yinsen saving his life if he couldn’t do anything about it?!
“You’re going to rip up the carpet, pacing like that.” Pepper sighed from behind her computer. “Look, c’mere. I know you miss Tony. I miss him too. It fucking sucks that he’s still out there, but he’s going to come back and when he does, he’ll be ready to hug your fur off and give you belly rubs and pamper you within an inch of your life.”
Tony very much does not think about Pepper being the one in need of pampering. His poor personal assistant had so much shit to slog through on a daily basis that, as the days went by, got worse and worse. SHIELD sent an agent to debrief Yinsen while Ramirez was taken back by her own people and Tony lost track of what happened there. He hoped Rhodes was able to keep up with her. At the very least, he was glad she wasn’t forced to endure the hospitality of the Ten Rings. At most, he wanted to take Rhodes, Yinsen, and Ramirez, and bundle them into blankets on the softest couch he owned before he sat on them all. He was sure they would make great pillows as they themselves got however much sleep a normal human needed. He could be considered coherent after half an hour and a shitton of coffee, but he’d also pulled his fair share of all-nighters over the many, many, many years.
(Good gods, why has it been so long?)
Pepper made a very good pillow. She was very soft.
“Are you drooling on me, Ace?” Pepper asked as she scratched between his ears. “Of course you are. You’re a dog.”
Tony tilted his head the other way and let his tongue loll. It was fun to watch her react to what she thought she knew, but Pepper Potts was far from stupid. He let his head rest on her ap and she kept scratching between his ears. If he closed his eyes, he could almost remember the last redhead to do that.
Tony changed back on a Monday night when the moon is full, two months after he returns from Afghanistan with the others. That makes it five months since his original capture. He’s missed a lot of things he knows he didn’t want to, among them Pepper’s birthday and the MIT commencement speech. He startled awake in the middle of the night to a bare chest and grey sweatpants, cropped hair, and nothing resembling the goatee people expected of him. Good. No one would recognize him if he were to go for a walk. As it were, he was too tired to do that so he rolled over and went back to sleep.
The next time he woke up, it was to someone’s scream.
“What-? Where-? What the fuck, Potts?!” He panted, scared shitless by his assistant’s startled screech.
“When did you get here?! How did you get here? Did JARVIS see you? Why didn’t you wake me? Ace should have barked… where is that dog of yours anyway?”
“You probably scared him off with that screech of yours, Potts. Goodness, that was the loudest thing I’ve heard in two months.”
“What… Tony, what is that?”
“You’re going to want to sit down for this. And let me get dressed, at least-.”
“Don’t bother, I’ve already seen it.” Pepper snapped, tone as cold as her eyes as they pinned him to his spot on the bed. “What is it?”
“I miniaturized the arc reactor technology used to power some of the SI buildings and put it in my chest.”
Pepper shivered at that and when she spoke next, her voice cracked.
“Why?” She demanded.
“It’s an electromagnet. It’s keeping shrapnel from puncturing my heart. Did Yinsen get to you? He should be able to explain more.”
“What… goodness. This is…”
“Feel free to take a seat,” Tony offered. At Pepper’s incredulous look, he rolled his eyes. “I’m not exactly in a position to take advantage of you.” He drawled.
“That’s hardly my biggest issue.” The redhead scowled, walking over to the bed and sitting on the side where Tony was now sitting upright.
She stared at the bright blue light and then caught Tony’s wary gaze.
“You should get that looked at.” She said after a few moments of staring. Without warning, Pepper launched herself forward and wrapped her arms around her boss’ neck. Her forehead met his shoulder and he went extremely still as she sobbed on his shoulder.
“Clearly I was missed,” He deadpanned after a few uncomfortable minutes.
“You… it’s been five months. We didn’t know where you were or what happened! No one could track you-.”
Pepper cut herself off as Tony stiffened underneath her and she watched his eyes harden.
“Sorry,” She said immediately. “I guess this is awkward, I-.”
“It’s not you,” Tony assured her. “I just… you saying that reminded me of something. Something I need to do later.”
“What needs to happen, Tony?” Pepper asked quietly.
“Plenty, but nothing that you can help with right now.”
“Alright. At the very least, I can make sure your schedule is clear for the next few months.” Pepper said, getting up and starting for the door.
“Thank you,” Tony exhaled roughly. “Help yourself to anything that isn’t gross and moldy by now and order whatever you want.”
“Thanks,” came Pepper’s strained response.
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also hannah and hardy, because i gotta know
Ask and ye shall receive (oh boy, this one got long):
who hogs the duvet - This has a two part answer. When they first get together, and Hardy is at the stage of the relationship where he is too afraid to fart in bed for fear of scaring her off and he honestly cannot believe that Hannah is even in his bed, then it is Hannah who hogs the covers. He lays so still and anxious and praying that he won’t have another heart attack because Hannah Fucking Baxter is laying next to him. The longer they are together and the more comfortable he becomes in their relationship, the more easily sleep comes to him. Until finally one day, he’s like a freakin’ snoring log, and he wraps himself up in the blankets and poor Hannah hasn’t got a chance at recovering any of them. She just shrugs though and cuddles into his back to keep warm.
who texts/rings to check how their day is going - Look, Hardy would forget his head if it wasn’t attached to his body, especially when he is deep in an investigation. Hannah understands though and send him emojis and silly little texts throughout the day and a reminder to eat lunch. Hardy pretends to be annoyed, but he secretly loves it.
who’s the most creative when it comes to gifts - Hannah has a natural affinity for just finding the right gift for the right person for the right occasion. She doesn’t spend a lot of time thinking about it, but it’s always perfect. Hardy spends more time worrying and debating and really, really tries to be creative. More often than not he puts off buying things until the very last minute because he just cannot decide and then he scrambles to find an open shop and ultimately shows up with wine, flowers, chocolates, and a sheepish expression. There was that one time he surprised Hannah with a trip to the Maldives, though, that completely caught her off guard. (He noticed a pink bikini in her things, asked Miller the next morning where she thought a romantic beach destination might be, and voilà, one of the easiest…most romantic gifts of his life.)
who gets up first in the morning - Hardy. He often goes into work early and Hannah likes to snuggle in the warm spot he leaves behind.
who suggests new things in bed - Hannah. There is literally no other way to answer this question.
who cries at movies - Hardy. He is a soft boi wrapped in a prickly exterior, but give him Judy Hopps pinning a badge onto new police academy graduate, Nick Wilde, and he’s a blubbering mess.
who gives unprompted massages - At the beginning of their relationship, it was always Hannah. She’s sensuous and tactile. But over time, Hardy grows used to the touching and being touched in return and eventually he can give as good as he gets.
who fusses over the other when they’re sick - Bless Hardy, he tries. Hannah is not a good patient. Let’s be real though, he is not either - the only difference is that Hannah doesn’t put up with his shit. “You don’t want the soup I heated up, fine. Die for all I care!” (She cares and he eats the soup.) Hannah, on the other hand, threw the mug of tea he brought her after finding out he microwaved it. She apologized, but he did always use the kettle to make her tea going forward.
who gets jealous easiest - Hardy is a always in a constant state of quiet jealousy. It takes a very long time and a lot of shagging to get him to a point where he isn’t afraid she is going to leave him. So, he does a lot of grin and baring it. He draws the line at someone touching her though. The first time it happens and he pushes someone up against a wall for groping her without her consent, she is so turned on, she drags him from the bar to the loo and fucks him (or lets him fuck her) against the door to the ladies.
who has the most embarrassing taste in music - Hannah. She listens to anything and everything. She sings off key and dances like a dork to make Hardy laugh. But she also has the best taste in music, and often uses it to set the mood at home.
who collects something unusual - Hannah. Have you seen her collection of sex toys? And while she may have gotten rid of a lot of things when they moved in together, her collection is still extensive.
who takes the longest to get ready - Have you met Hardy? Have you seen how he dresses? Okay, to be fair it used to take him a long time to decide what to wear when he was trying to impress Hannah at the beginning of their relationship. It didn’t take him very long to shower, shave and dress though. Hannah, on the other hand, has a routine™ that she keeps to almost every day. It is designed to slay, and slay she does.
who is the most tidy and organised - Hannah, it’s a throwback to when she needed to keep Hannah and Belle separate. She had a lot of personal rules for herself, and while many have been relaxed, that energy still comes out in how she keeps her things.
who gets most excited about the holidays - Hardy dreads the holidays because it almost always means more work for him. Inevitably some idiot does something stupid after over-indulging in eggnog and his time with his family is cut short. He does love having Daisy visit though. Hannah loves getting to spend the time with Alec and Daisy, but dreads having to visit her own family. If her mother doesn’t stop asking when she and Alec are going to have children of their own, she might just scream.
who is the big spoon/little spoon - At the beginning of the night, Alec starts off as the big spoon, but at some point during the night, they switch, and Alec wakes up most mornings with Hannah’s breasts pressed up against his back.
who gets most competitive when playing games and/or sports - Hardy doesn’t like to lose, either at work or at play, but he was unprepared for how all in Hannah goes when she decides she is going to win at something. It is easiest to just get out of her way.
who starts the most arguments - Hannah is very opinionated and isn’t afraid to tell Hardy when he’s being a pillock. Though when he is being particularly hard-headed, her favorite insult to lob at him is, “Miller is right, you are a knob!” After he has a chance to cool down, he reflects on what he’s done and will apologize if she has a point. If he stands by his actions, he usually ends up yelling at her as to why he acted like a knob (usually its because he loves his daughter or his friends or her) and then she throws herself at him and they have angry sex or make-up sex and by the time they’re done, neither remembers that they even had an argument.
who suggests that they buy a pet - Hardy thinks that Hannah might like the company during the day, so he suggests it, but Hannah really doesn’t want the responsibility of making sure an animal stays alive. She’s perfectly happy to flit about town as the desire strikes her or to go to the beach or when she’s missing Alec something fierce break out the toys she still has and take naughty pictures which she send to his mobile.
what couple traditions they have - they are a non-traditional couple and as such don’t put much stock in things that other couples might find important. Hardy tries to get home from work early on their anniversary, but it doesn’t always happen and it’s not a big deal to either of them. He will take her out for a nice dinner to celebrate, though sometimes it’s a week after the fact. Hannah tries to keep their sex life spicy and Hardy will go along with almost anything she throws at him. If she want to be blindfolded and have hot wax dripped on her, count him in. If she wants to play with handcuffs and riding crops and vibrators, well, ok if it makes her happy. If she gets drunk one night and orders a strap-on because “it’s hilarious, Alec,” he’ll let her peg him as long as Daisy’s not visiting at the time. And actually, he finds he enjoys it more than he expected he would, so she reserves it for use on special occasions. He comes to the realization that all those things he thought he was doing for her, she was doing for him, and so it really was all about them. And they are stronger for it.
what tv shows they watch together - Alec hates TV. He hates the news, he has reporters, he thinks those singing shows are shite. But the minute that he finds out Hannah’s book is being made into a TV show, he is mentally rearranging his schedule so that he is always home to watch it with her.
what other couple they hang out with - Miller and this bloke that Hannah introduced her to - he’s a screenwriter on her new show - divorces with two little mites of his own; also, Bambi and Byron come to visit twice a year.
how they spend time together as a couple - they do a lot of cuddling at home and shagging. They stroll along the river behind their chalet and sneak snogs along the way. They go to Miller’s for dinner and backyard bbqs in the summer. They go dancing, though Hardy hates it, Hannah can usually get him to at least join her on the dance floor for a few songs (as long as they’re slow and he can hold her close). Hannah adores going to wine and painting events, she can’t paint worth a damn and usually gives up on the still life before she finishes her first glass. There was that one time she decided straight away to paint Hardy in the buff, the instructor was scandalized by how large she’s made his cock (Hannah insists it’s to scale, Hardy refuses to discuss it). She hung it over their bed.
who made the first move - Hannah. Hardy nearly passed out when they first spoke. Ok, he may have been having a cardiac event, but Hannah got him to hospital, pretended to be his wife, and then when he gained consciousness berated him for not taking care of himself which scared the bejesus out of her as he collapse in front of her. In the end, he decided staying under the care of the doctor was better than checking himself out and having to deal with an angry Hannah. But as you can see, it all turned out all right for Alec.
who brings flowers home - Alec is the king of flowers (and wine and chocolate). Hannah never lets him live it down after Miller told her that story. But she still shags him silly whenever he comes home with them for her.
who is the best cook - Hannah. She tries and can usually follow a recipe. Alec thought microwaving tea was acceptable behavior.
Send me a ship and I’ll tell you who…
#hardy x hannah#teninch#sdoacg#broadchurch#secret diary of a call girl#crossover ship#ship meme ask#asked and answered#in writing this i've decided i need more of these two in my life#ginger-tea-on-the-tardis
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