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clouds-rambles · 3 years

Note

hi bestie!! i loved the prompt you wrote where the reader dies in the genshin boys arms,, so do you think you could do that for zhongli and xiao? :]

We about to cry again huh?

Bro Stormbearers Lair is making me sad and for what? All I’m doing is looking for chests. Bruh. Kinnie moment

Pairing(s); (Seperate) Zhongli, and Xiao x reader

Warnings; major character death, angst, hurt/no comfort, injury description, blood

Keep reading under the cut!

Zhongli

He had lost many a person over the millennia, so loss isn’t exactly foreign to the ex archon

But you, even if you were mortal. In Zhongli’s eyes you would grow old with him. You would get to see your children grow into adults, you would get to see grand children, maybe you would even get to see great grand children if you were lucky.

But no

Your body lays limp in Zhongli’s arms. You were both fighting a particularly tedious foe, like you have done some many times before. But this time ended with you dying

And Zhongli didn’t even get to say his goodbyes to you for he was too preoccupied with putting down the enemy. Like has happened so many times before, people close to him, gone without even a goodbye let alone a kiss on the cheek

It had happened with Guizhong too. One day she was there fighting beside him and the next. Gone

Zhongli finds himself doing something that he hasn’t done in a very long time. He cries. He cries for you. Your loss of life, for your loss of experience. For all those years he was going to spend with you. For all those years that he did spend with you that are going to be nothing but a painful memory that he has to dwell on to remember why he’s alive

How would he explain it to his children? Children that are certainly not going to understand why one of their parents are gone. Especially when the said parent is used to being gone for long periods of time? How would he explain this to himself? That the person he loves above all things has been taken away?

Hu Tao is funnily enough the one to find Zhongli dry sobbing in the middle of the plains. She says something about how she was in the area, but really? Hu Tao had this sudden gross gut feeling, as if your spirit was trying to call out to her. The gross gut feeling she had was right

Hu Tao suddenly ever so professional helped the broken Zhongli up. She doesn’t mention it when his trousers are stained by your blood, nor does she mention Zhongli’s wet face. Hu Tao knows better, especially when dealing with the dead.

The service is as small as it could physically be, considering that just in Liyue you and he have made so many friends that want to say goodbye

Both Zhongli and his children are so overwhelmed with emotion that none of them cry at the service. But everyone knows how they’re feeling.

After the service Zhongli sits his kids down and tries to explain everything to them without crying. He must stay strong for his beautiful children, he wont let himself crutch onto them.

Often when the kids are tucked away happily in bed Zhongli will visit your grave. Often with flowers, it doesn’t matter which ones. You always had a way of finding beauty in even the weeds that litter both the garden and the wilds

On more than one occasion Zhongli has found Xiao and Ganyu silently saying goodbye to you. In all honesty you were the reason why the human adepti started seeing the ex-archon in the first place. It’s only right they offer their blessings to the person who bought them closer to the only father figure they have

As the years pass your loss has gotten easier. Zhongli still visits your grave often and occasionally brings the kids to say hello.

Though Hu Tao cannot help but note that Zhongli still wears his wedding ring on his finger. And sometimes, she can catch glimpses of what she can only presume to be your wedding ring hanging around his neck.

Zhongli isn’t going to be letting your memory within him die anytime soon

Xiao

Having a mortal lover really wasn’t the best plan for Xiao. But he had always pictured at least you getting old. That way it would be less painful for the adeptus to let you go.

But fate obviously didn’t want that for him

He should have been more careful about having you near. You had helped him open up, so much so displays of PDA were something that he really began to enjoy. Holding your hand as you wonder about Wangshu’s market stalls, or kissing each others cheeks just when you feel like it

That’s what must have enticed the Abyss to target you. While you were defenseless

It was just a night like any other. Xiao had decided to go out for some monster slaying. He had noticed a slowly growing presence and generally a night out slaying monsters cleared out the area for a week or two

And it was going great until he heard the bloodcurdling scream of his name. If Xiao wasn’t a lightning fast adepti the scream of his name alone would have caused him to cry

The scene as he entered your room was much worse

The first thing he notices is the smell of the elemental traces of the abyss, but that smell is quickly overpowered by a metallic smell Xiao has become more than acquainted over in his lifetime. Blood

They you are lead on your bed, somewhere that should have been a safe space for both you and Xiao by extension

“Xiao” you speak again between laboured breaths, he is by your side in an instant, he clasps your hand in his

“Tell me who, I’ll ki-” he says before you interrupt

“shh” you shush with a weak smile “Xiao, I’ll” you pause coughing “I’ll find you in my next life, I promise” you manage to say

“[name], [name] stay with me!” Xiao yells as he begins to shake your body. It’s obvious from your glassy eyes and lack of breath that you’re not going to

Xiao leaves Goldet to clean up the room of blood, and you as he tracks down the culprit of your demise

He eventually does. But Xiao realises that much time has passed since your death. How long had he been pursuing this abyss herald? Days? Weeks?

When Xiao returns to Wangshu Goldet almost hugs him exclaiming that she and her husband had been worried sick. They had almost come to the conclusion that he to had taken his own life

“How long have I been gone?” Xiao inquires

“Four months” Goldet responds “We tried to hold [name]’s funeral back as much as we could, but we buried them three months ago. I’m sorry Xiao”

The adepti shakes his head. A million thoughts race his mind as he ponders what he should do next. Visit the grave and make himself be lost in your memory? Or just bury you in his head like he had done with the yaksha during the war?

He settles on both

Xiao visits your grave and says his goodbyes. He sets up some incense to help your spirit rest if its in turmoil before he turns to leave your grave. Your memory is like a wound. He will bury it in the sand like all the others in due time

A hundred years later is when he visits your grave again. Not because he forgot to before. But because this wound of your memory has infected his brain. In the last decade your memories have resurfaced once more

The memories range from the first time the two of you shared a kiss, shared the bed to when he had reached you in the bedroom

Xiao wonders to the promise your dying breaths offered, were they an empty promise like all other dying breaths? Or was this a true one?

“You know I’ve been tending to this grave for the last decade or so” a voice behind Xiao speaks. “My name isn’t [name] but I think I am them” the voice continues standing just behind the yaksha

“A hundred years is a little long for you to have grown” Xiao tells the figure behind him. You hum

“I think I was blessed by the gods” you confess “For I am truly a century old”

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #zhongli x reader #xiao x reader #zhongli #xiao #genshin zhongli #genshin xiao

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kindlyones · 3 years

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Diary of Baldwin Montclair

Dear Diary,

I haven’t written in you in quite some time! But I found you in my hiding place at Sept Tours and I have a lot on my mind and would like to organise my thoughts. No one has managed to crack the code Pater and I devised when he orchestrated the death of Caesar, so I feel safe enough confiding in you.

What’s bothering me today is the continued pattern of “vampire murders” in the news. I hope to the Gods it isn’t Matthew. He seems happy enough holed up in his laboratory. Miriam swore to look after him and she would speak up if something were really wrong.

Strong armed Knox into giving a statement to the press saying there was nothing supernatural about the murders. He seems more receptive to Gerbert than myself, so I had to convince Gerbert to approach him. Gerbert gave me the go around, but eventually agreed to do it, as if our entire way of life didn’t depend on this.

Dear Diary,

Saw an advert for some Hercules musical production on Broadway. Thinking about Pater. I wonder if he really thought of Matthew as his son?

Dear Diary,

Saw Katerina. Feeling much more relaxed. I’m keeping an eye on China today. Looking into steel futures.

Dear Diary,

I’m in London. It rained a lot and now my house smells odd. I shall need to call someone to check for mould.

Dear Diary,

There is mould in my wine cellar. I repeat, there is MOULD in MY WINE CELLAR. As the youths on Twitter say, this is not a drill. I need to call in a specialist. My London wine collection cannot simply be moved as if they were bottles of Coca Cola.

Dear Diary,

I refitted my Thames penthouse for my most precious and delicate bottles of wine. Going to bid on the ‘45 Romanee-Conti from Drouhin’s cellar. I drank the last one when I thought it was at a risk of mould. Matthew sent me an email about it. He likes me to know he still has spies watching me.

Dear Diary,

Mixed news today. I got the ‘45 Romanee-Conti, but some cunts from China drove up the price and I had to pay $558,000 in USD. Absurd that I have to pay that much after all I did to set up trade routes to introduce wine to France in the first place. Everyone keeps asking me what I’m going to do with it. Obviously, I am going to drink it by myself while I pull my hair out over Matthew’s latest drama. He has abducted a witch. I can’t contact him. Everyone looking to me for answers, as if I understand one ounce of what’s in that libertine’s brain.

Dear Diary,

It is so much worse. He didn’t abduct her. They are in love. Marcus claims they are mating. He is usually reliable, but barely over three hundred. What the fuck does he know. Going to Sept Tours. The witches are very keen to speak to this woman, so I’m going to use her as a bargaining chip to stop them from seeking retribution against Matthew. They get their witch and Matthew gets to live another day to ruin my life yet again. Everyone is hell bent on some mythical quest involving the Book of Life. As if. I remember when we didn’t even have books, we had scrolls and tablets. If it were that important, it would be written in stone, like all important documents. How could a book tell us about something that happened thousands of years before I was born? If he had wanted to know of our origins, he should have spent more time with Pater. I saw more in his blood than any “book” could ever tell me.

Dear Diary,

What the actual fuck. I went to get the Bishop witch from Sept Tours, aka MY HOUSE on MY LANDS that I earned from TWO THOUSAND YEARS OF SERVICE TO MY FATHER AS HIS ONLY SURVIVING SON only to find she had already been taken by a flying witch. Why do I even bother showing up for Congregation meetings if this is what is achieved. Matthew was flailing. I had to talk him through it and remind him that witches don’t fly that far and he built most of the castles in the area himself. Finally we ended up pulling the witch out of an oubliette in the Cantal. No one was guarding her. Extremely suspicious. There is nothing particularly special about her. She can barely do magic. I suspect she might be spellbound, but she doesn’t seem insane enough. The best and easiest course of action would be to simply eliminate her from the board, as it were, but Ysabeau managed to find some semblance of her old terrifying self and put her petite foot down. I gave the witch the best advice I could and left. She is even less of a strategist than Matthew. If she listens to me, perhaps she will have a chance. Perhaps I should have just left and let her get herself killed, but Pater made me promise to protect the family when he made me paterfamilias and that includes Matthew. At least the witches’ trespass on de Clermont land has given the Congregation something else to talk about and now they no longer have the moral high ground as the injured party.

Dear Diary,

I am tired of everyone acting like being the de Clermont family head is something I just love doing. Like I want to be up in everyone’s personal business, managing them like children. Pater gave me a job to do. Pater never gives easy jobs, least of all to me. Wonder how long before the killing starts.

Dear Diary,

Thinking of Eva. I always thought I would see her again before I died. Does she think I didn’t pay dearly for what I did? Does she think I am not still paying for it now? I live under the weight of the consequences of my actions every day. I wrote her an email and deleted it before I sent it. She is in America now, close to New York. I wonder if she ever comes into the city.

Dear Diary,

Well, it’s started, and first on the docket is ME. Had to vote against my own execution today. That’s a first. They wanted to behead me and burn me, presumably still alive. Why did we never update that part of the charter? I’m going to replace the librarian with someone I can trust. That was too close for comfort.

Dear Diary,

Matthew and the witch have vanished. I am trying to locate them. Had the damnedest time getting into the Bishop house. No matter which way I turned, it kept showing me to the door. Regardless, I found no trace of them leaving the property recently. If I can’t follow them, at least no one else can.

Dear Diary,

Matthew must be enjoying playing the Boy Scout for his witch because there has not been a whiff of them anywhere. Where could they possibly be, the caves of Afghanistan? I would very much like to speak with them about whatever developments they’ve made with the Book of Life. If it will restore witches to their former power, I don’t want anyone else having it.

Dear Diary,

I dyed my hair grey. I must be having some sort of crisis. It’s nice to look somewhat as old as I feel. These past few months have aged me more than the last hundred years. I’ve taken to wearing all black. I have a right to be a bit angsty. I can’t even manage to lead the way Pater did on my own for a measly hundred years without our entire way of life falling apart as well as the legacy of our family. I keep asking myself what he would do. People obeyed his orders because they loved him. Nobody loves me. Philippe was everyone’s hero, and when I do exactly as he did, I’m a tyrant and a bully. Ysabeau told me she hated me to my face for the first time. I wish I could get drunk but it’s really not the time. I could be needed at a moment’s notice. They don’t love me, but they still need me. And I made Pater a promise.

Dear Diary,

Bloody Marcus is the head of the Knights of Lazarus. The child takes part in a single revolution and thinks he is some beacon of hope to the world. Meanwhile, the vampire murders have stopped. I really hope it isn’t Matthew. That would be the last thing we need right now. I am a veteran of hundreds of wars, let alone battles. I should lead the Knights. Marcus wasn’t even alive when there were knights. He isn’t a knight. He just plays at one.

Dear Diary,

My house has been overrun with daemons and witches. I try to turn up at unexpected times to see if I can catch them plotting against me. The revolution is being fomented from inside my own house. No word on Matthew.

Dear Diary,

Gallowglass and Fernando have materialized. Verin is headed for Sept Tours for the first time since Pater. My jet is fueling up and I am on my way home. The family isn’t gathering without me for no reason. I will gather them all together and exercise my rights as head of family and make them tell me what is going on. This has gone on long enough.

#baldwin montclair #a discovery of witches #adow #baldwin de clermont #baldwin montclair fic #fan fiction #it was supposed to be funny until it wasn’t #goes through s2 so no BOL spoilers

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duxhess-kryzewan · 3 years

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Could you do protective Obi-Wan? If Obitine had a daughter and there was some boyfriend troubles? *Waggles eyebrows*

Authors note: This isn’t technically what the prompt says but I was having a bit of writers block so I tweaked it ever so slightly. I hope it still was what you were looking for.

- Mothers Daughter -

It came at no surprise to him that being raised predominantly by her mother resulted in Jinn inheriting Satine's various traits. She was certainly her mother through and through, the exception being her mane of auburn hair and occasional proclivity for tactical combat, something Obi-Wan was more than happy to teach her, and while Satine disapproved she allowed him to show their daughter everything she would need to know about self-defense.

He should have known though that as she entered her early teenage years she would end up more and more like her parents. Clever, but at times a little too keen on breaking the rules. Really he would blame Anakin's influence, but he couldn't deny the simple fact that he and Satine did their fair share of illicit affairs at her age.

Still, when he glanced out the balcony window and towards the gardens the last thing he expected to see was Jinn hand and hand with one of the younger guards, pulling him quickly into the cover of the trees. He knows the spot well; it was the same hiding place he and Satine used.

He sprinted to Satine's study without a second thought, all but throwing the door open and startling her in the process. Her had only just arrived back from the temple and hadn’t even alerted her of his presence.

"Are you trying to scare me to death?"

Normally he would apologize for spooking her - the last thing he wanted was to ever put her in some form of distress - but he was too focused on the mission at hand.

"I saw Jinn in the gardens." He begins.

Satine blinks, "They are part of her home Obi-Wan."

He shoots her a mild glare, "With another person."

"I presume this was a boy or you wouldn't be so flustered at the moment." She concludes.

"With one of the guards. One of her guards I can only assume and I have a strong feeling he wasn't accompanying her for protection."

The laugh from Satine is so unexpected that he really has to question if that's what he's truly hearing.

"Our daughter is sneaking away to the gardens with one of her appointed guards and all you can do is laugh?"

Satine had finally lost it, he concludes. Years of ruling Mandalore and maintaining such a strong government has finally taken it's toll on her and made her go absolutely mad. It's the only explanation he can come up with to justify her reaction.

"She's 17, Obi-Wan. Do you remember what we were doing around that age?" Satine says, clearly trying to hold back another fit of giggles.

He does, which makes him all the more concerned.

"Illicit activities that our daughter certainly shouldn't be doing."

Satine shakes her head, clearly still bemused by his distress, "Our daughter also isn't on the run virtually alone with a handsome Jedi. I think our situation was a bit different than Jinn having a crush on one of the hundreds of people in the palace, Obi-Wan."

It was a valid point. Even with Qui-Gon presence, he and Satine had been relatively alone together for almost an entire year on the run. It was inevitable that they were going to develop feelings and in turn became just as physically involved as they were emotionally.

"The circumstances were very much different. She isn't being forced on the run with only that person or constantly facing the prospect of dying at every turn." He defends.

"I hope you're not implying that's the only reason we're together."

He inwardly sighs. Satine was never one to twist his or anyone else's words to her benefit, and he knew part of her was joking, though he worried there was another part he just unintentionally hurt in the process.

"You know that's not the case," He says softly, reaching out and taking her hand in his own, "I simply mean that they're two incomparable situations."

She smiles softly at him before standing up from her desk, still holding on to his hand, "Jinn is intelligent. I have full confidence that's she's a bit too preoccupied with her future endeavors to become too entangled with a guard, and you-" She leans forwards and pecks him on the lips, "- need to stop being such an overprotective father."

"I'm not being overprotective, I'm being appropriately concerned about her extra curricular activities." He defends.

Satine laughs again, "I am more than certain she will divulge the details to her love life should it turn into something more than a simple crush. She does share an awful lot with me."

He feels a pang of guilt inside. While things within the order have certainly changed; with the fall of the chancellor and the rules against attachments have all been abolished, he still was away on missions much more than he would like to be. Not that Satine or Jinn would ever complain. Satine was too busy governing the planet and Jinn was preoccupied with the academy more often than not.

Still, it worried him that perhaps she trusted Satine more because she was the constant in her life.

"Don't do that to yourself." Satine says. How she would always know exactly what was going through her mind, he'll never know.

"I'm not doing anything."

Satine gives him a tender smile and cups his face in her hands, "You could be here every hour of everyday and she still would come to me about her love life. It's a female thing."

He kisses her. Of course she's right. She normally is when it comes to Jinn. Anakin was the closest thing he had experienced to having a teenager around and force knows his daughter is much more behaved than his former Padawan.

Then again, his Padawan did go and start a relationship behind his back too, so who knows anymore. Certainly not him.

"In any case, sneaking around didn't work so bad for us."

He sighs. No, it certainly didn't.

#obitine #obi wan x satine #obitine fanfic #obitine fanfiction #obitine prompt #obitine fluff #jinn!universe #protective!obi wan #collections of obitine

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margridarnauds · 3 years

Text

Scattered Thoughts on Treason: The Musical

[warning for some critical discussion]

The Cold Hard Ground:

First song I listened to.

God, we’re getting DARK. This is seriously a mix between a villain song and a hero song, and I’m HERE for it.

This is the one I’m possibly most interested in, because it’s really making me wonder how they’re going to portray the plotters: Are we going to be seeing them as fanatics, or as heroes, or somewhere in-between? In this song, it looks like Catesby is a man broken by grief who turned to fanatical religion as a way of coping with his own suicidal tendencies.

“So TAKEEEEE MEEEEEEEEEEE. You won’t BREEEEEAAAAAK meeee, it’s too late to SAAAAAAAAVVVVEEEE MEEEEEE.”

GOD those final notes are going HARD.

At first, I thought that it was rather scattered, musically wise, but the more I listen to it, the more I think it’s brilliant because the music comes together by the end, as Catesby seems to calcify in his convictions.

I’ll be really curious to see how anyone but Hadley serves this, but a solid 80% of this song, at the moment, is built on his impressive performance. I’ll be really curious in knowing how the livestreams went.

Take Things To Our Own Hands:

Honestly, my favorite song on the album, probably one of them that I can best visualize on stage.

WE NEED TO THINK OF A WAAAAAY TO BRING THE WHOLE SHIP DOWN.

Favorite vocal moment: When all the conspirators’ voices join one another, and then the moment at the end where it sounds almost like a church’s choir.

I absolutely LOVE the slick folkish feel to this, paired with the driven pace, it’s like if “The Story Told” from Monte Cristo decided to go folk, I love it. It really has a feel that I don’t see many musicals going for (Hadestown being the closest, though it goes in a jazzier style than this) , and that’s something really in its favor. If the rest of the songs follow this level of quality and tone, this musical is going to be a really, really fun ride.

Also, it’s very interesting in terms of how, even though this is the conspirators’ “Pump Me Up” song, there’s this very DARK overtone to it, which makes sense given what they’re proposing. Their voices go increasingly hard, almost into a staccato, and I wonder how much of that is diction VS them showing how hardened and increasingly radicalized the conspirators are becoming.

That being said: “I once had influenza but now that’s all gone when things turned sour”?????????????????? I’m trying desperately to wrap my head around this lyric, it sticks out like a sore thumb.

The lyrics in this particular song are, admittedly, its weakest point: They tend to be very, very repetitive, but, in all honesty, it doesn’t really bother me - It works with that mood of the conspirators becoming radicalized.

I know that Hadley tends to get most of the kudos for this song, but the other conspirators (Waylon Jacobs, Oliver Savile and Emmanuel Kojo) deserve MASSIVE kudos for their performances, I’m seriously going to be looking into all of them after this.

The Day Elizabeth Died

I started off not really caring for this song, but I’ve really warmed to it.

I’m really curious about who the main singer in this song is supposed to be, because I feel like that will really change how I feel about the lyrics specifying that she had “An inch of makeup on her face”. If we’re supposed to view this from the perspective of a devoutly religious 17th century Catholic woman, I can understand it more than a Protestant woman, given that it really, really works with some misogynistic stereotypes about Elizabeth.

So, the singer’s apparently Anne Vaux, which makes sense. Okay, I’ll give them this one. A little period-accurate internalized misogyny can be good for the soul.

I LOVE Rebecca La Chance’s voice. It’s so wonderfully clear and strong, delicate, but with steel beneath it.

There’s something almost....wistful, melancholy, and isolated about this song? It strikes a very odd balance between being sympathetic to Elizabeth (some say she died of a broken heart) while condemning her reign.

ALSO. BEST VOCAL MOMENT ON THE ENTIRE ALBUM. “We mourned for her, she was our queen, and for 45 years, she had reigned supreme.” And then the conspirators coming on with “WE DID NOT MOOOOOURRRRN FOR HER. SHEWASOURCAPTOR.” I could, legitimately, listen to that bit alone on repeat, I’m actually obsessed with it. That odd, conflicted feeling between Elizabeth having been Queen for longer than most of England had been alive, providing a sense of stability, while also the very real persecution that English Catholics were under. This is the kind of nuance I really want to see the musical carry forward.

Blind Faith

I don’t really know what to say except that Martha Percy’s love for Thomas Percy is juxtaposed with Thomas Percy’s feelings for Catesby.

Literally.

That’s the song.

If this musical ever develops a fandom, there are going to be a hundred Catesby/Thomas fics, with James/Thomas being the darkhorse fic.

It’s hard to judge this one, simply because it’s much more conventional love song - It sounds similar to, for example, “That Would Be Enough”, if Alexander Hamiltpn decided to blow up George III instead of join the American Revolution. It’s a TWIST on the conventional love song, but it still follows similar beats.

But I DO love how their voices go together, the song really starts to shine when that happens.

That last “This path was MINE to choose, he has nothing to prove”, probably is the best vocal moment.

Overall, I don’t have MANY thoughts on this song in comparison to the others, but I can also see myself warming up to it over time.

The Promise

“His face is quite nice” It’s VERY obvious they’re going for a queer comic relief interpretation of James, which I honestly have mixed feelings about given that he is, clearly, going to be the one that our protagonists are trying to get rid of. There’s.....something about that, a bunch of presumably straight protagonists ganging up to kill a stereotypically portrayed gay man. I know that historically, James WAS, but.....I still don’t like how stereotypical they played this one. Someone could point to Herod from JCS but, in all fairness, Herod was written in the 1970s (and, tbh, given that the central relationship in the musical is Jesus and Judas, you could argue that the entire musical is very, very homoerotic, which makes it less glaring.) This is...well, I’ll have to see how the musical deals with it. I’m willing to give it a fair shake, but they might have set themselves up for danger here.

But Daniel Boys is, admittedly, serving this song on a silver platter.

Really, really going into the Spoiled Child Route here.

If it sounds like I’m disappointed with this song compared to the others, it’s because......yeah, I kind of am. Musically, it’s fine and a little catchy, lyrically, it’s fine, but that nuance I’d been seeing in the other songs goes out the window. James isn’t my favorite historical figure of all time (Bro basically set up the English Civil War), but there still HAD to be a better way to do him justice than this.

It doesn’t hurt that, unlike the other songs, which were demonstrably TREASON, this one is very much.....a JCS/Hamilton rip-off. Like, it’s very, very blatant.

Love the rising strings when Percy tells him that Elizabeth is dying, that sense of tension - It does remind me a little of something I heard in The Pirate Queen, but you know what? I’ll give it to them.

Lowkey obsessed with Oliver Saville’s eyebrow raise when he says “You could save England.”

The problem is that they’re leaning so hard into the comic route that, when James says that he’ll be a fair king, it really, really makes the Catholic nobility sound dumb as Hell to listen to him. Like “Yes, man who routinely, gleefully sings about cutting off people’s heads, I’ll listen to you!” I know they’re desperate but....come on.

But also. THAT HIGH NOTE. Daniel Boys really put 110% in there.

Overall, my takeaway is that this musical could either do very, very well or very, very badly, depending on how they play it. It’s hard to judge because the public only has access to 5 tracks (except for the lucky ducks who bought tickets to the stream, where they got access to 10) - It’s hard to judge a musical based off of 5 tracks, and a musical about the Gunpowder Plot with, say, a love song called “Blind Faith” almost sounds like something out of a parody, something destined to be one of those flops that go down in history. BUT, that being said, the musical has some very strong vocal performances and some really good music, when it keeps to its own mood and style instead of trying to go off of what other, more successful musicals have done. There’s some real, real promise in this musical, and I’ll be both anxious and excited to see how it all turns out (and if they ever offer a full purchase for the live recording......I’d honestly probably buy it.) It was a shame I found out about it so late in the game, because I’d have totally bought tickets to the stream if I had known earlier.

#treason the musical

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uraharashopslut · 3 years

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dreamland {hirako shinji fic}

- summary -

shinji had forgotten about the girl he grew up with in rukongai, until she waltzed right into his quarters with the last person he'd expect, his fukutaicho, aizen sosuke.

content warning: when life hands ya lemons, ya put 'em in ya story. this is gonna be a mature fic. not sure what the full extent of that will be, but there's definitely gonna be some crude language. yoruichi and urahara are swingers. it's gonna be a grand ol time.

{consider the Glass Animals album "Dreamland" the soundtrack for this book}

Chapter One

"Taicho," Aizen bowed as he entered his Captain's quarters.

"Always so formal, Sosuke-kun. What is it?" Shinji sat on his futon with his eyes closed, head against the wall, listening to the jazz from his Living World record player.

"I was wondering if I might have permission to move a guest into my quarters, sir," Aizen asked, kneeling in front of his captain.

Shinji opened one eye and raised an eyebrow. "Eh? Move someone in? From outside Seireitei?"

"Hai."

"Well, I'm gonna need more information than that if I'm to even consider granting such an odd request. Who is it?" Shinji asked. His lieutenant had always been incredibly private, to be fair, so had Shinji, but this was rather uncharacteristic of Aizen.

"My girlfriend."

---

"I can't believe he said yes, Sosuke-kun! How exciting. I'll grab my things immediately." Ayame began grabbing robes from her closet and shoving then in a bag.

Aizen reached out and grabbed her arm firmly. "Listen to me, Ayame. You must treat every person in Seireitei with the utmost respect. They are in a class above you and you must behave as such. Do you hear me?"

Ayame nodded, trying to loosen her boyfriend's grip. "Yes, Aizen-kun."

"If you slip up even one time I will have no choice but to send you back here, are we clear?" His grip remained.

Ayame's eyes fixed on the floor. "Yes, Aizen-kun."

"Good." He removed his hand. "Now finish packing, we leave in an hour." He flash-stepped away.

Ayame sighed and continued to pack. Is this really the best idea, she asked herself. She had been with Aizen for three years, but had never gotten used to his coldness. She looked around her room.

She was going to miss this place. Her floor was littered with buckets to catch the leaks when it rained, but it was still home. It was still the first place she could afford with money she earned, thanks to Aizen.

He was a dream, at first. They met when he was on a mission to the outer Rukongai district, where she was a makeshift house mother for a particularly rowdy group of boys. He helped her find a job and save enough money to move into her own house, although it was rather worn down. He's done so much for you, don't be ungrateful. You know how much his reputation means to him. Besides, do you want to live in this leaky shack forever? This is your chance to move up.

Ayame finished packing her belongings then locked up her house for the last time. She set the key on the ground in front for the landlord and headed towards the West Gate.

"Today the big day?" Sato, the old baker next door, asked.

Ayame turned to him with a smile. "Yes, Jii-san."

"Good luck to you! Oh, and if you see that Hirako rascal, give him hell for leaving you here alone, will ya?" he called.

"Seireitei is a large place, Jiisan. I doubt I'll run into him, and I doubt he'd remember me. That was two hundred years ago," Ayame said, her smile fading.

"Well, if you do."

"As you wish. Farewell, Sato-san! Thank you for all of your help." Ayame bowed before continuing to walk.

When she neared the gate, Aizen's reitsu began to overwhelm her senses.

"Boo."

Ayame turned around, less than startled. "Take this bag. I'm tired of carrying everything."

Aizen chuckled. "Hello to you, too." He grabbed the bag from her outstretched arm.

---

Ayame unrolled her futon and positioned it near Aizen's. She set her pillow and folded blanket on top.

"All moved in!" Aizen said, wrapping her in a hug from behind. "How does it feel?"

She took a deep breath, shifting the weight in her feet. This was her home now. "The energy is different from Rukongai."

"Better, right?" he asked with a cool tone.

Ayame turned to face her boyfriend and grabbed his hands. "Much better. I feel like I can breathe here."

Aizen's hardened expression softened as Ayame's green eyes looked up at him. He lifted her chin with his finger and kissed her gently.

"I'm glad you like it. Now that we're settled, I need to introduce you to the captain of my squad."

"The Blond Bastard, as you like to call him?" Ayame asked, stifling a smirk.

"Yeah, that's him," Aizen replied, sliding his door open.

"Does he have a real name?"

"Taicho. That's the only one that should matter to you," he said. He started walking to his Captain's quarters.

Ayame stepped out of the room and slid the door shut behind her before following after her boyfriend. They walked in silence.

"Ah, Aizen-kun. This must be the girlfriend your Captain was telling me about," a deep but friendly voice said.

The couple turned to face a man in a pink floral robe with a large straw hat. Aizen bowed.

"Kyoraku-taicho," he said. "This is Ayame."

Ayame bowed lightly, before smiling at the man.

"Very good to meet you. Always a pleasure to see another beautiful woman joining our ranks," Kyoraku grinned.

"Thank you, taicho," she replied, her cheeks flushing.

"You better hurry along and introduce her. You know how impatient he is," Kyoraku tipped his hat with a wink. "I'll be seeing you!"

"Taicho," Aizen said with a deep bow as the man walked away. He turned to face Ayame. "That was the captain of the eighth squad, Kyoraku Shunsui. We're almost at my Captain's quarters. His is the last door at the end of this hall."

The couple quickly made their way to the door. Jazz music could be heard from behind the wood.

"Taicho, may I enter?"

They heard a shuffle, something drop, and footsteps before the door slid open. Ayame could smell fragrant incense coming from the room as she bowed deeply.

"How many times do I have to tell ya, Sosuke-kun, ya can just call me Shinji," the blond captain said, scratching his head. "Oh! This must be yer girl-"

He stopped short and his eyes widened when he saw Ayame's face.

"Yes, this is my girlfriend, Aya-" Aizen started.

"I can't believe it," Ayame said, stepping closer to the door as she made eye contact with the blond captain. "Hirako?"

Shinji pushed past his lieutenant and grabbed the blue-haired girl's shoulders. "You?"

Ayame turned to her boyfriend. "You didn't tell me 'The Blond Bastard' was Shinji Hirako!"

Aizen glared at Ayame. "I didn't realize you knew each other."

Shinji shot a look that could kill at his lieutenant. "Back in the day, this 'blond bastard' lived in Rukongai."

"We grew up together," Ayame said bitterly.

"Come in, let me pour some tea," Shinji said, putting his hand on her back, guiding her into his room. Aizen trailed behind.

Shinji closed the door behind them and gestured to the futon. "Both of ya, make yerselves comfortable!"

Ayame sat down, cross-legged, and gestured for her boyfriend to do the same. Shinji picked up a candle that was on the ground, presumably the object that the couple heard fall, and turned down his record player.

Shinji filled a kettle with water and tea leaves and set it on the stove to boil. Ayame watched him in disbelief. He was a captain, just like he'd always dreamed of being. As children, they spent many hours in the woods fighting one another with sticks. Shinji talked ceaselessly about how he'd be the best captain in all of Seireitei, and here he was.

"You never told me you grew up with a Captain-class Shinigami," Aizen hissed in Ayame's ear.

"I never knew," she responded. "He left without a word."

"So, darlin', when'd ya dye yer hair blue? It's a nice touch, stands out more than the brown," Shinji asked, carrying three cups and the tea pot. He sat across from them on the floor. He reached and grabbed a strand in his hands. "I like the color. Very shiny."

"And you had brown hair?" Aizen asked, as he watched Shinji pouring the tea.

"Yes, I dyed it to set myself apart. I didn't like blending in with everyone in the district," Ayame shrugged, sipping the tea Shinji handed to her.

"I get the sentiment, but ya never blended in," Shinji laughed. "They were always scared of ya."

Aizen's brows furrowed. He took a sip.

"I was pretty rambunctious as a kid. Always beating up the bullies who'd pick on this blond bag of bones."

"Geez, first I'm a blond bastard and now I'm a bag of bones? Needa get better friends," Shinji whined, rubbing his shoulder.

"Or maybe you shouldn't abandon them," Ayame responded, crossing her arms.

"Darlin', it wasn't like that," Shinji said, his posture stiffening.

Aizen face remained unchanged at his Captain's use of the pet name.

"You could've come back, to see me, maybe when you finished the academy. But you didn't." Ayame stood and set her cup of tea on the desk next to the record player. "Sosuke-kun, let's go. I can't be here anymore."

"I agree." Aizen stood and opened the door, stepping out. "Thank you for tea, Taicho," he said with a bow."

Shinji stood and grabbed Ayame's wrist. "Ayame, wait."

Ayame turned to face him. "Yes?" she hissed.

"Come see me again, please. My door is always open to ya," Shinji said gently.

Ayame could see the sincerity and sorrow in his eyes. "Maybe, Hirako." She tried to pull her wrist free from his grip. "Shinji?"

Shinji's eyes darkened and he spoke with a lowered tone. "If he doesn't treat ya well, he'll have hell to pay."

Ayame pulled her wrist free and nodded slightly. "Good bye, Shinji. Maybe I'll see you around."

fin

tell me what ya think in the comments below, dolls!

#shinji hirako #dreamland fic #shinji x oc #aizen x oc #kisuke x Yoruichi #urahara x Yoruichi #urahara x shinji x Yoruichi #bleach fanfiction #hirako shinji #shinji bleach

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lady-divine-writes · 4 years

Text

Good Omens - I Was Given Four Rules to Follow ... I Broke Every One: Chapter 1/3 (Rated PG13)

Summary: When Warlock Dowling is summoned to the old South Downs cottage of Aziraphale and Crowley to help clean out their attic, presumably after their deaths, he is given four rules to follow.

... He breaks every single one.

Notes: For @silver-colour

Written for the @tricketyboo2020 prompt "Creepypasta format story (like a found footage or witness statement kind of thing)" by silver-colour. It is a mild reworking of an older fanfic of mine, but that goes tongue in cheek with the ending of this story sort of. XD I would put this between Spooky Level 2 and 3, with 3 being "major and minor character death, disturbing images or concepts, major dark themes, major violence, etc." But there's only minor mentions of blood/body horror. But the whole undead thing is a trigger for some people and I lean into that imagery a bit. I wanted this to be a sort of leveled up Goosebumps tale. Tl;dr proceed with caution <3

Chapter 1

I am going to die.

I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I’m going to die.

I have to keep repeating it because I have to come to grips with it.

I am going to die.

Not in sixty years.

More like sixty minutes.

Oh, Amanda. I am sorry.

If you ever hear this … I never meant for this to happen.

My name is Warlock Dowling and I am 34 years-old. Devoted son and husband, I’ve spent over a decade working towards achieving my dream of following in my father’s footsteps and entering politics one day.

It’s a dream I don’t think I’ll be seeing through to the end.

I am telling you this because after reading what I’ve just read … and hearing what I’ve just heard … I am not certain I’m going to make it through the night.

I broke the rules.

There were four. Only four. And I broke them.

I didn’t break them by accident. I absolutely did it on purpose. I’m not suicidal or anything, but you only live once - am I right?

For the record, I don’t regret a single thing.

…

That’s not entirely true.

I’ll regret dying before morning if that’s the way things play out.

Today happens to be October 31st - Halloween night. I’d been tasked with clearing out the attic above a cottage in The South Downs which once belonged to a pair of old family friends. Technically, they were ex-employees of my parents from back when I was young, but I thought of them as surrogates. They practically raised me, educated me, taught me everything I know about coping in this cruel, pathetic world.

I held them in the highest regard.

They were the only people in my life who treated me as if I could become more than what I had been born into, that fate had something else in store for me. Because of them, I met the best friends a boy could ever have.

I will forever be grateful for that.

Cleaning out this attic was the least I could do to repay them, but to be honest, I don’t know who summoned me here. I assumed it was the executor of their estate, but now I’m not so sure. Looking over the letter in my hands, there is no legible signature. And the gold embossed emblem at the top that I took for granted as belonging to some upscale legal firm is, on closer inspection, gibberish - a mess of fleur-de-lis underscored by Latin words that roughly translate to “the cows shall rise”.

Ludicrous, right?

How did I miss that?

But more ludicrous - and confusing - are the rules.

I had been given rules about cleaning this attic.

The first rule on the list was to touch only what I could see. Under no circumstances was I to open any of the boxes or chests.

So, naturally, I opened every single one.

The second rule was not to put anything on. Fine by me. The only clothes up here are old lady outfits and a pair of white satin shoes.

But …

There was an awesome vintage leather jacket hanging on a dressmaker’s dummy in the corner and … well … it had my name written all over it! I had to try it on, see if it fit.

And it does.

Rule number three - keep to my torch. Don’t light any candles.

Nuh-uh! It’s Halloween! And torches are lame. So on the candles went. Jeez, there are a lot of them. Enough to burn down the whole place if I’m not careful. It actually seems like they’ve multiplied since I’ve been up here.

I won’t lie - it’s unsettling.

But according to the list, rule number four is the most important:

Don’t read any books I find. And definitely not out loud.

The first thing I saw when I entered the attic was a stack of leather-bound books. I scoffed at the sight of them, piled up to my chin, right inside the entryway. Isn’t that a bit like putting a huge bowl of candy front and center on your dining room table in the middle of dinner with a huge sign saying, “Do not eat?” If the most important rule about going into the attic is, “Don’t read anything!” why not put all the books on a high shelf?

Or the moon?

I’m not a book lover. I read hundreds of pages a day for work. I definitely don’t do it for fun. So this shouldn’t have been a hard one for me to follow.

But they looked like diaries.

And diaries hold secrets.

That made them a different matter all together.

I couldn’t resist.

But once I opened the top one, I knew I’d made a mistake.

These weren’t just any diaries.

They were the diaries of my two friends - Aziraphale and Crowley.

There had always been something odd about those two. I didn’t believe for a second that they were a proper nanny or gardener, not even when I was a young, impressionable child. But they were funny - a distraction from the dull as dishwater life of an attache’s son.

Yes, I was a spoiled little rich kid with everything I could ever ask for handed to me and, on top of that, diplomatic immunity.

Woe was me.

I realize how much of a douche whining about that makes me sound.

My life was still dull.

I was still lonely.

I never knew for sure what happened to them after they left us. I made assumptions - erroneous assumptions. I thought they lived happily ever after at least.

Now I know … that wasn’t the case.

I’m recording this in the hopes that someone will find it, so that you might know the true story of what happened to them …

… and why you might not be hearing from me again.

***

The Diary of Aziraphale Fell - Reluctant Widower

January 14th-

“Please, sir,” the decrepit woman hissed, but not unkindly. She came about her speech impediment by a mixture of symptoms - her thick accent coupled with her indeterminable old age caused her to talk that way. “Please, reconsider this decision.”

I glared at her regardless. I knew my eyes were bloodshot; my hair a mass of tangled, wayward strands; my lips quivered from constant, unrelenting crying.

“You said you had it!” I screamed, bypassing her arguments. “You said you would sell it to me! Wh---why else would I come here!?”

“You need to understand,” the woman implored, opening her hands in a pleading gesture. She fixed me with one clear blue eye, the other eye clouded – a useless, milky white lump of tissue bulging inside its socket, “what you ask for … it is unnatural.”

“But your granddaughter said it was a done deal!” I persisted, shooting a steely glare at the simpering young woman who ducked behind her grandmother to hide from my volatile stare. I wasn’t about to leave without the item I came for. At this point, I was willing to tear the place apart and everything inside - including the two of them - to get it.

They must have sensed that.

Even as the woman continued to defy me, she looked slightly more afraid than she had a minute ago.

“My granddaughter is foolish!” The woman directed the comment over her shoulder to the girl cowering there. “But she means well. We need the money. She was thinking with her head and not her heart.”

“I can pay you twice what you’re asking!” I reached into my back pocket for my wallet. “Three times! I’ll give you whatever you want!”

The girl, intrigued by my proposal, peeked over her grandmother’s shoulder, but the woman turned and barked sharply at her in a language I could not understand.

That was when I began to think I might be in danger.

I’d spent my entire life studying languages, so hearing one I didn’t comprehend, not even an inch, sent a shiver down my spine.

“Mr. Fell …” The old woman reached out, I presumed to comfort me, and took my shaking hand in hers “… your husband is dead. And I am more sorry than I can ever express at your loss. You carry your love for him like a beacon. I see it in your eyes. It shines from every part of you. With him gone, it is up to you to carry it. It will never fade as long as you remember him.”

Those were, without a doubt, the kindest words anyone had said to me since my husband passed. I crumbled, new tears falling hot down my cheeks. But regardless of her sympathy, sincere though it might be, I refused to relent.

I refused!

“I don’t want to remember him!” I whimpered, my anger renewed at the sound of my voice fracturing. “I want him here with me! I need you to help me bring him back!”

The woman sighed in pity but shook her head.

“The effects of life are varied, Mr. Fell. Our fate … it changes every day, with every choice that we make. But the effects of death should remain permanent.”

I flinched at that word as if she’d struck me across the face.

Permanent.

Crowley dead … my husband gone … and nothing for me to look forward to in life but emptiness. We’d had every moment of our lives planned together.

One arsehole drunk driver later and now I was alone.

I literally had no one.

I had lost contact with my mum early in life, never knew my father, didn’t have children of my own. My boss and mentor was an abusive prick who tormented me throughout the span of my career until I found a way out from under his thumb.

Until Crowley helped me discover a life where I didn’t need the man’s guidance or control.

But now I was going to lose him!? The only one who had stuck by me, who defended me, loved me through thick and thin!?

No! That was beyond cruel! And I wasn’t going to roll over and accept it!

I let the sorrow within me curdle, turn sour as I yanked my hand out of the old woman’s grasp.

“Your granddaughter said there are other methods of getting what I want!” I snarled. “Dangerous methods. Methods that might require payment in sacrifice … even blood. And not necessarily my blood. Innocent blood, if you catch my meaning.”

Both women gasped.

Despite the conversation at hand, I smiled.

Good, I thought. We were finally all on the same page.

Up until a few days ago, I never considered violence to be the answer to anything. But I had since come to a crossroads where an exception had made itself clear.

I was prepared to annihilate my humanity to get my husband back.

The old woman snapped her head over her shoulder, scolding her granddaughter in a harsh, guttural voice. The girl, who had started to brave coming out of hiding, shrank down once again.

“Be reasonable,” the woman begged, “please, and think about what you are saying. What you are willing to do.”

“No,” I said, my calm more potent than my anger … or so my husband used to say. “The time for me being reasonable is over. I will get what I want, no matter what the cost. The question is whether or not you will be the one to give it to me.”

The woman looked down at her gnarled hands and sighed a long, exhausted sigh. “Alright, Mr. Fell. I will sell the potion to you at the promised price.”

I stared at her for a moment in shock. I was relieved, of course. I hadn’t thought I would get this far. It frightened me how much I had begun looking forward to throttling her with my bare hands, imagined her neck snapping within my grasp, effortlessly like a twig.

That couldn’t be me though. I wasn’t that kind of person. It was this place - this shop and all of its trinkets, their age and professed magical abilities amplifying my grief, turning every rational thought I had into rage.

I had to get out of here and fast before I did something I might regret.

I opened my wallet with the onset of happier tears and thumbed through the bills, pulling out extra for the joy of getting what I wanted. I handed the money over, but the woman refused to touch it. She waved it away, her granddaughter popping up long enough to grab the money and then scurry off again. The woman reached into the folds of her skirts and retrieved a leather pouch that hung from a thin belt around her waist. From it she fished out a tiny blue bottle with a cork stopper sealing the mouth. She gave it a long, troubled look, then handed it to me.

For the first time, her hand trembled.

“Pour the contents of this bottle into your husband’s mouth, Mr. Fell,” she instructed, “and your husband will return.”

I held the bottle up to the dim candlelight of the musty Soho shop. The blue glass glimmered, a thick liquid inside swaying back and forth, shimmering like sun-tossed sparkles across a dark, foreboding sea.

“There are some rules that go along with that potion,” the woman said, her voice weeding into my head, summoning me back from my momentary trance, “and a few warnings you must heed as well.”

I sighed. I had hoped it would be a simple matter of giving my husband the liquid and living happily ever after, but I knew in my heart that nothing was ever that simple.

“Okay,” I said, slipping the bottle carefully into my pocket and patting over it twice to ensure its safety. “Tell me. What are the rules?”

“First of all, you will give that to your husband, but what will come back …” she paused, swallowed hard “… will not entirely be your husband.”

I nodded. I had expected her to say something along those lines, like a scene straight from an old time-y horror movie.

The woman locked both eyes, one clear and one clouded, on my face as I waited for her to finish her speech, eager to go back home and get on with my life. She realized, with regret, that I had every intention of going through with this, and took on the heavy burden of allowing this to continue.

“Be there to look into his eyes when he wakes,” she said.

I hadn’t dreamed of leaving his side, but since the woman made such a point of it, I asked, “Why?”

“He is being reborn, in a sense. And like other simple-minded creatures, he will imprint on the first person he sees.” She took my hands and squeezed them. “That person needs to be you!”

My gulp was audible, the weight of her words and of my plan suddenly settling within me. They pressed in on me, like that moment when the police came to my door. Their words – “Mr. Fell? I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but … it’s about your husband …” had turned me inside out, left my heart out in the cold.

I felt that cold now.

“Once the potion absorbs into his tissues, it will restart his heart,” she continued. “Then the potion will replicate. It will begin to take the place of his blood. It will make him calm, easier for you to control.”

I nodded again. I wanted to say something, assure the woman that I understood, but she didn’t pause long enough for me to speak. It wouldn’t have mattered. I saw the trepidation in her one, clear eye. I had no clue what to say to make this better.

“It will be a slow process, and you must learn to be a patient man!” She raised her voice, letting go of one hand to waggle an emphatic finger in front of my face. “You will be teaching him, raising him as you would a child. Remember, even if only a small portion of his soul returns, that soul belongs to your husband, and you must love him or this will not work!”

The woman stepped back, out of breath from her outburst, and her granddaughter (whom I had forgotten about) returned, pushing forward an ornate but dusty antique chair to catch her in. I held the woman’s arms gently and helped her into it, feeling strangely protective. The woman sat and waved us both off, not wanting us to make a fuss when she still had more to say.

“But most importantly,” she labored on, barely missing a beat in her speech, “do not let him taste blood.” I knelt down so that she didn’t feel the need to yell for her words to reach me. “He cannot eat meat, but most of all, don’t let him bite you or lick your wounds. Or anyone else’s – human or animal.”

“Will … will I become a zombie? If he does bite me?”

I’m not quite sure why the word ‘zombie’ leapt to my mind. In every interaction I had had with the woman’s granddaughter before tonight, she had been so careful not to use that term. She used other, more romantic euphemisms such as ‘bring back to the land of the living’, ‘re-associate with life’, and the most used - ‘rebirth’. But that’s what he would be, right? When we moved past the flowery vernacular and got right down to it? This potion I had pocketed would turn my husband into the walking dead, - a simple-minded creature that was once deposed from this Earth.

And that meant ‘zombie’.

As if I had nothing more pressing at hand, I suddenly recalled the Walking Dead marathon Crowley had convinced me to watch (against my better judgement). Crowley thought the show was hilarious, but I could barely make it to the middle of the first season. I had started watching with my hands over my eyes, then with my arm locked around Crowley’s, anxiously smacking his shoulder, and finally with most of my body lying over his lap and my face buried in his shirt.

It wasn’t just the gore in the show that skewered me, made me nauseous, unable to breathe. It was the fear and the pain those characters felt, being chased by a relentless enemy that needed no rest, constantly running into people they couldn’t trust, people who were so out for themselves they no longer believed in the sanctity of life, with nowhere to hide, nowhere safe at all, even behind thick, concrete and metal walls.

Watching your loved ones get turned into soulless monsters - still there, but everything about them that you had once loved out of reach.

And this ‘illness’ or whatever these people had - it spared no one. Even children had become zombies. And in the game that was survival for the remaining uninfected, children had become pawns.

Everything about it seemed so horrendous.

And while I suffered through my existential crisis, Crowley laughed at my antics.

I fought not to smile at the sound of his teasing voice.

“Uh … a little squeamish there, are you, angel?”

Angel.

From the first day we met, that’s what he called me.

Oh, what I wouldn’t give to hear him call me that again!

The old woman chuckled, bringing me reluctantly back from my daydream. “No. Not in this case. That’s not the nature of this spell. No, blood will give him back his memories.”

I looked at the woman, bug-eyed, and shook my head. “I … I don’t …”

“It will ignite his brain. He will begin to feel. In many ways, he will become more the man you married than in any other.”

“Wha---?“ I stuttered, baffled as to how that could be a bad thing. If drinking blood could make Crowley more Crowley, I’d set up an IV drip the minute I got home! I would serve him cups of blood with every meal! I’d make donating blood a requirement for entrance into my bookshop! (That one would definitely kill two birds with one stone. In fact, I might consider doing that anyhow.) “And why wouldn’t I want that again?” I asked, trying not to sound like turning my husband into a blood-sipping fiend was the greatest idea in known history.

The old woman smiled, but it wasn’t fond. It was shrewd, as if she could read every one of my thoughts.

And she didn’t approve.

“Once he has his memories back, he will start to crave it. Soon, drinking blood won’t be enough for him. It won’t work as well. It won’t keep the memories as fresh. He will have to go further, do more. He will become a killer.”

My face must have gone as green as I felt because the woman laughed again, this time with a touch of wickedness. A killer? My Crowley? My sweet, kind, compassionate Crowley?

Okay, maybe I was going too far with the endearments. He’d been a bit of a bastard, after all. Which was why I could picture Crowley becoming a full-fledged bad boy. With that leather jacket he wore like a second skin and his gleaming classic car, he’d been well on his way.

But a killer? No.

Then again, I was willing to become one myself a second ago, so maybe I wasn’t in the best position to judge.

“You are playing with the laws of nature, Mr. Fell,” she said, patting me on the cheek. “You are responsible not only for your own life, but for the lives of those around you.” The woman leaned in close, those eyes – one alive, one dead - more menacing than when I had walked into the shop; her face no longer that of a frail old woman but of a powerful witch.

This time, it was my turn to feel afraid.

“So don’t fuck it up.”

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #tricketyboo2020 #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #aziraphale #Crowley

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terezis · 4 years

Text

Side note: the Emperor is (presumably) the very first Lyctor, but Commander Wake also implies that he brought about the advent of necromancy:

“Necromancy is a disease you released,” she said. “Necromancy needs to be strategically and deliberately cleansed.”

Teacher also says something interesting to this effect, much earlier:

They realised in the first hundred years how difficult their situation was, even as necromancy spread through the Nine Houses, and even as other disciples joined their number.

So necromancy wasn’t a known or done thing pre-Resurrection, and only became an important part of society some time afterwards - how did God “release” it, then, and from what? Where does it come from? Where does his ability to harness it come from?

Alecto???

I’m of two minds: either she was human once, died, and her resurrection brought back something with her... or she’s inhuman, and possibly even the source of necromancy; that she did something to or with John to give him the ability to use it. (How did they even meet?)

- “A monster, John!” Augustine barked. “She was a bloody monster in a human suit! She was a monster the moment you resurrected her, and you went and made her worse!”

- "There's no possible way Alecto's genetic code—to the extent she even had one, which by the way I am not convinced she ever did—"

These quotes ^ make me feel like it could go either way, but then there’s this:

- To their silence, he added: “I believe we are now being punished for what they did. Even the devil bent for God to put a leash around her neck … and the disciples were scared! I cannot blame them! I was terrified! But when the work was done—when I was finished, and so were they, and the new Lyctors found out the price—they bade him kill the saltwater creature before she could do them harm … Oh, but it is a tragedy, to be put in a box and laid to wait for the rest of time.

- “Then let me speak plainly,” said Teacher. “You worship a monster in a box and play at being the masters of its tomb.”

Which is obviously referring to the Alecto, the Emperor, and when the other Lyctors asked him to put her down. And then, of course, there’s the Emperor’s eyes...

- "his monstrous eyes, oil on carbon"

- "the eyes was dyed black as though oily drops had been squeezed into it—purling over in black, shining wavelets, staining it true nitid ebony—the white rings bobbing up to the surface as though they’d been ducked into the water, each matte black pupil resting in the central point.

- "And those extraordinary black eyes you've always worn... they were always hers."

You know who else had pure black eyes? Colum, the Eighth house cavalier, right after his soul vacated his body and his body was possessed by something other. Wink!

At the very least Alecto the First is implied to be the first resurrection the Emperor ever did. Does her resurrection predate Dominicus’s? Were they Lyctors before Dominicus ever died? How?

Was Lyctorhood what gave him the power to resurrect the system in the first place, or was it something else that gave him the ability to harness that thanergic bloom? Something inherent to Alecto, maybe???

Because honestly, even if he’s a “perfect” Lyctor, that alone doesn’t seem like enough to resurrect ten billion people, nine planets, and a star. But if she weren’t human, if she were something more, if he had access to a bigger well of power...

Well, who knows!

#the locked tomb #harrow the ninth #alecto the ninth #john gaius #the emperor #harrow the ninth spoilers #teacher makes a lot of interesting comparisons b/t alecto and the sleeper (wake) like that *thinking emoji*#tlt tag

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atlas-of-a-human-soul · 4 years

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Fix Me (doctor/soulmate AU) {2}

Summary: Ethan wakes up to a whole new set of challenges with his soulmate, but he had no idea just how deep the trouble she would get into would be. With a medieval infection in the hospital, Ethan only thinks of her.

Warnings: angst, slight fluff, swearing, medical descriptions of things some might find nauseating, infectious disease

Word count: 5.3k

Fix Me (doctor/soulmate AU) series Masterlist

A/N - heavily inspired by Grey’s anatomy, my own experiences and thoughts, but also by songs: Birdy - Not about angels, Bear’s den - Fortress, Matthew and the atlas - Out of the darkness, Harry Styles - Falling, Kodaline - Wherever you are.

I really hope you guys like it! Feedback is always wanted and appreciated, no matter how small or big it is!

If you want to be tagged for future parts, reply down below.

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Pistanthrophobia - fear of trusting others

Waking up alone is the last thing Ethan expected, but to wake up alone and nearly five hours later was definitely unbelievable. Not a single page? Not one of his interns fucked up so badly that they paged him thousands of times? Maybe he misjudged this generation after all?

"Nah", Ethan mumbled to himself, shaking his head as he pulled himself up to sit. Rubbing his cheeks, he tried to stop himself from smiling, to stop the warm feeling in his chest where she laid atop him but he couldn't. Even if she left before he had woke, Ethan was happy with their progress, although leaving him in bed alone seemed to have become her memo.

Dragging himself out to get a cup of coffee during this tireless double shift, Ethan wondered if she'd be waiting for him close by or if she was feeling better after losing her first patient, but he found himself disappointed when he couldn't find a single trace of her. His phone vibrated and even if he wanted anything but to pick up the call, the only person he knew was persistent enough to wait for the last ring was his brother and he always picked up Grayson's calls.

"What do you want?" Ethan grumbled, slipping a few coins into the vending machine for that cup of coffee he was dying for, not in the mood to speak but he thought it might be important.

"Good morning to you too, sunshine." Grayson chuckled, waiting to hear his brother groan or growl on the other line and he didn't have to wait for long.

"Just wondering if you misplaced something? Or someone?" Grayson teased as if he didn't know his brother isn't a morning person and he was definitely not in the mood for games.

"What are you talking about?" Ethan frowned, grabbing his cup eagerly as it fills up.

"Just heard one of your interns ask for a transfer and they told her no, but she seemed adamant that the cardio resident she's assigned to isn't right for her education here." Grayson licked his lips, aware he's pulling at the right strings because even if he never saw the elusive Y/N, he felt like her description matched the girl Ethan told him about a year ago, his instincts screamed it was her, and he was quite unhappy with his brother's lack of sharing for he would have expected at least a text from Ethan about his soulmate being his intern.

"What was her name? Did you hear that?" Ethan cleared his throat, pursing his lips nervously because he really fucking hoped the progress he thought he made wasn't just erased. Did he scare her off?

"Y/N Y/L/N. Your soulmate?" Grayson clarified and Ethan leaned against the wall with his eyes closed. He managed to fuck it up, he just didn't know how.

"Did she see you?" Ethan asked, gnawing on the inside of his bottom lip, annoyed with himself because it seems as if every step he takes toward her, she takes two back.

"Nope, but I did tell the nurse I'll take your interns over for the day. They should see the miracle of life before they see death. Thank me later." Ending the conversation, Grayson moved to meet the interns at the changing rooms, eager to meet the little Miss who drove his brother up the wall. In a way, Grayson was fascinated by this woman who seems to disappear like a ghost every time Ethan was near and he didn't understand why she was fighting this unmovable force of nature.

"So, uh, I heard you killed a guy on your first day." Cocky intern leaned into Y/N who was just trying to tie her shoes and get on with the day. Escaping Ethan's arms wasn't easy, especially when he seems to have a death grip in his sleep. But she had to go, to leave and find a way to switch mentors before she fell for him, the guy who clearly wasn't falling for her.

"I'm Brett and I like girls who get their hands dirty." His cheshire grin made her sick to her stomach because as attractive as he is with his pale blue eyes and blonde hair, she had absolutely nothing but disgust for him.

"Leave her alone, asshole. She doesn't care who you are." The only other female intern spoke up and Y/N chuckled lowly, nodding in agreement.

"I'm Alex." The blonde settled beside her, shooing Brett away with her hand until he rolled his eyes and left to get dressed.

"Y/N. Thanks for getting rid of the fleas." Y/N leaned back on the wall as Alex laughed and Brett turned back just to make an annoyed grimace at the two.

"So, how was the boss yesterday? Was it easy working with a hot genius like him? Did you have sex in the on call room?" Alex whisper shouted in excitement and Y/N's face fell, realizing Alex won't be the friend she hoped she would be a moment ago. She just wanted gossip.

"He's a talented surgeon and a good teacher. As for the rest, this isn't Grey's anatomy, on call rooms are for rest not sex." But before she has a chance to get up, someone walks in - authoritative and eager; way too eager with his pink scrubs.

"Good morning. My name is Grayson Dolan and I am to be your boss man for the day." The moment Y/N looked at him, her heart stopped. There are too many similarities between Grayson and Ethan and she was realizing one irrefutable fact.

"There's two of you?!" The words escaped her and she slapped a hand over her mouth as quickly as possible, just not fast enough to stop herself from becoming an embarrassment.

The left corner of Grayson's lips curled up, forming a smirk as he turned his attention to Y/N, taking a good look of what destiny had chosen for his twin and he knew she was trouble even without Ethan's complaints about his torn up heart. She looked like she was made for heartbreak but also the loveliest nights.

"My brother and I may wear the same face but there are very few similarities between us which I'm sure you will learn in time." Grayson winked, before turning his eyes to the rest of the room. "You all will. After all, we will be seeing each other weekly from now on. One of you will be mine for a week until you have your OBGYN hours filled."

Swallowing thickly, Y/N looked away nervously as she fidgeted with her stethoscope. She felt warm, as if her body forgot to regulate her temperature and she could hardly breathe.

'Did it get hot in here? Or is this guy's sunshine personality setting every room aflame?' She wondered silently, thinking how as awkward as it was around Ethan, at least he didn't force conversations and he didn't seem like the overly curious type that pries into people's lives as Grayson does. He looks like the kind of a person people go to in order to feel better, for his warmth and cheerfulness to transfer onto them - he was the definition of sunshine, a cure for dark and depressing people and Y/N was certainly one of them. But she didn't want a cure and she didn't want him to meddle. For the first time ever, Y/N wanted to spend time with Ethan, in the comfort he gave because he didn't force happy onto her and she felt safe in feeling what she feels, knowing she didn't have to adjust, to change. It was the first time she hoped for Ethan, but it wouldn't be the last time.

And lucky for her, he showed up right on time, just as she started losing her shit.

Fingers snapped in front of her face and Y/N gasped, blinking fast as her eyes refocused on identical twins that stood before her. "Hey! Are you listening to any of this?" Grayson questioned with a slight smile, genuinely entertained by her and her dreamer personality because he was sure it would both annoy and compliment Ethan's personality. Ethan is a dreamer too, but never at work and that would surely be a challenge for the pair.

"Um. Missed the few last minutes. Probably should get a cup of coffee." She raised her eyebrows, trying to seem convincing because she didn't want to be unprofessional but she also didn't want to piss off two of her teachers.

"Well, let me sum it up. You're in the pit today, page me if you find any pregnant women in need of a consult or any cardio patients. That's when you -" Stopping him mid-sentence, Ethan jumped in. "That's when you page me."

With a nod, Y/N pressed her lips together and pushed her hands into the front pockets of her lab coat, hoping they would just stop staring at her so intently, as if they're expecting something of her and she can't understand what that is.

"Got it."

She rushed out of there faster than humanly possible, needing room to breathe because for whatever reason, the Dolan twins made it impossible to draw in a proper breath during that short interaction.

Expecting insanity in the ER, she had managed to eat a granola bar before heading into a rather calm emergency room. Using the chance, she introduced herself to the staff, learned the proper numbering of beds and trauma rooms and a few hours in, she finally got a proper case.

"I'm doctor Y/L/N." She smiled, gathering information from the patient while doing a checkup.

"So you're an exterminator?" She kept her voice airy, her tone pleasant as she noted the man has a fewer, complains of chills, muscle aches, diarrhea, cough and fatigue.

'Likely the flu', she presumed.

"For the last thirty years. Used to be a banker, a painter and a writer in my three hundred years." Hearing that sparked jealousy in her heart. She shouldn't be jealous about other people managing to do all they wanted to in their long lives, but she was. She had plans of her own and they seem unlikely with her current soulmate situation.

"Sounds like quite an adventurous life." She smiled, checking for swollen lymph nodes. Finding quite swollen, tender but firm lymph nodes, Y/N frowned, cold sweat forming at the back of her neck as the man coughed. Managing to turn her head to the side, she grasped for a facemask and placed it for protection as she prayed. Caution is always better than reckless endangerment.

'Surely it can't be...'

"Is everything alright?" The man questioned, startled by the sudden change in her stance and the odd look in her eye.

"Can you please take your socks off?" She asked, hoping it won't be what she thinks it is because that would be just her luck.

However, the moment this man took his socks off, he took a few fingers off in the process and no matter how many times she had read about gangrene, she still wasn't prepared to see it up close and personal. The foul smell of rotting flesh made her stomach turn and she struggled to keep her composure. You're supposed to be calm and collected but they don't really prepare you for this in med school.

"Oh, God!" She exclaimed, looking around wildly to figure out what to do.

"Stay calm, sir!" She told him but she seemed more upset than he did. As if he knew it was in such a state, as if he had come in for the gangrene in the first place - the 'by the way' syndrome at its best.

With shaky hands, mask in place, she stumbled to the nurse's station and lowered her voice, careful not to touch anything or anyone.

"I have strong suspicion that we have a case of the Black Death...the pulmonary type, and I've been exposed. Make sure all the patients are isolated just in case and then make sure so am I. I'll take samples for the lab, send them as emergent testing, I'll write a CITO order. And disinfect every inch of this floor." Y/N ordered, her voice shaky as she set herself back to see the patient again, preparing to take samples to confirm her diagnosis. She hoped to God she managed to get that mask on in time, swearing under her breath for being reckless and assuming it's the flu and that she'd be fine. She finally got her immune system up, she finally got her vaccines and she got cocky, thinking she's untouchable and now while everyone else is delivering babies or having once in a lifetime surgeries, she'll be in isolation because she got a patient with a medieval diagnosis. Just her luck.

And while Y/N was being quarantined along with the three patients who had the misfortune of being in at the same time and one nurse that admitted the patient, the entire ER closing for disinfection, Ethan and Grayson were drinking coffee in peace.

"She's definitely a piece of work." Grayson chuckled lowly, raising the cup to his lips casually as if Ethan wasn't snorting at his statement, aware of that fact even without his brother pointing it out.

"Young too. She's a baby surgeon, Ethan." Grayson deadpanned, taking a sip before putting his cup down. Curling his fingers around the cup, he scrunched the plastic cup easily, something he did with every plastic cup he drank from.

"Is there a reason why you're stating all known facts?" Ethan sassed back, sarcastic undertones very clear and matching his annoyed face. While Grayson sat back relaxed, Ethan tapped his fingers on the desk continuously, telling just how difficult Ethan finds the situation at hand. He wanted to know this girl so badly but she didn't seem to share that want. How do you love someone who doesn’t want to be loved?

"Yeah. I'm tryna’ help you bro. She's young, meaning she didn't have a hundred years like you to do her thing first. She didn't have time to be her before being your soulmate. Besides, did you even tell her you're her soulmate? Does she even know it's you? Because if you're not ready to risk your pride and heart for her, why are you expecting it from her?" Grayson raised an eyebrow, waiting for Ethan to open his mouth and say something right, something that would lead him on the path toward her and just as his lips part and the lost look in his eyes fades, Alex, the intern he barely remembered by anything except her being the only other woman with a fancy stethoscope, walked in with news he never wanted to hear.

"Y/N, I mean one of your interns is in quarantine!" She screamed more than spoke, her eyes wide and cheeks flushed.

"What the fuck do you mean by quarantine?!" Ethan jumped to his feet in an instant, feeling as if a bucket of ice cold water fell on his head and he had never been as wide awake as he is now.

"It's the black death."

Autophobia - fear of being alone

Loneliness had never bothered her before. Accustomed to the lone wolf kind of a life, Y/N had started questioning the unsettling feeling in her chest. After all the time she had spent on her own, she was scared by the coldness inside her that lived within ever since she snuck out of Grant’s apartment where she had left her underwear along with her virginity. That feeling of coldness was gone since he had appeared in her life again and now when she found herself isolated, alone again, she felt the cold grasp at her insides once more and for the first time in her life, Y/N wasn’t prepared to be alone again.

“Hey there. Feeling good?” She didn’t meant to smile when she heard the sound of his voice nor did she mean to let her eyes light up with the sight of his pretty brown eyes on the other side of the glass. She hadn’t expected her heart to jump inside her chest nor did she expect her cheeks to flush considering she’s wearing just a hospital gown and while she managed to hide her ass, she still felt exposed, indecent.

“Yeah. Already started myself on antibiotics before the CDC came in.” She shrugged slightly, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip as she approached the glass slowly, wondering if he’d be proud of her for managing to handle the situation so well. Or as well as it was possible in the moment. She didn’t expect Ethan to be anything but.

“Great!” He exclaimed with a smile that quickly turned sour and her own smile fell, the light in her eyes fading as he started yelling. “NOW I GET TO SCREAM AT YOU FOR BEING SO RECKLESS!”

Pacing left and right, he managed to keep his eyes on her, his hands shaking as he questioned her.

“I’m not sure what the hell you were thinking going to talk to a patient with a flu without a mask or why you were even seeing a flu patient when you’re a surgical intern! Now I’m down an intern and when we said some of you won’t make it till the end of the training, we didn’t mean you should go and recklessly handle patients until you catch a deadly infectious disease!” Throat hoarse, aware of the wandering nurses’ eyes that held judgement and the slightest bit of entertainment, Ethan stopped to take a deep breath and at least try to stop the never ending pounding of his heart and maybe it’s wrong of him to yell at her when she’s in a stressful situation of her own, but she is his soulmate and he barely had the chance to love her and he is scared to death he never will. So yes, he is angry and he is struggling to understand her and the dustiest parts of her soul but it’s beyond him. She’s beyond everything and everyone he has ever met.

“Reckless?” She snorted, folding her arms across her chest, shifting her weight onto her left foot before she too had something to say and while she wasn’t necessarily shouting, she wasn’t quiet either.

“I had my flu shot so I though approaching the flu patient without a mask might be less frightening for the poor man. Also, there was no one else in the ER to see the patient but me! Was I supposed to prolong his suffering when I’m perfectly capable of doing a physical myself? I did what any doctor would and more considering I made a rather remarkably rare diagnosis so quickly that I prevented that man from getting the rest of the hospital staff exposed! You should be proud of me, not pissed off!” Eyebrows knitted together, her eyes narrowed at him and lips pressed together, Y/N stood her ground, refusing to apologize for what she did because she didn’t think she made a mistake. Sure, the mask was a miss, but she would learn from her mistakes…if she gets the chance.

“You page me if she gets symptoms!” Ethan didn’t even spare Y/N a glance as he ordered the nurse and left her alone in that glass room that felt like a prison. He just stormed out, like a man with a paper sword that couldn’t handle losing an argument. For a girl who was all too used to hospitals, she wasn’t quite prepared to go through yet another period of time in a hospital bed.

“Do you need anything else, sweetie”, the nurse asked her, handing her a thoroughly cleaned stuffed animal to hold, her favorite one. A girl of mere ten years facing such a monstrous disease that grew within? It made the nurses cry after every shift. All the kids in the department did, as rare as it was.

“Are my parents coming?” Y/N asked quietly, her voice hoarse. Anyone’s voice would be hoarse after throwing up for five days straight, unable to keep anything down.

“I’m sorry baby, not this week.” The look of pity on the nurse’s face was what Y/N hated the most. She hated being treated like a baby, like a delicate little porcelain doll that couldn’t handle the world. She had faced more in her short life than those who chased immortality. She was very aware of the toxic relationship her parents shared and how they prioritized each other over her. She had learned to accept that.

“That’s fine. At least I have Mr. Cuddles.”

Y/N wished she had Mr. Cuddles now, to just have something or someone to hold. She wished she could relieve the sadness and the annoying sense of abandonment Ethan’s abrupt leaving left her with. She wanted him to stay a while longer for he made her feel lighter without even trying and she hated him for being an ass to her and even more so when he didn’t visit her for the next two days.

Thantophobia – phobia of losing someone you love

However, she didn’t know he was there whenever she was asleep, watching her with a worrisome heart and a tired mind. He knew she was a little troublesome, but he didn’t know she would make that tiny streak of silver hair turn into a full set of grey hair. It’s what he’d be facing in less than a year if her behavior continues as it is.

What he didn’t expect is for her to open her eyes in the middle of the night, finding him on a chair with his head resting on his numb propped up hand. She rolled her eyes at him instantly, pushing herself up with some difficulty before detaching her own IV.

“Scared I’ll die?” She asked groggily, taking a sip of her water to soothe her dry throat. She was definitely starting to feel ill, hating how her body turned weaker and weaker as it did when she was on her treatments. She didn’t want to go back to being the poor girl who sat alone in her room with no family to see her. Making friends with other patients was easy, but they could never touch, never risk getting each other sick. They were social distancing by sitting on opposite beds or coming to each other’s rooms and sitting on a chair by the door when one was too sick to get out of bed. But she didn’t have any patients to make friends with now.

“Yeah. But not from the plague.” Ethan huffed, swallowing before speaking. “Your tests are still being done, will probably be negative but you do have strep, so we’ll have to treat that unless you want to be on my table in about thirty years with faulty heart valves.” Standing, Ethan nodded to the penicillin she had inside her room, hinting it’s better she takes it on her own, although he didn’t mind getting into a hazmat suit if it meant seeing her ass again.

“Great. So if I do have it, I’ll be dealing with two diseases at once. Nice. Nice luck I got here.” Sarcasm dripping with every word she formed, Y/N grabbed the prepared medicine and groaned. She hated getting shots, even more so penicillin ones because they always hurt like a bitch. However, she had a fairly high pain tolerance after everything she’s been through. The nurses used to say when she complained of pain, they immediately called doctors to check up on her because her six was usually a ten on other kids’ pain scale.

Palping, she found the site she’s supposed to stick a needle in. Closing her eyes as she shakes her head, Y/N let out a dry chuckle at the ridiculous situation but she was ready to do it anyway. She didn’t care about Ethan being there, he couldn’t see her ass from where she was standing, but he could see her face. So, she took great care not to make a face when the needle pierced her skin nor when the penicillin started burning, her entire leg feeling like it would give out. Slowly, she injected the medicine, breathing a little shallow but she was proud of herself for remaining calm and collected, even with Ethan there.

“Wow. Actually did it. Impressive, rookie.” Ethan teased, his arms crossed and his face smug. Y/N didn’t like that. “I was sure you’d tap out in the last second. I’m actually surprised you weren’t late giving yourself the medicine like you were on your first day!”

But she wasn’t in the mood for jokes and he missed that.

“Un-fucking-believable! Now?! You want to keep taunting me now? I have no words!” She screamed at him, her hands up in the air in frustration as her nostrils flare and her eyes widen with a new thought. “Oh! Wait! I’m thinking of some! Jerk! Ass! Arrogant! Man-child!” Her throat felt raw and her face hot, but she was ready to fight even if her legs did shake in his presence…or was it her rage? Maybe the infection? She couldn’t tell anymore, especially when he raised his index finger and his face was overtaken with a wide smile and a chuckle followed soon.

“Hold up! Man-child?”

“YES! A fucking man-child!” She repeated herself and that’s when his smile faded and he remembered he’s supposed to be her mentor and this is supposed to be his hospital. Soulmate or not, he couldn’t tolerate this behavior.

“I’d caution you to watch what you say to your boss. You better shut your mouth if the next words coming from you don’t include an apology.” Ethan warned, his hands folded before him and he was no longer Grant as she saw him as most of the time. This was doctor Ethan Dolan, the man she was sure would make her life miserable and while she wanted to keep yelling at him, she couldn’t.

It wasn’t because she had a moment of clarity or because she thought kissing his ass would get her somewhere, figuratively not literally as she had already done that and she knew he had a pineapple on it. No, she felt something different, something she read about but never saw let alone felt. Her throat started closing up and her lungs burned for oxygen she couldn’t provide no matter how hard she tried.

Holding her throat, her eyes wide and bulging, Y/N fell to her knees, unable to hear Ethan who screamed for the nurses from the ringing in her ears that made her deaf to the world. Her face swelled up, her eyes closing and she could no longer see or hear, only feel and she felt herself slipping, falling to the ground, desperately heaving for some air.

Ethan couldn’t wait, couldn’t follow protocol and get himself in a hazmat suit before panic opening the room with his key-card, grabbing the emergency kit as he entered, collapsing on his knees beside her, an adrenaline shot in hand. Administering the adrenaline, bronchodilators, corticosteroids, antihistamines and an oxygen mask, Ethan finally felt like there might be hope as the swelling started to go down and he could hear her breathe again. He had her back on the bed, second line of medication set to drip in her IV.

Shaking uncontrollably, he had stared at every movement her chest made and listened intently to every intake of breath she had made, terrified his worst fear might still come true and he might lose her, rendering him alone for the rest of his life. Sure, Grayson would be insulted with these thoughts of his, but having a soulmate as you age is what life is supposed to be about, not a twin who’d make remarks about every line he gets on his face or how saggy his balls must be getting. She was what his whole life has come down to and hundred more years couldn’t counter the happiness he got to experience in a single night with her. That would never change.

Hours passed and he finally relaxed, not enough to sleep but enough to sit down and breathe.

Exhaling loudly, Ethan looked around for a chair or something to brave the night in, aware he’s now stuck in the room with her for as long as it takes for the tests of her swabs return which would likely take a few more hours at this point. He didn’t regret his actions and he understood why she defended her own so fiercely earlier. It was funny how he understood her soon after every fight they have and they had quite a few squabbles in this double shift – the first of many. She has a breathtaking, wildfire heart and he absolutely loved her for it. He had infinite tenderness for her. He always will. As long as he lives.

“If you get the plague and die, I will kill you.” Grayson threatened from the other side of the glass, his own fear of losing Ethan showing in his deep brown orbs, even more so in the frown he couldn’t hide. And Grayson Dolan was many things, but not a man who frowns easily.

“You can’t make me feel guilty over something I don’t regret.” Ethan shrugged, pressing his lips together before closing the distance between them. The glass stood as a barrier, one that would keep Grayson safe in case Ethan does catch a deadly illness but he had faith it would turn out to be nothing.

“I know. I’d have done the same.” Grayson shrugs sadly, a small smile gracing his lips as he looks over Ethan’s shoulder to see Y/N. “How is she?” He too cared for the girl, too quickly but he did. He saw her as a sister, someone to protect. He saw her as an extension of his brother’s soul.

“Good for now. The allergic reaction stopped but we have her on some meds to make sure it doesn’t enter into the late stage. As for her strep infection, I’ve got her on other meds that won’t kill her so that should be fine too. I expect her to be fully capable of chewing me out in the morning.” Ethan chuckled lowly, turning around to make sure she’s still asleep and while he had no intention on telling her about them just yet, he couldn’t stay away from her. Not ever.

“Why? Did you tell her you’re her soulmate?” Grayson clasped his hands in excitement and he reminded Ethan more of a high school cheerleader than doctor with more than a hundred years of experience under his belt. He loved how positive Grayson is, but he needed to keep his voice down when he’s spilling state secrets, especially when the subject at hand is only a few meters away.

“SHHH!” Ethan whisper-shouted, wishing he was on the other side of the glass to smack his brother over the head and teach him a lesson.

“She doesn’t know and I don’t plan on telling her. She’ll figure it out herself and until then, I want her to know me without the pressure of having a soulmate bond. Bro, I just want her to see we’re made for one another and not run from me every chance she gets.” Ethan rubbed his forehead in frustration, glancing over his shoulder at her stirring figure, unaware she managed to catch a few words the two have spoken about her and while she may be under the influence of more than one drug at the moment, she knew it was important to remember that Ethan and Grayson have both muttered the words she feared most of all – soulmate.

However, moments later for her, minutes for Ethan, she felt a knuckle against her cheek, gently dragging along her skin before the warmth of touch disappeared and she decided she wanted it to last longer, her hand moving on instinct, grasping Ethan’s.

Smiling in the darkness, Ethan settled beside her in a chair, his hand holding hers for dear life.

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scythian-andromache · 4 years

Text

chains around my demons

a The Old Guard (2020) fic Relationships: Andy & Nile & Joe & Nicky, Nile & Quynh, Booker & Quynh, background Joe/Nicky being immortal husbands Rating: T (swearing, canon-typical violence) Summary: Every night, Nile dreams of Quynh. Every night, it's the same vision, the same terrifying dream. And then one day, suddenly, it isn't. Ft. low-key found family and escaped!quynh

also on [AO3]

***

Desperation. Rage. Insanity.

None of it is new. She dreams of it nightly, Quynh’s last moments perpetually invading her sleep. Each time she screams, slams against her iron coffin desperately, drowns. Over and over again. Nothing new under the sun.

None of it is new. She wakes with a gasp, the visceral fear, anger, fraying senses lingering like an acrid taste in her mouth, gripping her as her own adrenaline pumps furiously through her veins, before her body finally adjusts to her physical reality.

None of it is new. She blinks, and she’s underwater. Blinks, and she sees Quynh’s scream, a cloud of bubbles escaping, the last air in her lungs. Blinks, and feels the bite of the metal as Quynh’s fists pound the door to the coffin. Blinks, and Quynh is still, feels the life leave her, feels her eyes roll back in her head. Blinks, and Quynh is screaming, pounding the coffin door, feeling it budge—

That’s new.

She wakes up, already in a sitting position as she heaves a breath. In front of her is Andy, shaking her roughly.

“Andy—” she gasps, trying to realign with reality, trying to tell her that her dream about Quynh was different tonight.

“C’mon, kid. We’ve gotta go,” says Andy.

“But—”

“No buts, it’s time to move,” the other woman says, handing her a loaded Glock.

From the other room, there’s a crash, and the thud of feet, seven—no, eight—separate sets of footsteps advancing through the house.

“Fuck,” hisses Nile, because there’s no time to put on combat boots, and this is absolutely going to hurt. She’s up in a flash, gun aimed at the doorway, and takes out one, two, as the tac-team comes storming in.

There’s a flashbang, and in her disorientation, just manages to throw herself in front of Andy as the pop – pop – pop of their guns go off. (In the background, there’s the sound of measured shots from Andy’s gun, calm and deadly, and the more explosive ring of Nicky’s sniper shots.) She dies, still painful but not nearly as terrifying as the first dozen times, and eleven seconds later, feels one of the bullets push out of her skin. Coughs, and spits out another. Feels her skin knit back together for the three through-and-throughs.

“Right, time to go,” says Nicky’s voice through the haze, and Andy grips her arm and pulls her up. On the floor are eight dropped bodies, the remains of a once-elite squad.

“Copley’s going to have a field day with this one, but he deserves it,” Joe snarks.

They always have go-bags on hand, and it’s only a matter of grabbing a few things to clean out the space. Nile gets to put on shoes, this time, and then they’re out, screeching away from the carnage in Andy’s beat up Citroën. Four immortals, back in the wind.

It’s nearly forty-eight hours, five countries (six if you count Luxembourg, which none of the rest of them seem to), and three continents before Nile gets the chance to sleep again. Sure, she catches a few winks of sleep in transport, but never deep, never enough to recoup her energy. Nile, after all, is not yet used to getting the rejuvenating sleep on nose-diving cargo planes that Andy, Joe, and Nicky seem to achieve, even after six months of this life.

Only when everything’s over, when Copley’s wiping yet more footage and the four of them are at one of Andy’s safe houses—this time in Bangkok—does Nile gets the chance to sleep again. In the interim, she died seven separate times, and frankly, dying is exhausting. She’s surprised she’s still standing. She’s out like a light, and sleeps soundly for the first time in weeks. No dreams, no visions, no dying Quynh invading her thoughts at every turn.

She awakes naturally, to the sound of clinking dishes somewhere nearby, and the alluring smell of coffee.

God, how long has it been since she’s had coffee? Four days? Five? Too long, in her estimation.

“The sleepyhead awakens,” teases Joe.

“Good morning, bambina,” greets Nicky, a cup of coffee already in a mug for her. “Yusuf, hayati, she is only a baby,” he scolds gently. “They need sleep.”

Joe hums. “There are tamr to break your fast and a plate of pancakes in the fridge.”

Nile blinks, and goes to retrieve the pancakes. It takes a moment for her brain to catch up and supply the fact that the dates on the table are also meant for her, if she wishes. “Shukran kteeran,” she says, conscious of her accent as she thanks Joe; she’s been making an effort to learn more than English, high school level Spanish, and the few words of Pashto that she speaks ever since joining up with them.

“My pleasure,” says Joe fondly.

“Where’s Andy?”

“Where is she ever?” By now, Nile knows that’s code for ‘out and we don’t know where.’

“We are going to Wat Arun, later,” says Nicky. “If you’d like to join.”

Nile only vaguely knows what that is, but it would be nice to do something that doesn’t involve shooting or dying.

“Sure.”

They have a very enjoyable afternoon touring the temple—not a single bullet in sight, much to Nile’s pleasure—and Joe and Nicky tell her the story of the first time they came here, when it was being built more than four hundred years ago. Joe and Nicky narrate back and forth with the practiced ease and fluidity of people who know intrinsically how the other thinks, and their comedic timing is unparalleled. Nile finds herself laughing more than she has in weeks, and it feels good. For a few breathless moments, she feels weightless, like everything might just work out, despite the fact that she’s immortal and the world has become infinitely more complicated for her to navigate.

As good a time as she’s having, she ducks out in the mid-afternoon, making excuses about still being tired, so that Joe and Nicky can gallivant around the city alone, instead of with a third wheel. When she gets back to the safe house, Andy is still gone, and she finds that she actually is tired. It takes very little to fall asleep again.

Desperation. Rage. Insanity.

Shit, this dream again.

Wait—no, it’s the wrong flavor of each.

Desperation, but the fiery, yearning sort of a goal not yet accomplished, not the despairing, scrabbling misery of before.

Rage, but calm and white-hot, not the frenetic rage of a cornered animal.

Insanity, but an ordered sort of chaos, not the entropic fraying of a mind from endless, repeated trauma.

All of this is new. There are no bubbles, no pounding hands on unyielding iron, no screams, no death.

Instead, there is rocky coast. The flash of a café, an umbrella filled terrace. The feel of a deep lungful of air, bright and fresh. A cool, salty breeze. An undercurrent of rippling, deep anger.

“Oh, a baby,” says a voice, and a face comes into focus. Quynh, she realizes, slightly gaunt, but with eyes that are a thousand meters deep. She tilts her head. “Two babies.” She grins, razor sharp, like a predator and—

Nile wakes with a gasp.

The light is low, the sun set over the horizon, only the last lines of pink and orange still lingering in the sky.

Every nerve ending in her body is on fire, adrenaline pumping, because those eyes, those fathomless, bottomless eyes are still imprinted in her vision.

“Andy,” she croaks.

“Calm down, kiddo, you’re all right.” Joe and Nicky must be back from their sightseeing and/or shenanigans.

She feels cold. She’s not all right.

“Booker,” she gasps, trying to convey her fear. Two babies, Quynh had said. Her and Booker. Two people—new immortals—for Quynh to dream about, now that she isn’t dying every three to five minutes.

“Traitorous—” a word falls out of Joe’s mouth that no longer exists in any living language. Nile’s not sure she could replicate its rasping consonants even if she tried, but she gets the message loud and clear.

“Quynh is alive and I think Booker’s in danger,” she says, in a rush, heart racing and eyes panicky.

Nicky takes her hand in his. “I need you to breathe with me, Nile. Deep breaths. In, and out.” He coaches her through several cycles, until it no longer feels like her heart is going to gallop out of her chest. He says something to Joe in a language Nile doesn’t understand, and he leaves the room, presumably to do whatever it is Nicky asked of him.

“What you have gone through, seeing Quynh every night, it is something I do not wish to imagine,” says Nicky softly. “I am blessed to have met her, to not see her every time I close my eyes. I know this is difficult, but I need you to tell me everything you have seen.”

“It’s different now,” Nile says, taking another shaky breath. “Before it was just—endless drowning. Every time. But I—before everything happened, I felt the coffin door move. I was going to tell Andy but—” We all died a couple of times and ended up here. She falters, but Nicky seems to understand. He squeezes her hand, so casual and reassuring in his touch.

“Just now, I saw her in a town. I—I don’t know where. But it was like she was aware I was seeing her. She said two babies, and the look on her face…” Nile trails off, unable to describe it. She’s not sure she’s ever felt her own fear so viscerally, not in Afghanistan, not in the cargo plane with the dead/not-dead pilot, not even at Merrister. Quynh is out for blood, and there’s something in her bones that tells her this is a primordial force to be feared.

“Quynh has been trapped for a long time,” says Joe, who has returned. “You don’t spend that long alone and in pain without it changing you.”

“We need to protect Andy,” says Nile, rationality starting to creep back in. Quynh may be a threat to them—to her or Booker—but she’s a threat to now-mortal Andy most of all.

“Protect Andy from what?” says Andy, who has reappeared as if by magic, as if the invocation of her name summoned her.

“Quynh has escaped,” says Nicky, flatly, and all of the color drains from Andy’s face.

Booker is extremely drunk. His body, dreadful regenerative thing that it is, metabolizes alcohol out of his system much faster than the average person, so he’s gone through three fifths of rum in an attempt to dull his senses.

He’s never stopped dreaming about Quynh, exactly, but the dreams which had been so dull and infrequent for so long showed up again full force after just a few weeks of exile from the rest of the group. He’s tired of it. He just wants to sleep peacefully, for a little bit.

Booker stumbles into his apartment, bleary eyed and praying that this dull feeling will last long enough for him to fall asleep. He thinks maybe he could just pass out in the kitchen when he lays his eyes on a ghost.

Merde.

The dream has come to him apparently, and he’s unprepared. He doesn’t want to watch her drown again.

“Booker. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

It’s Quynh, very much alive and very much free.

“You can’t be serious,” snaps Nile, upon hearing Andy’s intention to find Quynh.

“I must face what I did to her,” insists Andy.

“She is out for blood, Andy. Yours. You gotta play this one smart.”

Andy grips her arm, looks her dead in the eye. “You know how I left her. There is a penance to be paid.”

“Joe? Nicky?” Nile says, looking for back up, but they seem to defer to Andy’s stupid choice.

The eye roll Nile gives them contains multitudes: I can’t believe I’m doing this and you’re all idiots and so help me, the sheer dumbassery here is unparalleled.

“Goddamn it,” she huffs. “Okay, fine. Here’s what I know.”

They spend the rest of the evening plotting their course back to Europe, where they’re sure to find both Booker and Quynh, maybe together or maybe not. Nile swears she’s going to protect Andy, even if she has to die a hundred more times. The other woman has grown on her, and besides, she’s one of only four��now, maybe, five—resources that Nile’s got. She can’t die permanently now.

Quynh has already blown up an old safe house of Andy’s on a bluff in the nearby Scottish highlands that she remembers from before her drowning before Booker sobers up enough to try to do something about it. (In retrospect, he should’ve just shot himself; it probably would have been a faster reset.)

He catches her sitting on a rock, watching the blaze, back resolutely to the sea. She probably never wants to see it again, and he can’t say that he blames her.

“I’m going to kill her,” Quynh promises venomously. “I’m going to kill her at least a dozen times in a row.”

“She’s not immortal anymore,” says Booker, as casually as he can.

“Even better,” Quynh spits, but he sees something flash in her eyes.

He knows that look. He’s too well acquainted with that look. It’s the fear of being left alone, like she already has been for five hundred years. (Well, he hasn’t been alone for quite that long, but sometimes it feels like it.)

“Will that sort of revenge really make you feel better, do you think?” he asks conversationally, and is rewarded with a throwing star to the chest. He drops, dies, blinks, coughs, and stands back up, the freshly expelled throwing star falling into his hands. (Ah, so it did reboot all the alcohol out of his system. At least he won’t have a hangover, for however brief a time.)

“I think it’ll feel excellent,” says Quynh, but he doesn’t believe her. Even in his misguided efforts to find the cure to their immortality, he never wanted to be the one to snuff out the life of one of his friends permanently. He’s never felt more regret than when he shot her, when he realized she wasn’t healing.

He sighs heavily. “It doesn’t feel as good as you think it will.”

“You are a child,” Quynh says dismissively, “still gumming at the teat of time. You have seen nothing.”

Booker closes his eyes, tries not to be get angry. He’s been alive half as long as she spent drowning. He hasn’t seen nothing, but Quynh is old. Even his two hundred years must feel like a few grains of sand in comparison to her—what, two thousand years? Three?

“If you want to be angry,” says Booker, thinking that this is the least he can do after what he did to his friends, “be angry at me. I dreamed of you drowning, and I didn’t try very hard to find you.”

Quynh narrows her eyes. “She betrayed me. Have you any idea what that feels like?”

No, he’s just been on the other side of it.

“Besides,” she says. “I was already planning on killing you a few more times today. This changes nothing.”

She pulls a gun seemingly from nowhere, and puts three rounds in his chest. It takes him a little longer to regenerate, this time, and she finally gets a few moments of peace and quiet.

“That was Copley,” says Andy, ending the call. They’re at Joe and Nicky’s apartment in Paris—a proper apartment, not just a safe house like Andy’s church, the one that got practically blown to bits in the Merrick debacle. “He says there was a bombing in Scotland yesterday.”

Nile’s eyes widen, but Joe is just wearing a get to the point face. Andy scowls. “It was one of mine. She’ll come for the cave next, I bet.”

“We could keep the Rodin here, in the meantime,” suggests Joe glibly, earning himself another pointed scowl from Andy, but it doesn’t faze him in the slightest. “I’m just saying that it’s a masterpiece, and we all know what Quynh is capable of. It would be a shame to lose such a work of art.”

They end up moving three crates of “knickknacks” from the cave to the Paris apartment. (“What the fuck,” murmurs Nile. “Is that a Van Gogh, too?” Joe happily informs her that it is, and that it’s also probably the least valuable thing in the crates. Nile is suitably horrified.)

There’s a fourth crate that doesn’t fit in the Citroën, and when they go back to the cave, they find it already occupied.

Quynh has a battle axe and a stick of dynamite; Booker is perched on the crate. He gives the smallest little wave to Nile as they walk in.

What ensues is not entirely clear to Nile, because apparently the primary language that Quynh and Andy communicate in is not English. It’s entirely unsettling to not be in the loop as she listens to the two of them ping-pong back and forth, until Quynh starts yelling, at which point Joe and Nicky start yelling too, and for a couple of minutes it’s utter chaos.

Maybe not understanding gives Nile an edge, though, because she’s concentrating so hard that she sees Quynh’s hand twitch before anyone else, and before she even knows what she’s doing, she’s taking a flying leap to body-block Andy as three daggers come out of nowhere and meet her torso. She lands with a hard thud, and—as seems to be the norm, lately—dies.

By the time she comes back to consciousness, there are five faces staring down at her. Quynh and Andy are no longer fighting, at least for the moment.

“There was a different poison on each dagger, so I think technically you died four times in a row,” says Booker cheerfully.

“Super,” says Nile, groaning. It certainly feels like she died four times over.

“Quynh has decided that for today, she’s not going to kill Andy,” adds Nicky helpfully. “And says that she’s sorry for killing you.”

Nile narrows her eyes at Nicky.

“Maybe I’m editorializing a little,” he admits. “But the first part is true.”

Nile hauls herself into a sitting position and assesses the situation for herself. Andy’s face is ghostly pale, and she’s staring at Quynh like she’s both her nightmare and her salvation, but at least she’s alive. Booker looks vaguely amused; Nicky looks tired; Joe looks relieved. Quynh’s face is inscrutable.

“I’m Nile,” says Nile cautiously.

“Hello, second baby,” says Quynh, smiling sharply. She says something else, but she’s speaking Middle English, which is almost unintelligible to Nile. Five hundred years drowning really puts a damper on language learning, it seems.

“Excellent, introductions are out of the way,” says Nicky, crisply, cutting off any scathing reply Nile might have. “Can we go eat something now? If another argument is going to break out, it’s probably best we all have full stomachs.”

“And we’re going to trust her. Just like that.” Nile’s voice is flat. “Five minutes ago you were all arguing and then she killed me and now she’s okay.”

Joe shrugs, soft and elegant. “Someday you’ll understand,” he says, and it irks her, the insinuation that she’s a child and not the fully grown adult she’s had to be since the age of sixteen.

Maybe in a thousand years she will understand, but it still seems unfathomable to her now.

Nile heaves a long-suffering sigh. They theoretically know what they’re doing. What’s one more ridiculous decision in the grand scheme of things, right?

Maybe the six of them will beat the odds, and figure things out together. Crazier things have happened.

***

#the old guard #the old guard fanfiction #andromache the scythian #nile freeman #yusuf al kaysani #nicolo di genova #quynh #booker #lenci writes #yusuf al-kaysani #nicolò di genova #quỳnh #r: the gang's all here

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eraofstories · 4 years

Note

OF COURSE I WANT ALL THE ANDY/QUYNH HEADCANONS ARE YOU KIDDING ME? YES PLEASE!!!

Ok, it’s possible I knew you were going to say that. :) Look I just have so many FEELINGS and I want to talk about them. I suspect you understand :D

So, first things first: the movie sort of implies that Andy stopped looking for Quynh, that she abandoned her. And yes, I’m sure Andy feels that way - after all, no matter what Andy has done to look for her we do know that when the movie takes place Quynh is still under the water, still trapped in the iron coffin, still drowning and dying and dying and drowning, as she has been for the past 500 years or so. (Did i just spend ten minutes trying to find an actual date for this specific witch trial? YES. Am I grumpy that I couldn’t? Also yes)

But the thing is, I don’t buy that Andy just straight up stopped looking, that in the past ~70 years since scuba diving was invented, heck, since sonar was invented she just went “well, I failed at this a long time ago, no point trying again! Better just stew in misery!” That’s not the person who we see, not really. She’s more resigned and heartbroken about Quynh than about anything else we see, yes, but everything we see of Andy says that she is a doer. Andy has a problem? Andy does a thing! It’s not even always about doing an effective thing, she’s not always planning ahead, but she doesn’t sit back and hope for the best. And, more than that, before the start of the movie we know that Andy and the others have just been apart for a year. So sometimes the lot of them go off and do things on their own.

So here is what I imagine: Quynh goes into the water, on a ship that Andy is not on, that Nicky and Joe are not on. The people on this boat are all mortals, and they’re either sailors hired at the port that the ship leaves from or people from that town guarding Quynh. They’re all people who are ready to do whatever they can to make this person Stay Fucking Dead Already. While this is going on Andy escapes somehow, obviously. Presumably Nicky and Joe are involved in this in some fashion, one generally also imagines that any time she is awake after Quynh is taken from her Andy is just straight up SCREAMING, with the exception of moments when she’s damaged her vocal cords so much that it takes a few seconds for them to repair before she can scream again. One imagines that her captors kill her more than once as this is happening too, that she starves a few times maybe, is stabbed, strangled, etc. Once she’s free her only thought is that she has to find Quynh, and by the time she and the others leave the town to ride to the port where Quynh was taken there are a lot of dead people in that town, and they know what the plans were, even if they don’t yet know the details of where Quynh will have been dropped into the sea.

Now things start to get interesting. Does the ship make it safely back to port? Is there a manifest of some kind that they can use to try to figure out where she was dropped? The ocean is big, the kind of big that humans can’t really comprehend on some level, because it’s just too vast. This is true now, and it was truer when Quynh went into the water, when the size of the oceans was something that people didn’t even really have much of a theoretical grasp of, let alone an actual internalized understanding. All the islands of land across the world had not yet been reconnected by people, there are still people all over the world who don’t know that there are landmasses beyond their own, people in Europe to whom the idea of the Americas is still a little unbelievable if they’ve heard of their existence, definitely people in Australia who have no awareness of Europe, since Europeans don’t land on the continent until 1770, although there were already some maps of the coast at the time from dutch exploration.

So let’s say the ship makes it back, and Andy, Nicky, and Joe are able to find someone who was onboard, and get them to talk. Someone who hadn’t been from the town, who was willing to tell them where they’d pushed Quynh overboard. Here’s the thing - it’s not like that person will have had a gps on them, to record the exact location, so it’s all very approximate. And that’s if they’re lucky. Maybe they don’t ever find a sailor who will talk to them, or worse, maybe they find several. And they all give different locations. They don’t have the kind of studies that tell you that people being tortured don’t provide accurate info, but we do. And so these sailors lie, maybe they don’t know the answers, maybe they just don’t want to tell the truth, whatever, they lie, but andy is desperate, so they go and search those places. Except what does that even look like? They’re limited to free diving, or using diving bells, which I learned about in a fic about Andy searching desperately, they’re giant bells that force air down with you, but obviously not as much as you can get with scuba, and there’s no light, and so searching is already virtually impossible. They can drag the depths with chains, but the ocean is DEEP.

Maybe the eventually find a ship manifest, but like. There’s no way that had accurate info about what? Where they threw a human overboard? That just doesn’t seem like something with a paper trail to me. And all of that stuff up above about figuring out where to search, even with the fact that searching is almost impossible to do in a way that could be effective, still assumes that they’re able to get an idea of at least the general area where they should search beyond “somewhere off the shore of England, maybe not too far off but who knows?” And that relies on the ship having made it back! Which like! Maybe it did, but who knows.

Anyway, the main point is that it’s not working. Andy has been searching for a long time now, she’s desperate. I’d guess that she’s been consumed by it for fifty, a hundred years. And it isn’t working, and she doesn’t know if she just hasn’t looked in the right places, if the spot they dropped Quynh is too deep for any chain to reach, for any diving bell to get her down there. Hell, with some of the dangerously deep free diving she’s done and dives with the bells when she got down so deep that the water went dark even when she went down at midday with the sun high and bright and so strong that she and Nicky had turned red for up to an hour at a time before their skin healed and reburned again she doesn’t know if she’s been within a few yards of Quynh, within eyesight if only she could have seen. When she gets that deep all she can do is reach around herself, wave her arms almost frantically as she starts to run out of air and feels the depth and oxygen deprivation getting to her, and still she’s never bumped up against what she’s reaching for so desperately, never ended up touching cold iron, though she thinks by now it must be corroded.

And that oxygen thing - she’s drowned a lot of times at this point. Like. A lot. A. Lot. But not as many as Quynh must have, she knows that much at least. And Andy begins to get frantic with it, insisting to Nicky and Joe that she has to keep trying, and she dives deeper than a normal person would dare, because she’s not like them, she will come back, so she doesn’t need to save breath for the way back up - she can die as many times as it takes getting back to the surface. Once after she’s down for a long time, and Nicky has to dive in after her, Joe insists that she tie a rope to herself, so that at least they can pull her up, and not have to hope that she’ll float up to the top as she dies and drowns and dies and drowns, not have to just hope that she won’t get caught under something, or swept away by a deep current.

Andy doesn’t know how to tell them that sometimes it’s the only thing that feels real anymore, drowning, the water filling her lungs, because at least when she’s drowning she’s keeping her promise. Together.

But they’ve known her quite a while, and after almost a century of this Joe and Nicky sit her down and tell her that she can’t keep doing this, that she’s destroying herself, that she’s scaring them. They tell her that they love her, that they love Quynh, and that this has to stop. She’s furious. She screams, tells them they are faithless, walks out and doesn’t speak to them for a year, walks out the door of the cottage they were staying in and just keeps walking, then keeps looking for Quynh, drowns a lot more times, and a year later she ends up back there, at that same fucking cottage, not even really on purpose, but it’s close to the coast where Quynh would have left from, but they’re still fucking there, as if they’ve been waiting for her, and the second she sets foot into the house she breaks down sobbing, screaming, but not at them this time, not even words, just incoherent grief. They can tell that in the time she was apart from them she’s barely taken care of herself, has worked herself to exhaustion, and they just hold her, because this is what it is have family, family that is inescapable and endless and beloved.

And so after about a hundred years of searching nonstop Andy admits to herself, and to them that she doesn’t know what to do anymore, that she doesn’t know how to care about humanity, but she also doesn’t know how to find Quynh, but doesn’t feel like she can stop looking while she’s still out there.

And they suggest that she doesn’t have to entirely stop, but that she could, perhaps, do other things also, that she’d do at least one search every decade say, and she frowns and says that doesn’t seem like enough, and Joe, so relieved that she’s listening, that she’s acting more like the woman he’s been so proud to call sister he almost wants to cry, laughs instead and says, then do it every five years, or every two, but let’s also travel, and exist in the world.

And that’s what they do. And it keeps not working, but she hasn’t given up. She has started to worry that maybe Quynh is dead though. She remembers Lykon dying in her arms, and she wonders sometimes if Quynh’s time has come. If she’ll eventually find an iron coffin, and open it, only to find a rotting skeleton. That question is answered decisively in 1812, when Booker dies and comes back, and they find him, and the first night they spend with him he wakes up screaming, a lot like Nile will more than two hundred years later, and asks about the woman who is drowning. And Andy cries again, and while Nicky explains and Joe tells him that she really isn’t usually this weepy, for which she slaps Joe, and then smiles through her tears and gives him a friendly (but still fucking hard, Andy that hurt, just because the bruises heals fast doesn’t mean it’s ok to beat up your friends!) and nods firmly, and tells Booker (Sebastien de Livre at this point, it’s a while before someone decides that it’s really funny to translate his name to English) that she’d begun to fear that she’d never see her again, that she was already dead, before sobering, and asking if he sees any clues to where she might be. He looks at her incredulously and says, rather hopelessly “the ocean.” Which isn’t helpful, but she didn’t really expect much more than that.

Still, every time Booker wakes from a nightmare of Quynh’s endless drowning he tells her, and it is a reminder that there is still hope, that she can still find her.

It isn’t until the twentieth century that she starts to think she really might be able to pull it off though. She’s so sure sonar is going to be a game changer, especially in 1915 when the tech was first able to detect submarines (another thing she’d tried as soon as she could). And then in 1943 scuba diving is invented, and again she’s so so sure that this is it, this is what she’s been waiting for (well. as noted above she hasn’t been waiting for shit, but she thinks it might be what actually lets her find Quynh). And she still can’t find her, and she rages about it sometimes, exhausts herself with misery about once a decade, and every few years she makes another attempt, and now that there are better ways of mapping she’s able to more accurately catalog where she’s looked, and there’s a house now where the cottage once stood, and she put Booker in charge of keeping it in their possession via a variety of aliases once he joined them, but it’s got shelves and shelves full of maps and records of her attempts down the centuries.

And so, when Nile’s dreams change, just six months into Booker’s exile, and she sees first Quynh alive, and then Quynh with Booker, Andy’s already at the house, because suddenly it didn’t matter that Quynh hadn’t died yet, because Andy was dying, running out of time. She didn’t have forever anymore, she couldn’t keep to her slow method. She was still willing to do jobs, but she'd dedicated herself to spending more time searching.

And so when Quynh comes for them it’s there, and when she opens the door Andy is there in the main room of the house, the one with the maps on the walls and the records on the shelves, neatly ordered by location and then year.

And Quynh walks in with Booker behind her, anxious, and terrified, and still sorry, obviously terrified that they’re going to be furious with him for being there after such a sort period, but also clearly very frightened of Quynh (it will later turn out that she has uh. definitely killed him a few times already, some fun torture etc. we will excuse this between friends, between family, but it will be a long century or so before he really lets down his guard around her). But beyond Nicky shaking his head in response to the apology already falling out of his mouth as if to say “not the time” no one is looking at Booker, not when Quynh is standing there.

She’s already found herself weapons, though Andy, Joe, and Nicky are fully aware of just how dangerous she can be even without them, and no one has even really had time to process anything before she’s walking right up to Andy and stabbing her in the gut, wrenching the knife out, crying, saying “Just you and me until the end, that’s what you said, that’s what you promised me Andromache! And you left me to drown!” and the others are already moving in, already catching Andy’s body as Quynh drops her, clearly expecting her to start regenerating, and Nile helps her to a chair, as Quynh looks on confused, and when Nile says “Didn’t Booker tell you? She’s mortal now, you’ve killed her.” with a quiet fury and anguish and shock, Quynh goes silent, and turns to him, says “You weren’t lying?” in shock.

“Why would I lie about that?” Booker looks stricken, like someone who thinks he’s just killed the best friend he’s ever had for a second time, which in fairness, he has, hasn’t he.

And Quynh gets a mad look in her eyes, rushes towards Andy, begging her to say it isn’t true, babbling about how it can’t end like this Andromache, I was going to kill you again and again, I haven’t even drowned you yet, and she’s crying, and in her rush to get to Andy she knocks a book off of the table onto the floor and a bunch of maps spill out, and as Andy bleeds onto them Nicky thrusts them into Quynh’s face and she realizes that they’re maps from attempts to find her, and he’s telling her that Andy searched nonstop for a century, but that even since then she’s never stopped looking, that it’s fucking hard to find someone at the bottom of the sea, that Andy has wrecked herself, drowned a hundred times over looking for her, and Andy, who is uh, actively (but slowly look it’s my headcanon i do what what I want) bleeding out here guys, please focus, it’s like you’ve forgotten that some people die? shakes her head at him (well, wobbles her head a little, shaking is beyond her at this point), and rasps that no, she gets it. Quynh has drowned so many more times, she didn’t look hard enough, she gets it, and then she smiles and says “but I got to see you before I go.” And her eyes close.

And at this point Quynh is screaming in fury that Andy does not get to do this, that Andy cannot leave her alone again, and Nile is on her feet ready to rush Quynh and give her at least one more death herself, possibly with a butter knife off the table from when they had lunch earlier that day at this point, telling her that she did this, and Nicky and Joe are just standing there in shock, because they didn’t really expect Andy to make it long enough to die a natural death, not with the way she lived even after becoming mortal, but they also didn’t really expect to lose her so soon, but also Quynh is here, she’s back, and they’ve missed her too, and also separately Booker is there, and Nile looks like she’s about to crack in two, Nile who just a few months ago they watched give Copley the ok to have her family notified, Nile who made the choice not to contact her mother, her brother even though it had been so clearly agonizing to make that call, who had adopted their family with such intense loyalty, and Nicky is already moving towards her when Andy takes a breath and her eyes pop open, and the wound in her side... starts to knit itself closed.

And then everyone cries! And there are lots more feelings! And a lot of talking, and a variety of people in various pairs and groups go off for a week or more at a time to hash out a wide range of things, but all six of them come back to the cottage after every time, and there’s always at least one of them there, and then they live happily ever after and everyone is very gay, and probably Nile also gets to kiss ladies, I think.

#dedicatedfollower467 #the old guard #i just have so many feelings #but this uh #wasn't meant to be this long oops

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fifthbornforrester · 4 years

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𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒.

A big theme within Talia and is prominent in her verses is loneliness. Talia is an extremely lonely individual. It does not matter if she is surrounded by hundreds of people. Her loneliness lies in the lack of relationships that mean the most to her. Whether it be the loss of family, friends, or both, the theme of loneliness resides.

𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍

Talia’s childhood was filled with joy, even in a world continuously torn by the threat of war. Her first taste of loneliness is when her father, Gregor, and Rodrik go to fight in the War of the Five Kings. Other family members like her brother, Asher and sister, Mira had departed before then -- with Asher being exiled to Essos and Mira going to serve Margaery. However, her connections Gregor and Rodrik had been stronger than most, definitely being a Daddy’s girl. Yes, her family had been around still. She spent most of her time with her siblings, especially her twin. Other times, she spent times with Gared. That definitely eased the ache. But Rodrik had always been her favorite sibling. He was always someone to lean on, even when he became more serious. She loved her father endlessly, noticing more each day that her mother was more traditional and favored her sons over her. It was her father who helped her to strive, her father that gave her that fighting Forrester spirit. The fear of war weighed heavily on her, not only wishing their return, but knowing there was a chance that they would not return. Rodrik was not supposed to go to war, both Gregor and Talia begged him to stay in Ironrath, but he had insisted to fight alongside the North for their King. She would attempt to distract herself by spending as much time with Ethan and Ryon as possible, truly enjoying their company. But she still wished for her father and brother to come home. Reality hits hard when word had comes back that both her father and Rodrik have died at the Red Wedding, with Talia’s worst fears coming true. She has lost two of the people she loved the most. At least Gared makes it back safe. But that can only last so long. Within hours of seeing him after two years, heads for the Wall, another person leaving her. Gared is one of her only friends. Once again, someone dear to her is gone. More and more people keep leaving.

Then Ethan is killed and Ryon is whisked away. This devastates her. She had not been given time to mourn those she had lost when her brother is killed right in front of her. She holds onto Ethan as he dies, trying to provide him comfort as she screams for help. She feels utterly helpless when it came to Ryon, watching him being taken away instead of running to grab him. It is a relief to see that Rodrik had actually survived, practically losing him twice in her mind. She could not bare to lose him a third time. One has returned, but that does not stop the ache. Her father is still gone, Ethan is dead, Ryon is a prisoner, and the siblings she needs are out of arm’s reach. She finds some solace in Ethan’s bed in his chambers, wishing for it to remain untouched but not being able to sleep if she does not sleep in his bed. There is more emphasis on this here. Sharing the same loses, her mother, Elissa is extremely distant. She is not there when Talia needs her most. One has been spared, but having her favorite sibling back does not cover the other losses she experiences. It messes with her, changes her, forces her to learn the world around her and grow. She will not rest until the people who have taken these people from her are brought to justice.

It is a relief when Asher returns to help and Ryon was returned for the short time before the Whitehills attack. For once, the semblance of what her family once was is brought back, if only for a short amount of time. In that time, her mother dies. Their relationship had weakened as time went on, but Elissa is still her mother. The loneliness festers different whether she kills her mother with the poison or she is stabbed by the soldier. If she poisons her mother (and yes, there is a choice to do that, as much as she does not want to), the survivors guilt lingers stronger with the loneliness than if her mother is stabbed. She takes Asher’s death and Rodrik’s death differently, both trying to mourn and not being allowed to, as she is on the run due to the Bolton’s plans in her storyline. Asher’s death hurts, yes. She loves her brother to death and she had just got him back. The hope of forming a new relationship would be squandered. However, Rodrik’s death hits her harder. She would lose him three times and she would be unsure if she can handle it. She know she will triumph but for the time being, she would rather lay down and die. Uncertain of Ryon’s fate, not seeing him take off with Beshka after being returned home, the uncertainty if Mira is alive (that is also player determined. She is either beheaded or forced to marry) and the surviving brother on the verge of dying themselves, Talia never feels more alone than in that moment. However, it is up to her to save her House. She puts on a front as the strong leader she must be, but she lies awake at night, drowning in her loneliness and survivor’s guilt, knowing that reclaiming her home will not have her family or friends return to her, but she can do it in their memory.

I headcanon due to the proximity of Ironrath to Winterfell and House Forrester being loyal to House Stark since their foundation, that Talia grew up around the Stark kids. They were considered her friends as House Forrester would come to visit for banquets and celebrations. However, their stories drag them everywhere as well and with some being presumed dead, Talia’s loneliness continues to fester.

The hardest part is that the loss of her family and home happens within the span of 5-6 weeks.

𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐍

Talia could have everything with the snap of her fingers. Her family is extremely wealthy and none have died. Both of her older brothers served tours in the Iraq war and returned home. Technology had been able to keep communications constant, but it was different than having them home. That was her first jab at loneliness. Still, she was fortunate that her brothers were brought home and honorably discharged. But they went on with their lives, with Rodrik marrying Elaena and Asher moving in with Gwyn and continuing on with their family’s lumber company. It was weird not having her brothers home causing trouble like they used to. She would linger in their old rooms, finding inspiration to write her music.

She has friends throughout her life, but many turn out to not be the friends she needs. She’ll offer them kindness and will be met with feeling invisible, being left out of things she wishes to be a part of. Those who she believes to be friends are really acquaintances in the end.

She finds friends in university, especially dorming there and living on campus. But none of the relationships are as strong as she wishes for them to be. Sure, they would talk and drink and go to parties, but they were never the ones she felt comfortable sharing secrets with. It is her true friends that got her secrets and those were few and far between. However, many of those people who were believed to be true friends took her secrets and ran, leaving her in the dust.

Able to move into a place of her own due to her family’s wealth, the silence is almost uncomfortable. Even without the ruckus of her brothers, the family house was still loud. Ryon is 8 years younger than her, so he always had something going on, friends coming over to play video games, teenage love flings, etc. Ethan had always been quiet, spending a lot of his time reading, but knowing he moved out shifted the atmosphere in the house. Mira moved out before she did, but she called every day to speak to their parents, so her voice was always heard. Now there is silence. She wishes to make her own living, but it is also a distraction getting a part time job. She does not want to sit in complete silence for long. Late night gigs help, as she is too exhausted to notice the silence once slinking back home.

She tries dating. She gives her all and most of the time, nothing is given in return. Some relationships become serious but partners come and go, leaving her feeling empty and not good enough. She does impulsive things due to her loneliness, including one night stands. At least a bed would be warm on both sides for a little while.

She thinks it will change when she moves to America to commercialize her music. However, it does not change a thing. If anything, it makes it a bit worse. Now she is further away from her family, living on her own in a New York City apartment because she can. She adopts a cat, which is the only way to soothe the ache. He definitely helps with comforting purrs and sitting on her lap, but it does not match the company of another person. The impulsive decisions become more rash, falling into drunken stupors, more one night stands, and some depressive episodes. But it gives her more inspiration, to say the least.

Following into her becoming famous, she believes this would quell her loneliness. She’d be surrounded by people, invited to parties, having many adoring fans screaming for her. But she still longs for close friends. It would be the only thing to stop the constant ache she had. She pushes it aside for the time being when she had to perform. She laughs at acquaintances’ jokes as she enjoys their food and smiles taking photos with fans, but she longs for someone to spill her heart to.

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐒

She loses all of her family as once. How can she not be lonely after that? She had a relatively easy childhood, being able to play and lurk in the background of politics. But losing her family all at once definitely hits her harder than it would be losing her family one by one. There are too many to mourn. But what hurts her the most is the discovery of the twin bond she had with Ethan. Talia had been unaware of her force sensitivity until she felt Ethan die. If anything, it felt like it was a part of her and she assumed everyone felt the same way. She believed her bond with Ethan was shared with all twins. She had heard stories of twins all of her life, hearing that they had been able to know what each other were thinking and feeling just by being twins. She believed the conversations shared without moving their mouths was just a twin thing, having no books in her family’s library that spoke of the Force. She never brought it up, keeping that naive curiosity deep inside. But not seeing him die but feeling him die, feeling that force twin bond being ripped from her before she had the chance to embrace it leaves her empty. Part of her soul is gone, never to return. This eats her up inside. There is no way she can return home. She knows she will be killed. Once again, the survivors guilt paired with the loneliness consumes her. She longs for anything, any conversation with anyone who is willing to listen. However, she doesn’t know who she can trust. She longs to be shown what her purpose could be or if she will be alone for the rest of her life. Many can use this to their advantage. But when Talia senses this, her exterior hardens. The ache remains, though.

However, one thing remains true for all of her verses: When she finds those friends and lovers that are special, she gives them her whole heart. She had so much to give and no one to give it to, so when she finds those people, she gives it all.

#🌲 | ᴍᴇᴛᴀ |

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flutteringphalanges · 4 years

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Summary: Chloe and Lucifer are survivors in a post apocalyptic world trying to make it through life step by step. (The cause is not biblical, but still falls in the canonical universe of the show.)

Read on FFN and AO3

A/N: I hope you enjoy this chapter and the little goodies within it! Comments are greatly loved and appreciated! (Sorry it’s been a year lol)

Chapter Five

Fighting one's instinct versus knowledge on the situation at hand was becoming very clear to Chloe as she ventured deeper into the brush and away from Lucifer. Together, the Devil was vulnerable to any injury he received. Yet, as crudely humorous as it was, the same could be said when she was separated from him. Vulnerability. Such a fine skill to hold during the end of the world.

Twigs scraped against the detective's skin as walked as silently as she could. Every time a dead leaf crunch underneath her shoe, the more on edge she became. Despite their remote location, it was never a bad thing to be on the alert for looters. Or worse. These dark times had really turned some into true monsters. The things she'd witness, the stories she'd heard. It was something she tried to never think about, pushed far back to the outer limits of her mind.

Not much further, Chloe. She said to herself. Soon enough you can turn around and go back to Lucifer and-

There came a rustling noise behind her, a very distinct, undeniable sound. Chloe's blood ran cold as she froze in place, mouth completely dry. It came again, closer now. Heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears, she tried to decipher the sound. Human? Animal? Before the next foot fall, the detective began to sprint.

Noise seemed to come from every direction as Chloe ran blindly through the dying forest. Blood pumping, breathing ragged, she kept going and going as what she could only presume was her hunter closing in on its prey. Just as she thought her limbs couldn't move any faster, someone grabbed her from behind.

"Detective," Lucifer tried to steady Chloe as she struggled against him, still in a state of defense. "Detective, it's just me. It's Lucifer."

"Something," she swallowed thickly, gasping for air as she pointed behind her. "Something-"

"It's alright," he soothed, letting her lean into him. "It was just a deer."

There, standing a few hundred feet away from them, Chloe could just make out the body of a doe. The creature seemed to meet her gaze, dark eyes staring back curiously. How odd it was to see such a thing out in this wasteland. A forest once teeming with life now stripped of its beauty. How the animal had survived this long, she wasn't sure. Before she could even make a remark, the deer bounded off, leaving both Chloe and Lucifer alone once more.

Embarrassment flushed in her cheeks as the adrenaline faded away. Months ago, or however long it'd been, she'd gone for her gun first. Fight versus flight. But just then, her gut reaction was to run. Flee into the uncharted woods and into a trap for all she knew. She was exhausted, strained from their days trekking through the wilderness. Sometimes it even surprised her that her sanity had somewhat remained intact.

"Shit!" She cursed, breaking away from Lucifer. Her foot connected with a small stone, sending it flying into the base of a tree. "I could've just gotten us both killed. If it had been...if I had…"

"Technically, you could claim that I was at fault since I'm the reason we're down here in the first place." He gave a tired smile, hoping she'd take to his crude attempt at humor. She didn't. "Everything's fine now," he reassured, moving to her side. "We're okay and that's what's important." Lucifer dangled his leg in front of her. "Good as new!"

Chloe's mouth twitched into a small smile, her head shaking at the gesture. Optimism at its finest. Inhaling softly, she reached over and gave his hand a small squeeze. The Devil's eyes flickered down to her fingers before flashing up to meet her gaze.

"No more injuries," she murmured, her smile weary.

"None," he agreed.

XXX

Even though she was expecting it, the sound of shattering glass still startled her as Chloe watched Nate ram a rock straight into the vending machine. It took a couple good strikes, and while she knew Lucifer could easily do it in one with his fist, she didn't feel the need to explain her partner's true nature to their group. So she waited hungrily, the desire to eat overpowering the guilt of stealing.

"Hell yeah," the young man chuckled, lunging straight for a bag of cheese puffs. "I love these damn things!"

But before Nate could even open his beloved prize, Lucifer quickly snatched it from his grasp. The man reeled around, a look of pure resentment burning in his eyes as the Devil held it just out of his grasp. Unlike him, the others had not immediately gone into a frenzy for the food. While each one of them wanted nothing more than to dig into whatever the machine offered, it was a silent agreement some sort of rules needed to be set in place.

"Give. That. Back." Nate growled, trying in desperation to retrieve his meal. "That's mine. I earned it!"

"Ha," Lucifer snorted, clearly amused by the other man's desperation. "If anything, you've earned yourself a first class ticket to Hell-"

"We need to ration," Chloe interrupted, throwing her partner a look. "Despite our luck in finding this before someone else, we need to figure out how to divide this to last." Her eyes flickered to the vandalized machine and the junk food it held. "Not that candy and chips are the best form of nutrition."

Though the machine was far from empty, it clearly hadn't been refilled before the chaos hit. Off brand chips, some chocolate bars of various kinds, gummies that looked a little stale even from where Chloe was standing, and a few packs of gum. That was it. Empty calories that would cause them to crash and burn energy. But it was all they had and anything was better than nothing.

"Come on," Nate groaned. "We've had barely anything to eat in the past several days. I'm starving. We all are!" He wildly gestured to the others. "What's one bag of chips going to do?"

"I'm with Chloe," Ruth spoke up, moving to the detective's side. "We need to have a plan. If we're going to make it far." She swallowed, her shoulders rising as she inhaled. "Before we turn on each other."

"You have my vote," Charlie agreed, throwing Nate a cold look. "Sometimes you have to sacrifice to get things done."

"Mine too," Kate added, her eyes focused on the ground. "It's for the best, I think."

All eyes fell on Lucifer, who, still holding the chips, simply shrugged. "You know whose side I'm always on." Chloe's smile only deepened Nate's scowl. "Especially when it comes to crisp eating pricks-"

"It's settled then," the detective cut in before Lucifer could finish. "We split things up. Divide and conquer." With a small smile, she reached in and grabbed a bag of old gummies. "So how do we go about this?"

After much debate, mostly on Nate's part, the snacks were gathered and split up. They had a good few days worth of "meals" if one would call them that. Chloe's stomach was already twisting at the look of all the sweets. It wasn't that she didn't like sugary foods-she really did, but for however long it would last, that's what her diet would consist of.

"Eat."

The detective was pulled from her thoughts as Lucifer continually poked at her with a chocolate bar. She eyed him carefully before taking the candy and breaking it in half. Handing him his piece, she began to nibble on hers, trying not to cram the entire thing down in one bite. She didn't have to look at the Devil to know he wasn't consuming his.

"Eat your own," she mumbled. "I'm fine."

"I'm not hungry," he countered. "You have it. I don't even like chocolate." Like a child, he obnoxiously poked her with it again. "Quick, it's melting in my hands and I don't want my clothes to get bloody chocolate stains on top of everything else."

Chloe huffed and shook her head. "You're being ridiculous right now, you know that?"

"And you love me for it," he smirked before forcing the treat into her hand. "Now eat, I'll be fine. I'll just have a few extra licorice whips later."

They both knew that it'd be a long while before they'd eat again, but neither spoke up about it. Instead, Chloe just leaned against him feeling his arm wrap around her waist. The wind began to blow, but only silence followed in its wake.

XXX

"Damn mosquitoes!"

Lucifer slapped the back of his neck as they trudged on through the woods. The air was sticky and the heat made Chloe's head spin. Despite the fact they were heading up north, the weather had turned out of their favor. Days had passed since they last saw rain, maybe even weeks. She was too tired, too thirsty to concentrate.

"Hey, hey," she hadn't even realized she was slipping down to the ground before Lucifer grabbed her. "Stay with me, detective. I know it's hotter than Hell, but we have to keep walking. We have to find water, yes?"

Chloe nodded her head weakly, her dry lips smacking together as Lucifer threw her arm around his neck. Weather seemed to be going from one extreme to the next. Maybe it was normal. Maybe it was from the bombs. But she needed to fight through this. Fight to stay alive. Survive for Trixie. For Lucifer.

"You know what I want," her voice slurred as if she was drunk. "A nice, big swimming pool of water that I could drink out of."

"I could go for a few shots of whiskey myself," he added, but a glass of water would be nice too I suppose." He chuckled, but Chloe could hear the worry in his tone. "Tell you what, we survive this and I'll build you the biggest bloody pool in all of Los Angeles."

"And we'll skinny dip," Chloe mumbled deliriously. "It's too hot for clothes."

"Ooh, you are quite the temptress, detective," Lucifer smirked, shifting to carry more of her weight. "I'll hold you to that."

They continued to walk on, Chloe growing more and more out of it as they went. Lucifer fear for her outdid his own concern for his well being as they pressed on. He knew if they didn't find some source of water soon, their outcome wouldn't be so pleasant. If running Hell was still a concern of his, he'd consider making this a torture option.

"Lucifer," Chloe murmured, bringing Lucifer back to reality. "If something happens to me-"

"Stop," he interrupted firmly. "It won't."

"But if it does-"

"It. Won't."

For a brief moment, his eyes flickered a crimson red. Though his anger was not aimed at Chloe. No. Literally at everything but her. As they moved on, almost painfully slow, suddenly the detective's voice broke through the silence.

"Lucifer, look," she nearly rasped. "A house!"

At first, he thought she was hallucinating, her hand shaking as she pointed towards the distance. He was going to ignore her words when his eyes did too catch a glimpse of something past a thicket of trees. By Father, she was right. There was a house. Right in the middle of bloody nowhere. The Devil couldn't contain the grin that spread across his face.

"Why my dear detective, I believe we found something much better than a pool," he breathed, looking down at her. "Much better indeed."

At least, he hoped as much.

#Deckerstar #Lucifer #Lucifer Morningstar #Chloe Decker #Lucifer on Netflix #Through The Ashes

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saruma-aki · 5 years

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Well, I would like to say I thought this through before dragging this post back up after having posted it way back when ST2 was new and fresh out of the proverbial womb, but, the harsh truth is, I did not. Honestly, I have been ignoring the existence of this post since its conception because the amount of popularity it garnered was mainly negative (no shock there; this is, after all, tumblr) and I had more important things to stress over than what someone interpreted from a line in a show that will fade into obscurity in a couple of years. However, the most recent reblog caught my eye because someone actually wrote something under it—and not just under someone else’s words, but the original post, which I had not seen in a while.

Obviously, what they said did not make me very happy. Otherwise, what is the actual point of making this post?

Here is the thing, the “tea” or however you want to call it—everything they said is way out of line.

I will be the first, the very first (no one is beating me to that spot) to admit that the original post was just a little bit tone deaf. It did not really discuss the topic or why it is that I felt like I did or Dacre’s own opinion. It was just a couple of screenshots from an article that made me feel better about where I stood on the whole debate—and I wanted to share it. I don’t know why. Maybe to just not feel crazy in the midst of that drama? Who can say? However, I will be the first to say that the post is wholly inadequate in explaining anything of note.

I was not exactly surprised when people took to it with raised hackles, even if I really never conceived it would reach close to five hundred notes by the time I got the guts to address it again (and I know that five hundred, 5-0-0, doesn’t really seem like a lot, but considering that I thought maybe one person would pay attention to it, it’s basically the equivalent of a million in my eyes).

But, you know what? I’m tired. I’m stressed. I’m slowly dying. Let’s finally addres this. Because this reblog, this most recent reblog, really bothered me. And I know, trust me when I say I know, that it seems simple and of no need for concern, and I’m sure the few people who are actually bothering to read through this are thinking, “Why on earth did they not just talk to this person instead of making a long post?” But, here’s the thing with this whole shebang: I’m tired, and this person isn’t alone in their opinion. What made this one stand out is how they phrased their belief.

I’ve had to listen to people gripe about how this post “proves there’s no such thing as POC solidarity”, and they’re absolutely right because Native American woman are being slaughtered and raped and abused every day, and Native Americans are represented less that one percent of the time (<1%) ) in film and media (and the few, very rare, times they are it is with an abundance of racism and stereotypes piled onto them), and yet I don’t see black people, with their sixteen percent (16%) representation score raising much of a fuss. (This is not a call out or something. I get it. Get your own representation and rights before helping out anyone else. It makes sense, in a way—I’m not judging. But maybe don’t come at people with that when you’re part of the issue.) I have had to listen to people assume my race, ethnicity, political leaning because of this post, and, honestly, I’m just a wee bit tired of it.

I have four things I really want to say with this post, in response to everyone, but especially in response to this one reblog:

1) I am a proud person of color. I am a proud descendant of African slaves. I am a proud descendant of Taino natives. I am a proud member of the Latino community. I am a proud non-white individual who experiences racism on a daily basis.

I experience racism meant for black people. I experience racism meant for Latinos. I experience xenophobia meant for Middle Easterners and Asians. I experience racism meant for Middle Easterners. I experience racism meant for Indians. I experience Islamophobia meant for Muslims. I have been told they should “build a wall” to keep me out. I have been told that the KKK should pay me a visit. I have been called a terrorist. I have had people dance in crude imitations of Indian traditional dance to my face while laughing. I have experienced all of this and more.

I have been a victim of racism, classism, sexism, homophobia, xenophobia, etc., from both POCs and white people, straight and gays, natives and immigrants.

Do not presume to know my race and my experiences just because my opinion does not coincide with yours. Quite frankly, don’t do that to anyone. You do not know anyone’s life story, especially over the Internet. Do not assume otherwise. Do not delude yourself into a false confidence and assurance of your own moral superiority when you know nothing of the people you are attacking. It is easy to hide behind a screen, and I am not here to tell you to not talk about what you wish and what you can and cannot talk about and direct at people. I merely suggest you stick to the information readily accessible, not mere assumptions based on your own prejudices. It reveals more about you than the person you are belittling.

2) Billy never saw Max and Dustin together like he did Max and Lucas. Billy never saw Dustin upsetting Max like he did Lucas. Billy never sees Max and Dustin in any capacity like he does Max and Lucas.

This is not a justification. This is not an excuse. This is a mere statement of fact. Whether or not you believe Billy is racist or abusive or whatever, the bottom line is the same. Billy doesn’t witness Max with Dustin like he does Lucas. Honestly, I’m fairly certain Billy never even sees Dustin and Max together at all. Think Billy is racist or don’t, but it doesn’t change this very basic fact. It’s not a situation of “why didn’t he” when every iteration can be debunked by simply understanding that this wasn’t information he was privy to ever. “Why didn’t he?” Because he didn’t know.

3) I don’t take the word of the Duffers on anything. Let’s make that perfectly clear. And this is not some personal dislike or something. This is born from experience. I have sat in the writer’s chair; I have sat in the director’s chair; I have sat in the actor’s chair. You know what I have learned? The writer provides the skeleton, the director gives it movement, the actor gives it life. The job of an actor is solely to understand the character. That, ladies and gentlemen and the general populace, is the secret of acting.

What the writers provide is just the guidelines for the actor. The understanding the actor develops can evolve into a different interpretation than the writer or director had, and it has the potential to be more profound.

The other two reasons I don’t take the word of the Duffers on this is: A) had it not been for Dacre, the Duffers would have been subject to critique on lazy writing moreso than they are already because Billy’s depth and complexity, especially the jarring scene we all remember, came from Dacre—Dacre wanted a villain with a reason if he was going to play Billy and he pushed for it (which says a lot about him and how skilled of an actor he is—understanding that experience and trauma shapes us and forms us into what we are and that we are not static beings, so there should be no such thing as a static character) and that makes Dacre’s opinion a lot heftier than the Duffers’ already——B) Dacre originally did think Billy was racist. Isn’t that a kicker? Dacre remarks in interviews that when he read the script at first, he thought, “Oh, no, gosh, he’s racist on top of all of this?” And he stayed with that mentality for a bit. It was only as he delved deeper into the character and understood Billy more as a person instead of the two dimensional villain he’s set up as that he changed his mind and came to the conclusion that he doesn’t think Billy’s racist.

He put in the work.

The Duffers went in with a throwaway line and labeled the character as racist. They wanted a human villain, someone for people to hate, someone to pit against our heroes, against Steve. They wanted to make him awful and static and to have him do what Steve’s character couldn’t and stay the asshole the audience could hate.

Dacre didn’t fall prey to that mentality. He searched for the human in the label “human villain” that the Duffers wanted and found a much more complex character than the Duffers even considered. Because of this, Dacre’s opinion carries far more weight than the Duffer Brothers’.

And, ultimately, most importantly—the main reason I wanted to make this post, to defend the original post this is born from even though I’ve stated my stance on this issue in a separate post in much clearer terms—the real reason I made the original post to begin with even if I never talked about it:

4) People who immediately assume racism instead of ignorance, racist instead of ignorant, are part of the problem, not the solution.

This really bears no explanation. You cannot change what you believe is irreversible. You cannot educate what you believe is closed off. You cannot help that which you’ve condemned.

I do my utmost to live my life by this. Ignorance before condemnation, always, always, always. The majority of the time it is a lack of education on the subject and a lack of personal experience that leads to such grave misunderstandings. Give a person the chance to learn and to be taught and to redeem themselves, and most of them will. It takes time and patience and a boatload of energy and perseverance, but you get there through understanding and the willingness to help out—by giving them the chance everyone else is denying them.

You cannot help those which you’ve condemned. In life and in fiction, until proven repeatedly over and over again when intervention is applied, I like to adopt the philosophy that people are ignorant before they are racist, before they are a sexist, homophobic, xenophobic, etc., etc.

I’m not saying it’s a popular philosophy (because it’s not), and I’m not saying it’s right (because maybe it isn’t), but it’s my philosophy. And knowing where Billy comes from, what he’s been through, who his father is, what his home life is like, I elect to believe in my philosophy and in my understanding of the human mind, and I don’t think he’s racist. I can definitely see how he might be construed as such, and I don’t belittle those who see it that way, but I stand by my original observation (however ineloquently stated) that I, in my own personal opinion, don’t believe Billy is racist.

And, ultimately, I just want people to accept that. I’m not denying the possibility. I’m not uninformed. I’m not some white, cisgender, hesterosexual man sitting behind his computer screen agreeing with a white actor because it makes me feel more comfortable in myself and my own experiences. I am a proud POC, a proud member of the LGBTQ+ community, a writer, an actor, a director, and a human being. I see where you all are coming from—I hear you; I read what you write. I get it. But can you get me? Can you understand where I am coming from? Can you stop with the misinformation and the moral superiority complex? Life is too short to live like this. I know that it’s Tumblr. I know being superior is the bread and butter of this site. But, honestly, guys, let me get cheesy for a second, let me get real, because you guys clearly need to hear this:

Be willing to understand and to learn. You will get so much further in life. You cannot help that which you’ve condemned, guys. And you really can’t. You can’t change what you believe is irreversible. You can’t teach that which you believe is unwilling to learn. Give people a chance, and they might just surprise you.

Gosh, I hope this cleared some things. I doubt many of you made it to the end if you even got past the beginning, but I sure feel better after writing this. Take care. Bless. I’ll see you on the other side of the war.

#stranger things 2 #billy hargrove #in defense of billy hargrove #in defense of myself #dayummmm never thought i’d end up here #tumblr will forever and always need to chill #chill tumblr chill #mullet wearing asshole #harringrove #i am here to clear the air #that really wasnt muggy to begin with #but some people got confused real fast #so here we go

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shriting · 5 years

Photo

Tomb For Butterflies

Twenty years ago, Galra "contracted” a group of humans and transported them to Naxzela to work in the mines. Soon people realized the so-called "job” was nothing but indentured servitude: only the Galra can sever a contract and set their human worker free.

Nowadays most humans on Naxzela work - and die - in the mines.

Takashi Shirogane managed to win the gladiator tornament two years ago; he was granted freedom and sent off planet. It was presumed he was gone for good, until one day Keith found him unconscious on his doorstep...

Shiro wasn’t supposed to be here. That was all Keith could think of when he found Shiro passed out in the slums. This was where people ended up if they failed in life. Keith belonged here, but Shiro didn’t.

(not) written for @sheith-prompt-bang; prompt D26 - Slums AU.

Shiro sighs. "We have to be patient."

"I'm tired of being patient!" Keith clenches his fists. "We have to do something."

"Kidnapping the Altean princess to ransom her for a spaceship is a bad idea, and you know it. Lotor would never let us leave the orbit alive."

"I know, but I can't just sit on my hands and wait for you to come up with a plan to save everyone! They don't even want to be saved, they're happy wasting their lives away as Galran slaves."

Shiro studies him for a moment.

"And you're okay with that?"

"No, but... I just...” Keith loses his fighting vigor quickly. Still, he’s stubborn. “I want us to leave this place. You have nothing to hold you here on Naxzela, and neither do I. We could run away and never come back."

"It's risky," Shiro shakes his head.

"It's better than running Galra errands and cleaning their filth for the rest of our lives!"

"Which is why we have to take everyone with us when we run."

"There are hundreds of people! There's not a single ship in the universe big enough to get everyone on board!"

"Then we need several ships, or we need to remove the Galra and take Naxzela for ourselves."

"How?” Keith demands an answer. For the moment, Shiro has none. Keith sighs. “Shiro, this is madness. What you want is impossible."

Shiro crosses his arms.

"Then we have to make it possible. I won't give up on you, and I won't give up on the rest of our people."

"They gave up on themselves!" Keith retorts hotly, his eyes glistening, angry, betrayed. Shiro remains calm. He can be stubborn, too.

"Which is why we have to keep trying to restore their faith. I have a plan, but I'll need your help, Keith, and I'll need you to get your job as a delivery driver back."

Keith pauses, and his eyes grow darker.

"This is because of Adam, isn't it?"

"In part, yes," Shiro admits easily. He has nothing to hide. “Because of everyone else, too.”

"So, what if Adam asked you to leave with him? Would you have done it?"

Shiro looks him in the eyes.

"Two years ago, I asked Adam the same thing you were asking me,” he said. Taken aback, Keith stares at him wide-eyed. “To run away together and be free. You know what he told me? No human can truly be free while their brothers and sisters are suffering in captivity. He'd sooner give up his life protecting his community - our community, our family - than abandon our people."

Keith frowns.

"But you left anyway. You were gone for over a year."

"Yes. And I returned with supplies and a plan to save everyone, because Adam is right. I can't abandon them, and I can't abandon him. He's the only family I have ever known."

"You're the only family I have left," Keith says quietly.

Shiro knows, and he nods.

"I know."

Keith bites his lip. "Do you still love him? Adam."

"I care about him.” Shiro shrugs. It’s not as difficult to admit as it has been before because now that’s all there is. A tender shadow of an old flame; it doesn’t hurt anymore. The door is closed, and Shiro is ready to move on. He simply wishes to give Adam a chance to find his own happiness too - as a free man, not as a Galra slave. “I care what happens to him. I don't want him to end up chewed up and spit out by the Galra. He deserves better."

"Better than you?"

Keith’s question hits him hard. Keith’s eyes are sharp, there’s something dangerous lurking behind his stern gaze, something that makes Shiro shiver.

He looks away.

"Maybe,” he says. His voice is a whisper. He forces himself to speak up. “Adam is braver than me, in a way. To lead the life he does, serving as a mediator between our people and the Galra - it takes courage. I'm too selfish for that: I want to be free. I can't be what our people need... what he needs."

Keith scoffs.

"I think you are exactly what our people need.” He catches Shiro’s glance and insists, “we won't win our freedom from the Galra by playing nice. We need to fight back. We need you."

Keith doesn't say 'I need you', but it lingers in the air nevertheless.

Shiro needs to change the topic quickly.

"Let’s discuss the plan of the attack."

The plan is simple. Lotor organizes a gladiator tournament this weekend; which means there will be weapons. Lotor should invite Shiro as an honorary guest to remind everyone it's possible to win one's freedom by fighting in the arena, so Shiro has enough leverage to be among the spectactors. He has recruited enough Galra supporters to stage a riot. As a delivery driver, Keith has to make a few trips to smuggle the weapons inside and stash them under the seats. When the time comes, the Blades of Marmora will create a distraction to allow Shiro to take Lotor hostage. From then on, Shiro negotiates the termination of all contracts.

Of course, Keith realizes what it all means.

"What happens after our people are safe?” he asks when Shiro is finished with the explanations. “What happens... to you?"

"That's not important."

"It is to me!” Keith leans in. “I won't let you sacrifice yourself."

Shiro smiles.

"You have just said it yourself. You need me to fight for you. That's all I'm good at, fighting. I can't be the wise leader Adam is, but if I can give you - all of you - a chance, I won't hesitate to do my part."

"You're ten times the leader Adam is! He can't see farther than his own nose!” Keith looks furious. Shiro wants to reach out and smooth his unruly hair and pet him like a kitten; he doesn’t. “Do you really think Prince Lotor will let us live peacefully after being held up for ransom?"

That question wipes every trace of a smile from Shiro’s face.

"No.” He can feel his stomach churning. “Prince Lotor won't let anyone do anything, because when the time comes, he won't be in the picture.”

"Wait...” Keith pales. “You mean, you're going to..."

"Kill him? As soon as I can." Shiro won’t lie to Keith, not even to spare him the gruesome details of the plan. If they are to succeed, they have to be ready for anything. “It's the only way to make sure he won't launch a pursuit after you. Cut off the snake's head."

Shocked, Keith stares at him with his mouth agape.

Shiro raises an eyebrow. "What, did you think I was going to let him go? After everything he's done?"

"No... but a cold-blooded murder..."

"This is not a game, Keith. What do you think happens in the arena? How do you think I won my freedom?” For a moment, Shiro has to squeeze his eyes shut to chase away the memories of dismembered bodies and raspy dying breaths. He shudders. Then he opens his eyes and looks at Keith. “Lotor makes people fight each other to the death, serving nothing but his own personal amusement. He makes us live in these shambling shacks, he makes us eat garbage and die from Green Lung - an easily treatable disease long since cured by Alteans. Do you really want to defend him after everything the Galra has done? I say Lotor deserves a taste of his own medicine."

Keith sighs.

"No, you're right. He deserves it. I just..." he looks up to meet Shiro’s eyes, and now he has a determined look on his face. “I can't let you do it alone, Shiro. I can't lose you too."

Overwhelmed with a bittersweet hope, Shiro smiles.

"You'll be alright. After all this is over, you'll move to a nice peaceful planet, Adam will find you a nice civilian job--"

"No! To hell with Adam!” Keith grabs him suddenly, his eyes full of fire. Shiro gasps as Keith’s hands squeeze his shoulders. “I'd rather live a thousand lives as a Galra slave than live one life without you. Shiro, I... you're my brother, and I love you. I... I love you. I can't let you do this."

Shiro blinks. "...what did you just say?"

Keith's face is bright red. He let something slip, something he didn't mean to say just yet, not like this. He looks away.

"I... can't let you sacrifice yourself," he repeats the wrong part in a whisper.

Shiro shakes his head.

"I’m sorry, but we might not have a choice. I've already spoken with the Blades, the plan is set in motion."

"Then I'm going with you." Keith faces him again. There is no way to change his mind now. “We'll capture Prince Lotor together, and whatever happens next - I'll be there for you."

"Keith..." Shiro sighs.

"It's non-negotiable. I won't let you march to your death all alone.” Suddenly, a cocky grin blooms on his face. “Besides, how do you plan on dealing with the Altean princess? You're going to need backup."

Shiro is grateful. He is so, so grateful - and frustrated beyond himself. That brave, stupid, beautiful boy, doesn’t he get it? Doesn’t he understand?

"Keith, my plan - I'm doing this for you! So you could have a normal life. Don’t you understand? I can't lead you on a suicide mission."

Keith is unfazed.

"So let's make sure we both come out of this alive, because I'm coming with you whether you like it or not.” He bites his lip. “Shiro... If something happens to you, if you... I will never be free with that weight on my conscience. I don't want to have 'a life' without you, understand? I want us to be free - together."

"Keith..." Shiro swallows. "I..."

Keith looks at him, eager. His lips are parted slightly, inviting. Shiro wonders what kissing him right now would lead to - would it really be that bad? Keith would kiss him back and stay the night, this night they could spend it together, and knowing the inevitable danger is closing in, knowing they might not get another chance, Shiro really really wants to--

"I think you should go home tonight. If the Galra notice your absence, they might refuse to give you the delivery duty back."

Keith blinks, nods almost absent-mindedly.

"Yes. You're right." He nods again, this time with more awareness. "Yes, I should go."

He turns to leave.

Despite all his rational reasoning, Shiro reaches after him before he can stop himself.

#sheith prompt bang 2018 #sheithpromptbang #sheith prompt bang #sheith #voltron legendary defender

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calleo-bricriu · 5 years

Text

You’re doing it wrong.

(( Cleaned up thread with @retired-death-eater. Minor edits to fix typos or to add clarity. ))

“Is it supposed to hurt?” Calleo’s question came off as more of an incredulous laugh than something said in the aftermath of being surprised with a Cruciatus.

“Yes — yes.. YES IT IS SUPPOSED TO HURT,” Delacroix snarled irritated as he pointed his wand at Calleo. “Are you literally mocking me?” He continued with a hiss.

He was grinding his teeth while he stared down on Calleo. “I did tell you – I would crucio you,” he hissed, making a swipe with his hand in order to strengthened the spell.

“I have been getting increasingly irritated by that bloody thing you sent up to my department. It is ruining the furniture and almost ruined my wand!” Bellowed Delacroix, wide-eyed as he clenched his wand.

“It RUINED my desk – I need a new desk, Calleo. God damn it,” he waved an hand, as he swore something vulgar about Calleo in French. “WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO ABOUT YOU? I don’t even know what you do. Why do I have to suffer being chewed out by the higher ups for God knows why?”

He stopped his ranting and tried to control his breath while staring furiously at Calleo. “…For fuck sake…”

Somehow, by some often not granted grace by the universe, Calleo managed not to laugh when he asked the question. It being said in an utterly deadpan tone probably wasn’t much better, though, considering how Delacroix reacted.

“I’m not mocking you,” Calleo brushed a bit of imaginary dust off of his cardigan and smoothed it back into place, “it’s more that I’ve researched and tested that particular curse extensively and you’re doing it wrong.”

“Well–not wrong, technically, it was mostly correct, but mostly correct doesn’t make it nearly as painful as it’s capable of being. Next time, sharper movements, don’t round your corners, and at least have the courtesy to modify it enough so it does more than cause me to lose my breath for a few seconds.”

Smart. Very smart. Just encourage the already angry man to cast another Cruciatus. That’s always a good idea, no possible way it could backfire for everyone involved. Still, if he hadn’t meant to say that last part out loud, it was far too late to remedy the issue now. It most certainly did hurt, it was, after all, the Cruciatus Curse and even an unmodified one was exceptionally painful.

“Yes, well,” Calleo began as he gathered his hair to loosely tie it back. The gesture in and of itself held no hint of any potential retaliation or preparation for retaliation still, it was a rarity for Calleo to tie it back at the Ministry, “that’s the sort of thing that happens when gentle verbal reminders to not tie up other departments in your own department’s backlog go ignored, isn’t it?”

“Wands can be replaced,” he squinted a bit despite already having his glasses on, “and yours doesn’t look all that chewed anyway. As for the desk, try reparo. It’s not as though someone transfigured it into several hundred thousand spiders, all of which you need to find before you can even begin to put it back together. It’s just a bit gnawed on and maybe a tiny bit burned.”

“As for why?” Calleo smiled in an almost obnoxiously friendly manner, “I don’t like to suffer alone; misery does love company, after all, and if you don’t think I don’t hear about it from those above me–despite the fact that the situation was, in no way, any fault of my own–you’re completely out of your mind.” As opposed to just partially out of his mind, presumably.

“Now,” Calleo folded his hands on the desk in front of him, still smiling like an idiot “care to try again, or were you satisfied with how that first one went? Fair warning, though, if it’s another disappointing one, I’m going to be inclined to show you how to do it properly whether you ask me to or not.”

The corner of Delacroix’s lips twisted even more and he took a deep breath. “I bloody hate you sometimes, Calleo,” he hissed as he turned around before making a sharp move, as if performing a fencing move at Calleo.

“CRUCIO!” his dark eyes stared, making a follow up move that was sharp enough for him to add strength to the spell. “Quiet – just be quiet. By Salazar!” He kept throwing crucio at him in a pure fit of rage before eventually burning himself out.

“My wand has been with me since I started at Hogwarts. I refuse to let some stupid creature of whatever sort, eat it… Of course not. I kicked the beast out of my office.” Delacroix breathed out, leaning up against the table, clearly out of breath from swinging his arm sharply around himself. “I am not out of my mind, Calleo. If you need someone to join in your misery you should have asked rather than forced me into it!” He slammed a fist into the desk, eyebrow twisting a bit as he tried to control his breath.

“Spiders – why the fuck spiders? I would kill whoever did that if it happened.. I don’t care if my desk was burnt into a crisp. I’ll just go reparo it ….,” he rasped hoarsely before he bowed his head, shifting his weight from one foot to another. His wavy black hair hung down his face, blocking his view.

“I was not satisfied with the first, thank you very much. And I would rather not have you show me how to do a proper one,” he rasped, glancing up at Calleo with narrowed eyes that burnt with anger.

Calleo did stay quiet, at least, for the short duration of the second round of curses. If nothing else, a few years of occasionally random visitors hitting him with it only knocked him back into his chair instead of out of it.

And for a few minutes after Delacroix stopped, Calleo was quiet, more to get his breathing back into a regular pattern again than anything else and, when he spoke, it was definitely something stupid that came out of his mouth, “I’ll forward the research paper on to you. Honestly, I don’t have the time to deal with the lecture you know we’d both get if an actual fight broke out.”

“That,” he took a deep breath and leaned forward again, “and I don’t want to have to deal with everything that’d go off in this room if that happened. Most of what’s in here reacts–interestingly–to a lot of hostile magical back and forth anyway.”

“That said, you’re absolutely at least half out of your mind if you lost enough of it to come down here flinging curses that usually get you a life term in Azkaban!” He laughed, as that was evidently funny but, then, after a few repeated hits, one could hardly blame Calleo if his sense of humour went temporarily off balance.

“As for asking? We don’t have that kind of relationship and I’d venture to guess we never will. I don’t think you’d care for it anyway; I’m kind of insufferable if you haven’t already noticed that.”

“I don’t know why spiders,” now, Calleo pointed to an area of the desk that seemed to be missing random small pieces, “David used to do that; it’s why he’s in Azkaban–not for doing it to my desk, for doing it to a Muggle then hitting it with a shoe.”

And as quickly as he mentioned that, he moved on, “Well, now, is that fair? You repeatedly demonstrated it semi-competently on me, don’t you think you deserve at least a second or two of what it’s capable of in proper hands, just so you have a frame of reference the next time you decide to use it on someone?” That set of questions was rhetorical. Almost before he’d finished the last word, Calleo had his wand out and the curse cast. He was, if nothing else, true to his word of ‘a second or two’, though it likely felt as though it lasted significantly longer than the exact count of two before Calleo ripped it away rather than simply stopping the cast. Calleo then stood to peek over his desk just to make certain Delacroix was still, in fact, breathing, “All right?”

Delacroix barely got to respond to anything before he fell to the floor with a stiff face, all stretched out. He could not even blink, move or say anything. When Calleo finaly forced himself to roll around onto his stomach. “… Merde,” was the only thing he could say. He curled together onto the floor, grinding his teeth as he did so.

He laid there breathing for a while before trying to stretch out his limbs, but recoiled. “Well done…,” he rasped, still curled together, one hand stretched out. “I …. think I need to see a healer. And if I was your boss, I would fire you at the spot,” he coughed before rolling around onto his back.

“I need a priest.. I think I’m literally dying….,” he continued, eyes squeezed shut. “Big time — can you tell my family I died not so much in pain as I actually am?” He popped open an eye, looking at Calleo.

“I need go to the hospital… Not the muggle one, though… ,” he tried to move an hand, but gave up. “Merrrrrrrrrrde,” he groaned clearly distressed before he forced his hands up to his eyes. “This is worse than what I experienced during the war…. I feel like I am on the edge of passing over ….”

He took a sharp inhale before breathing out in a wheezed gasp before he slowly closed his eyes. “…. I fucking hate you… Be that my last word if I die in your office… I will fucking haunt you for the rest of your life. In hell if I get there…,” Delacroix curled together again onto the floor in a fetal position.

“And if I were your boss, I’d have sacked you and had you hauled off to Azkaban for casting it repeatedly; you probably wouldn’t even get a trial on account of that thing on your arm, so perhaps we ought to just call it even, hm?”

Calleo pushed his chair back and moved around to the other side of the desk, casually sitting next to Delacroix on the floor, “You’re being a little dramatic, and you’re not dying,” now, however, his tone was different.

A bit calmer and more even and certainly not antagonising any longer. and, as he spoke, he casually reached back and untied his hair, stuffing the tie itself back into a pocket.

“You’ll be mostly fine in about twenty minutes or so, though I wouldn’t recommend trying to move much for another five or ten. Best just to focus on keeping your breathing regular for that time span. If you like, I can switch the metronome on at a slow pace so you can keep track.”

Calleo leaned back on his hands, looking now much more like an overgrown student chatting away about a homework assignment than someone who had just done what he had knowingly done, “Four minutes and–I think it was forty-five seconds.”

“Not for you, that was exactly two seconds, but for the testing I did a few years back; I’d wanted to see how long it would take before it might actually kill me. The one doing the testing stopped at around that mark as they weren’t able to control it to the point to keep me breathing–and it was only their movements with it that let me keep breathing. Any movements made under that modification are being made by the caster, not the victim, it shuts everything down by overloading everything, including involuntary sound and movement.”

He was, now, oddly conversational, “After the first couple of minutes you go numb yet somehow still feel everything, which makes no sense but it’s about the only way I can describe it.”

Calleo grinned up at the ceiling, “Couple of weeks before I could walk again, and nearly a year before I could reliably do so without use of a cane. Couldn’t feel my fingers for almost two months and, for some reason, my left side took more damage than the right. For the longest time, that leg would just stop working without warning, or the arm would shake so badly I couldn’t do a thing with it. It’s all mostly fixed now but getting that repaired was almost worse than having it done in the first place!” Why he laughed at that was anyone’s guess.

“Some of the damage is permanent. My whole left side is still a little funny.”

“Oh! That does remind me!” Calleo stopped looking at the ceiling and looked back down at the man on the floor, “You might have a slight pins-and-needles sensation in your extremities for a few days–or a few weeks, it varies from person to person, but it shouldn’t cause any lasting damage with that quick of a hit unless it went over existing damage, in which case it might make it temporarily worse. Any numbness should clear up within a couple of hours.”

“Anything else–essential tremor, unsteadiness, headache, fatigue, those sorts of things–should clear up within a couple of days or least, at most, a week or two. You could go to St. Mungo’s if you like but, they won’t be able to do much for you apart from maybe knock you out for a couple of days–and even if you told them what it was, we both know that I would absolutely claim self-defence after you cast it at me first.”

“If you ever very quickly want to disarm and subdue anyone though–that’ll do it every time. Pity it’s not technically allowed, it’d save a lot of drawn out fights when you lot go to arrest someone who doesn’t want to go quietly.”

He smiled broadly at the declaration of hatred and intent to haunt, “See, now, that’s how I know you’re not dying; if you were dying, you wouldn’t threatening me with any of that, you’d just kind of be laying there. The fact that you can talk at all tells me you’re fine. In general. Mostly.”

#stories #retired-death-eater #curses #cruciatus curse #hp rp #hp indie rp #1991

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