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smaidjor · 3 years

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i know they're losing (Chapter 1)

hi mothers and fuckers of the jury, this fic is a hot mess but so am I, please appreciate it. Also, obligatory disclaimer this is about the characters not the people, all that important stuff.

Some important notes:

1. You will probably hate Scott just a little at points. He has chronic dumb bitch syndrome and there's a whole lot of bullshit going on in his life that you don't see in this fic because it's not his pov. That being said, he's still a bit of a jerk.

2. This has a lot of lord of the rings lore. A LOT. You may be kinda confused if you're not a lord of the rings fan. It's fine, Jimmy's confused too, and all of it will be explained at some point.

3. The chapter titles are from the Last Goodbye from the Hobbit films. The general title is from I Bet on Losing Dogs by Mitski.

4. General content warnings: there is a little blood, and a little violence, and a lot of mentioned death and morbid jokes. If you don't do well with themes involving death this fic is probably not for you. There is also possibly going to be referenced emotional abuse and generally unhealthy ways to raise children, though that will be talked about much further down the line. I will also put specific cws at the start of each chapter, don't worry!

5. The alternate title for this was '10k words of flower husbands being sad'. You have been warned.

Title: i know they're losing

Chapter Title: under clouds, beneath the stars

Current Total Wordcount: 3740

Content Warning: referenced/past character death, very frank discussion of death.

Snippet:

Scott whirls to face him, robes spinning behind him. “I’m fading, alright? I’m dying, now leave me alone!”

Jimmy feels like he’s been smacked in the face, the words hitting him with all the force of a well-thrown trident. Dying? “You- what- but elves don’t die, right?”

“We do. From poison, from swords, from arrows through the throat-” Jimmy’s hands fly to the scar on his neck, the one that matches Scott’s own- “from grief.”

AO3 Link

Actual fic under the cut

Scott’s hands are cold. That’s the first sign, the chill that’s uncharacteristic of an elf.

Scott’s chest hurts. That’s the second sign, the bone-deep ache he can’t seem to quell.

Scott is weaker than normal, and that’s the third sign, the one that confirms what’s happening beyond a shadow of a doubt. He’s fading, Scott thinks as he leans against a wall, trying to stop his head from spinning. He can’t say he’s surprised, not after all he’s been through; in fact, he’s more astonished it took so long to start.

In another world, it happens like this:

Scott’s hands are cold, and Shubble notices as he shows her around the nether. It’s worrying, a bit, how icy his skin is even in the boiling dimension, but Scott’s empire has always been cold, hasn’t it?

Katherine notices how long it’s been since Scott visited her, one of his few allies, and she worries, a bit. But Scott has always been distant, hasn’t he?

No one notices or worries enough to go check on him, and Scott fades away to nothing, cold and alone in his icy empire.

What actually happens is this:

Katherine has gotten word of the demon that haunts the server, and amongst all her worry, one of her thoughts is ‘has anyone checked on Scott?’. The answer is no, and next time she has a free day, she sets out for Rivendell. It’s not a long trip, not with elytra, anyways, and soon she’s at the doors to his keep.

“I need to see Lord Smajor,” she tells the guards.

“He’s not taking visitors right now.” is the response she gets.

“It’s a vital matter to the safety of both our kingdoms.”

They let her in.

Katherine spends far too long looking around the elegantly decorated downstairs and storage area before she realizes he must be up the spiral staircase in the corner of the room. She’s never been upstairs in Scott’s house before, which makes her a little nervous, but… this is an urgent matter, so she presses on into what turns out to be a very pretty bedroom. Decorated with bookshelves aplenty and gorgeous lanterns, it practically screams Scott.

The man (elf?) himself is harder to spot. At first, Katherine’s worried he isn’t there at all, but eventually she realizes that he’s still in bed despite the fact that it’s a quarter to one, only his pale face sticking out from under the covers.

“Scott?” She asks, cautious. “Lord Smajor?”

He blinks at her tiredly. “Hi, Katherine.”

“I came to talk to you about some empires stuff, but, I mean, if this is a bad time, I can come back later…?”

“No, no, stay.” He waves at the sole chair in the room, which is near-enough to the bed. “I can muster the energy for a meeting, just don’t ask me to get up.”

Katherine takes the seat hesitantly. “I came to talk about the corruption on the server, but- are you okay? Are you sick?”

Scott laughs, a little bitter. “In a way, yes.”

“What do you mean?”

“Take my hand.”

She obeys, confused, and finds that Scott’s hands are like ice despite the warmth of the room.

“Elves don’t get sick like mortals do,” Scott says. “Nor do we die of old age. But we get...heartsickness, you might call it. We call it fading in our tongue- the cold hands are a symptom of that. Our souls are fragile, and the grief of the mortal plane can be overwhelming. If an elf is too struck by it, they fade away and die.”

She gasps a little.

“It usually happens to old elves, world-weary,” Scott continues. “Those who are tired of existence. But any elf who has experienced enough grief is at risk.”

It takes Katherine a moment to process everything, and once she does, she stares at him in horror. “You’re- fading? But doesn’t it usually happen to old elves? Wait, are you old?”

“I’m fifty-five.”

“Is that old?”

That gets a laugh out of him. “Fifty is the elven equivalent of eighteen for humans, the age of maturity.”

“Oh.” She struggles for words for a moment, settling on “How can you be so calm if you’re dying?”

“I’m tired, Katherine. The world tore me away from the people I loved, and..I’m tired of fighting it.”

Try as she might, there’s nothing she can say to that. “Is there a way to reverse fading- to fix it?”

Something pained and raw flashes through his eyes. “Technically, yes. If an elf recovers enough emotionally, it’s reversible. But whatever caused them to fade the first time can- and often does- cause it again.”

Katherine nods seriously, absorbing the information. “We’ll just have to reverse it, then.”

“That’s sweet, Katherine, but I’m dying.”

“No,” she tells him firmly. “You’re not going to die. Now come on, you can show me your empire while I fill you in on what’s happening on the rest of the continent.”

Scott stares at her for a long moment, but eventually he takes her outstretched hand. “Alright.” His hand is frozen cold in hers. “We can try.”

Katherine lets him lead her around Rivendell, pointing out the sights. He’s done an impressive job decorating, like her, and an even more impressive job at uniting the elves and building an empire from the ground up. The people of Rivendell are weary and battle-scarred, for the most part, elves who have seen too much, but the children are bright and happy, and the cyan and gold banners wave proudly in the wind.

As they walk, she also tells Scott about the demon, Xornoth. “The demon’s already visited a lot of people, I think. Gem and Shubble for sure, and Fwhip and Sausage. That’s not even mentioning the corruption that’s been spreading.”

Scott nods. “There’s corruption in Rivendell too. Likely Xornoth’s work. And given that Jimmy still has Vilya- well, I haven’t been able to do much.”

“Vilya?”

“A ring of power. My inheritance from the Noldor.”

“Why does Jimmy have it?”

He doesn’t answer that one.

Katherine leaves feeling unsettled, with more questions than answers. She has new resolve, though, and a new goal: keep Scott from fading. He’s a good friend, though they don’t know each other that well yet, but more than that, he’s a powerful ally. And Katherine can’t afford to lose allies. So while they’re both rulers and busy in their own right, she promises to visit and drag him outside at least once a week.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Scott jokes, but his laugh is weak.

Katherine vows to hold herself to it.

The plan works for three entire weeks before Katherine has a week that’s so busy there’s no way she can find the time for a trip to Rivendell. Worse than that, because Scott is so isolated, he has almost no other friends, and many of Katherine’s allies are busy too. She’s a little short of options, to be honest, which is how she finds herself on Jimmy Solidarity’s doorstep that Sunday afternoon.

“Hello?” Jimmy asks as the door swings open. Katherine can see why Lizzie calls him the sweet swamp boy- his confused head tilt is frankly adorable.

“Hi! I know we don’t talk much, but I could use a favor,” she says.

“What can I do for you?”

“I need you to visit Scott.”

Jimmy looks beyond startled. “What- I mean, he doesn’t even like me! I couldn’t possibly.”

“Please?” She wheedles. “I promised him a visitor every week, but I have meetings all week this time.”

He shakes his head, hesitantly at first and then stronger. “No, Katherine. He’d just throw me right out again. I’m his enemy, for goodness sake!”

“If he hates you so much, why do you have his ring?”

Katherine knows she’s won, watching emotions flit across his face too quickly to catch. Grief is what he settles on, and she feels a little bit bad for the ring comment when his voice comes out wobbly.

“I guess I should return that, huh? Alright, I’ll go.”

“Sorry,” she says.

Jimmy brushes it off, saying there’s no need to worry, but he fiddles with the ring on his finger all the more. It’s on his left ring finger, Katherine notes. She wonders if that truly means what it implies.

“I’ll visit him tomorrow,” Jimmy says.

“I’ll hold you to that!”

Jimmy isn’t sure why he agreed to this at all, to be honest. Scott may have given him this ring in another world, another lifetime, but that doesn’t mean Scott doesn’t hate him in this one. What other explanation is there for how all his gifts have been rejected, how cold the elf is? Jimmy would be surprised that Scott’s never tried to take his ring back if it wasn’t for how thoroughly Scott avoids him nowadays. Getting the ring back would require talking to Jimmy, something Scott has made it very clear that he doesn’t want to do. Jimmy doesn’t have another use for it, and try as he might to forget flower fields and warm hands in his, he can’t bear to throw it away. So it’s remained on his hand all this time, a painful reminder of someone who used to love him.

Jimmy tries to avoid looking at it as much as possible, every glimpse bringing back the memory of Scott gently sliding it onto his hand, a faint blush dusting his cheeks and a smile on his lips. Even the faint shimmers in the blue gem remind him of how the starlight seemed to get caught in Scott’s hair when they were out at night. The ring had been one of their most valuable possessions on 3rd Life, the rare silver band and elegant forging more than proof of that. Now, though, the ring has to be one of the least valuable things Jimmy owns; on 3rd Life, they were humble folk in little hobbit holes, their most expensive possessions being their diamond armor and swords, but here, they’re kings and lords. Scott probably has a thousand treasures more valuable in his elven empire, so Jimmy’s not sure why he’s bothering to trek all the way across the world just to return this one.

Then again, it’s not really about the ring, and never has been. It’s about the way starlight used to shine in Scott’s eyes when he smiled, his rare, soft grin that was reserved just for Jimmy, how he gave Jimmy the most valuable thing either of them owned. It’s closure, in a way, giving it back. He won’t have any debt to Scott once this ring is returned, and they can both move on like Scott so clearly wants to.

Shaking off those thoughts, Jimmy slows to a stop in front of Scott’s house. It’s grand, nothing like his old hobbit hole, but still so clearly Scott in the decoration and color schemes. Jimmy would know who built it even if he hadn’t known Scott lived in these mountains.

“I’m here to visit Scott,” he says to the guard stationed outside.

They raise an eyebrow, presumably at the familiar way he refers to Scott. “On formal business or personal?”

“Personal? Sort of? I mean, I don’t have any diplomatic reason for being here.” Truth be told, he has no reason to be here at all, really, but...the ring.

“Then Lord Smajor cannot see you.”

Jimmy grits his teeth, suddenly furious at this whole ordeal. “Then tell Lord Smajor that I need to return his ring.”

“May I see it?”

He sticks his hand out obligingly, and the guard examines the ring, surprise blooming across their face. “I did not realize my Lord had lent you Vilya! My apologies, Lord Codfather, I see the alliance between our kingdoms is stronger than I had assumed. You may pass.”

Vilya? “Thank you, gentle, uh, gentleperson!”

The guard dips their head slightly as he walks by, a gesture of respect that he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to. He shakes off the strangeness of the interaction, though, pushing open the door to Scott’s house.

The inside is beautiful, exactly the kind of decor Scott loves...and empty. There’s no one in the spacious kitchen, the storage room, or anywhere else for that matter. Jimmy’s seconds from giving up and going home when he realizes that there are stairs up to the balcony above. That’s where he goes, finding himself in Scott’s bedroom.

Which is awkward, to say the least. It’s not like they never slept in the same room when they were married, but now that there’s this awkward, painful distance between them, Jimmy feels like he’s intruding. What’s worse is, Scott’s still in bed, laying on his side with his face tilted away from Jimmy’s awkward entrance.

“Hello, Jimmy.”

Jimmy half-jumps, not expecting that. “How’d you know it was me?”

Scott rolls over to face him, and Jimmy notes that his face is too pale for it to be natural or healthy. “Do you think I could ever forget the sound of your footsteps?” He goes on before Jimmy can answer. “What are you doing here?”

“Katherine asked me to visit, I’m not sure why, but...here I am. Say, why is she visiting every week?”

Scott’s laugh is bitter. “Katherine thinks she can save me.”

“Save you from what?” Jimmy asks, concerned despite himself.

His (ex?)husband doesn’t reply.

“Save you from what?” Jimmy presses, and gets no answer yet again.

Instead, Scott sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “You should go.” He stands, and immediately stumbles, Jimmy rushing to steady him on instinct. Scott’s hands are like ice when he grips Jimmy’s arm to regain his balance, taking several deep breaths, and Jimmy’s instantly struck by how wrong that feels. Scott’s hands were always warm, even on the coldest nights in 3rd life. Some elven thing, probably, that Scott didn’t want to talk about or have time to explain to a silly human like Jimmy.

“Scott, what is going on?”

The elf brushes him off again, heading for the stairs, but the regal effect is ruined by how hard he has to grip the railing.

“Scott, seriously! Answer me, are you okay? What’s happening?”

Scott whirls to face him, robes spinning behind him. “I’m fading, alright? I’m dying, now leave me alone!”

Jimmy feels like he’s been smacked in the face, the words hitting him with all the force of a well-thrown trident. Dying? “You- what- but elves don’t die, right?”

“We do. From poison, from swords, from arrows through the throat-” Jimmy’s hands fly to the scar on his neck, the one that matches Scott’s own- “from grief.” Scott turns back to the stairs. “Come on. If you’re not going to leave, I might as well show you around.”

Jimmy follows, reluctantly, trying to think of something to say that isn’t incoherent sputtering with a bit of ‘why do you hate me now’ added in. “You can’t just drop something like that on a man, you know!”

“You did ask, to be fair.”

Why oh why is he so stupid around Scott? “I guess so, but- but still, dude.”

Scott pushes open the side door, holding it for Jimmy. “Here.”

Jimmy nods and slips through the door. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

They start along the path, Scott walking far too quickly for Jimmy’s comfort given how terrible the elf’s balance is currently. He nearly has to jog to keep up, irritatingly, but at least they aren’t snapping at each other for a few precious moments.

Of course, Jimmy has to go and ruin that. “So, uh..are we going to talk about 3rd life?” He has to hear it from Scott’s own lips that he remembers, that it affected him even half as much as it’s affected Jimmy.

“No.”

“Why not? We need to talk about it some time-”

“I said no .”

“It’s literally killing you to not talk about it!”

Scott freezes, face going icy calm in the way Jimmy knows means he’s actually upset. The elf’s hands grip the fabric of his robes tight, his back going rigid. This is a bad idea, Jimmy knows.

He’s in too deep to back out now, though, the pent-up hurt of the past few months all coming out in a rush. “Tell me I’m wrong, Scott! I dare you, tell me I’m wrong! Tell me you never cared about me, tell me you didn’t bother to bury me, tell me it didn’t hurt even a little when I died! Tell me I was just stupid little Jimmy, a toy for an elf who’d live far beyond my lifespan! Tell me whatever, just tell me the truth! ”

Scott breathes out slowly, fury gradually building on his face. “Fine. You want to know what happened after you died? You want to hear about me screaming until my throat went raw? You want to know that I kissed your face and sobbed and begged you to wake up, over and over until I couldn’t speak at all? You want to live with the knowledge that Grian had to physically pull me away from your body? Is that what you want to hear, Jimmy ?”

Jimmy’s name on Scott’s lips punches all the remaining air out of him, sounding so wrong in that angry, bitter tone. Beneath all the rage, Scott sounds wrecked , and the fight leaves Jimmy’s body abruptly. “No,” he says softly. “That’s not what I want to hear, not at all. I’d rather you be happy than love me.”

Silence follows those words, only the faint sound of a waterfall in the distance there to break it.

“I buried you on the hill above our houses,” Scott says finally. “I planted a poppy over your grave.”

“Oh.”

“Grian came over the next day. I didn’t want to see anyone who wasn’t you, but I let him in because I had to. He helped me do the straps on my armor and asked me if he could do anything else to make things easier. I told him to bury me next to you.”

Jimmy swallows hard. “Did he?”

“How would I know?” Scott’s tone softens, just a little. “Grian was honorable enough, though, loyal to his allies. I like to think he did.”

“He was a good guy,” Jimmy agrees. “A little bit bloodthirsty, I guess, but good. I don’t suppose he survived any better than the rest of us, though maybe being bloodthirsty helped.”

“Maybe.”

“Can I- can I ask you why you hate me so much now? I mean, if you mourned me in third life and all.”

Scott turns away again, starting down the path a second time. He’s not looking at Jimmy when he says “I don’t hate you.”

“You don’t?” It’s a shock, honestly, given that this is the first time the two of them have really spoken since the beginning of empires. “But you burned the pufferfish-”

“I didn’t. I kept it.” Scott still won’t look at him. “I never hated you. I don’t think I’m capable of it.”

“Then why do you keep avoiding me?”

“I’ve been kind of busy dying,” Scott says dryly, and Jimmy doesn’t even realize it’s a joke until he looks over at Scott’s wry little grin.

“Scott! That’s not funny!” He scolds, aghast.

“It was a little funny.”

“No!”

Scott must hear the genuine distress in Jimmy’s voice because he drops the act. “Jimmy, I’m an elf. I won’t live far beyond you, but only because I’ll fade without you.”

“So your solution is to isolate yourself and fade now?” Jimmy demands.

“It does sound stupid when you put it like that, doesn’t it? But I lost you once, and I don’t think I could bear it again.”

Jimmy wants to argue, wants to fight him on this, but there’s nothing he can say. Instead, he puts a hand on Scott’s arm to stop him walking any further. Scott turns to look at him, seemingly startled, and Jimmy throws his arms around the elf.

Scott stiffens before slowly relaxing, arms coming up to wrap around Jimmy in return. It’s not as natural a gesture as it used to be, but it’s warm, gentle in a way Jimmy thought he’d never get again. It reminds him of the soft, starry-eyed boy who put flowers in his hair and laughed at him over a cake. Scott will never be that soft again and Jimmy will never be unscarred, but they’re here. They’re alive, that has to count for something.

Scott pulls back, his expression so achingly tender and heartbroken all at once. “I’m sorry, Jimmy.” His voice is raw, a little shaky. “I can’t. Not again.”

“But-”

He’s cut off by Scott shaking his head. “Losing you will destroy me. We dared to love, and now all we can do now is lessen the pain when it all comes crashing down.”

Jimmy’s in too much shock to speak, the ache in his heart returning tenfold as Scott turns back towards the house.

“Goodbye, Jimmy.” He sweeps away, elegant as ever, but stumbles and nearly falls as he reaches the door. Jimmy’s not there to catch him.

Jimmy stumbles home in a daze. It's somewhat of a miracle that no mob manages to kill him, honestly. To be so close to a resolution, to have the person he wanted most right there in his arms, and then to have all that ripped away- he can’t think of anything that could have hurt more. Even his deaths were less painful than this- at least an arrow through the throat is quicker than feeling like your heart is being ripped out through your ribs, Jimmy thinks, a little bitter. He throws Scott’s stupid ring in a pool in the swamp, watching as it sinks to the bottom of the shallow water with hardly a bubble.

Wait.

The ring.

It’s significant, somehow, according to a Rivendell guard, and more than that, it’s an excuse to see Scott again. One last chance to change his mind about the stupid plan that’s literally killing him.

Jimmy dives in without thinking, scrabbling around until his fingers close around the smooth stone and thin band. When he pulls it out, the gem glitters in the starlight even under the layers of dirt, and it looks like something special. It looks like hope.

#scott smajor #jimmy solidarity #flower husbands #uhh #empires smp #i wont tag 3rd life since its only referenced #my writing

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h2bakugou · 4 years

Note

Love everything that you post! Do you think you could write one where bakugou struggles with his sexual preference, and ends up finding out his preference through fluffy and smutty experimentation ? That'd be so cool

a/n: thank you! of course! i’ll try to keep this as gender-neutral as possible so that way everyone can enjoy it! i haven’t written a smut in a while oop

all characters aged up 18+ au!!

summary: Bakugou has some mixed feelings, and after finally trying to understand his sexuality, he turns to you, and finally reveals how he feels.

key: (y/n) - your name / (f/n) - first name / (l/n) - last name / (e/c) - eye color / (h/c) - hair color / (y/q) - your quirk

warnings: swearing, fluff, smut

wordcount: 1.3k

»»————-　★　————-««

»»————-　★　————-««

In the back of his mind, Bakugou had always thought about you. He couldn’t decide if it was a good thing or a bad thing.

He was unsure if it was just some stupid thought, or if it was his true feelings. He just knew that he was always thinking back to you.

- - -

Two weeks had passed and Bakugou was still moping about. It was unusual to see the explosive blonde so distant. You had gotten pretty close with him, in terms of friendship.

You hung out often, tending to study for tests, or just talk about random shit. Bakugou was super chill when it came to hanging out with you, especially since he tended to be more agitated when it came to hanging with Kaminari or Sero.

As you made your way up to his dorm, you watched Kaminari leave his dorm room. Odd.

“Hey Kami!” You smiled, waving at the electric boy. He gave you a smile and waved back.

“Hey (y/n)! You headin’ to Bakugou’s?” He asked, stopping beside you to talk. You did the same.

“Yeah, he said he wanted to talk to me about something.” You responded, looking down at the ground before looking back toward Bakugou’s dorm.

“Oh, well have fun.” Kaminari patted your shoulder and walked off, allowing you to finish your walk to Bakugou’s dorm.

Before you could even knock, the door swung open, and Bakugou’s hand grabbed your wrist, pulling you into the room. He closed and locked the door behind you.

“Hey is everything okay?” You asked, standing in his room dumbfounded. Bakugou closed his eyes and took in a deep breath.

“I’m fine. I just...”

Bakugou took a seat on his bed, folding his hands in his lap. He was searching for the right words to say.

“I like you.” Bakugou mumbled. Did you hear him right?

“I’m sorry what?” You asked. Bakugou bit his lips and said it louder.

“I like you.” Bakugou said it with more confidence this time. Your cheeks began to burn. How was it that Bakugou just confessed his feelings to you, of all people. Was he playing some sick joke.

“Look if this is a joke-”

A set of lips on your own stopped you from speaking. This was actually happening. Bakugou pulled away and rested his hands on your shoulders.

“I’ve been thinking about this a lot, and I can’t fight it anymore. I need you.” Bakugou couldn’t wait. He’d already waited so long, making sure that what he was feeling was right.

And it was.

He truly liked you, and no matter what anyone says, he was going to be proud of his confidence and pursue being with you.

“I need you too.” You almost said instinctively. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like Bakugou. In fact, you’d liked the blonde since you showed up at U.A.

Bakugou didn’t hesitate to push you down onto his bed, shedding your clothes along with his.

You’d been in these dorms for years, and now that you were in your older years at being at U.A. this felt so right.

You’d waited to be with him for a while.

Bakugou’s lips stayed persistent against your own. You could feel how needy he was. You assumed he’d been fighting with these feelings for a while.

He wasn’t the type to just freely express himself. He kept everyone out of his emotions, it was safer for him that way. You understood that.

“Fuck.” Bakugou breathed out. You moved a hand down to his boxers, pulling his cock out.

He moved from lying on top of you so you could reposition at a better angle. You began to jerk him off slowly, your fingers delicately wrapping around the base of his cock, giving it a firm but not rough, few strokes. Bakugou’s head flew back, groans of pleasure escaping his mouth.

You gently wrapped your lips around the head of his cock, Bakugou let out a low growl. He ran his fingers through your hair, pushing the back of your head, forcing his cock further into your mouth.

As it hit the back of your throat, tears pricked your eyes.

“Look at you, gagging on my cock.” Bakugou spewed lewd words. It was only making you hotter. You could feel yourself getting worked up.

You bobbed your head, allowing your tongue room to move around his cock. You pulled your head all the way back, your tongue swirling around the tip before taking him back into your mouth fully.

Bakugou was getting closer and closer to the edge. He was fixing to cum. You could feel his cock twitch in your mouth before his warm seed filled your mouth.

He pulled his cock out, a trail of saliva connecting the two of you. His hand gripped the bottom of your jaw, his crimson eyes peering into your (e/c) ones.

“Swallow it.” He spoke roughly. You did as he said and swallowed all of his cum, a smiling resting on your wet lips.

Bakugou gave you a smirk, placing a rough kiss on your lips as a reward for following his instructions.

Bakugou didn’t waste time, after he kissed you, he flipped you over so your chest was laying against his bed. He pulled your legs apart and quickly placed himself between them.

He rubbed the tip of his cock along your ass, a hand pushing your face into his mattress.

Without warning, he shoved himself inside of you, the two of you letting out lewd moans as he did so.

It wasn’t your first time, and it wasn’t Bakugou’s either.

But you’d never experienced anything like this. If he was to continue, you’d say this was the best fucking you’d had.

“That’s right, moan for me.” Bakugou began moving his hips, his cock moving inside of you.

You let out another moan as the pleasure inside you stirred awake. It felt so good. Bakugou’s free hand kneaded your skin, starting on the back of your thigh, going up to your ass.

As more moans left your mouth, Bakugou leaned down, eventually relying on his hips to do the movement as both of his hands were now placed on each side of you.

You leaned your head back into him, his lips becoming excited at the sight of your neck.

While he pounded into you from behind, his lips made their way onto your neck, biting and sucking at your soft skin.

“B-Bakugou!” You moaned, his cock hitting against you at just the right angle.

“You like that?” Bakugou growled, biting at your skin a little harder.

“Fu-Fuck yes!” You moaned out, squeezing your eyes shut. You couldn’t hold out much longer.

“You like when I fuck you?” Bakugou’s breaths were jagged. The lewd sound of his skin hitting against yours was sending you overboard.

“I-I’m gonna cum!” You spewed out, your breath hitching in your throat.

“Cum for me then.” Bakugou whispered. With one final thrust of his hips, you let go. As you unraveled, Bakugou slid out of you, panting himself.

“Holy fuck.” Bakugou whispered. He’d made a bit of a mess himself.

“Fuck.” You breathed out. Your chest rose and fell as you switched to laying on your back.

- - -

After cleaning up, you got dressed and sat back down with Bakugou.

“I was not expecting that.” You said softly, a smile resting on your lips.

“What?” Bakugou questioned.

“The dirty talk.” You clarified. Bakugou’s cheeks reddened. He just waved a hand at you.

“I just say stuff when I’m in the mood.” Bakugou defended himself.

“It was hot.” You added. Bakugou looked up at you and smirked,

“In that case, I’ll continue doing it.”

You gave Bakugou a kiss, melting into it with him. He rested his hands on your hips. You rolled your hips against his, a small moan escaping his mouth.

“Ready for round two already?”

“After you ask me out.”

“You’re mine already, no going back now.”

»»————-　★　————-««

masterlist

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aelia-likes-monsters · 4 years

Text

The Bodyguard

Characters: Female Reader, Male Minotaur, Multiple other Monsters Content: NSFW/Grapefruit, Gloryhole, Voyeur/Exhibitionism, Light Domination, Bodyguard Trope, Multiple Partners, Kink Club, Oral Sex (Fetallio), Facials/Semen, Handjob, Fingering, PIV Sex, Some Violence (non-graphic), Angst Wordcount: ~4000 Notes: A very late Kinktober story for @monster-bait which starts immediately with the porn then hits you with some feels. This story is super explicit, so please triple check the tags at the top before reading.

Patrons got to see this one several days early. If you want early access to many of my stories, check out my Patreon.

The booth is small, and in another venue it might have been dingy. Here at the Velvet Room though, it’s shockingly clean despite being set up as a gloryhole. There’s a chair in one corner, a gel kneepad if you want it, and a refreshment cart near the switch that lets you toggle the lights outside indicating whether you’re servicing folks or not. Three of the walls have holes drilled in them at a few key heights, to allow anyone short or tall be serviced comfortably. You’d expect nothing less of the most exclusive kink club in town.

You take a few steadying breaths, and look over at your minotaur bodyguard in the corner. He’s large, filling the space with his bulk, his dark fur and hair fading into his black tee and jeans. In this small space, it’s already warm so he’s taken off his coat. You can see his shoulder holsters, reminding you that he has a specific job to do; he’s not here for fun. Not like you.

You offer him a wobbly smile.

“You okay?” Xavier asks. His voice is a rich rumble. He shifts in his seat, leaning forward, making the light glint off the gold bands on his horns, and the gold ring in his nose.

“Nervous,” you tell him. That word doesn’t quite do it justice, but it’s as close as you can get.

“We can just go home if you don’t want to do this anymore,” His voice is calm and even, and you want to curl up in his lap and nuzzle against him. But he’s your bodyguard, not your boyfriend, so you can’t do that. It crosses the line to unprofessional behavior, and while both of you toe the line, neither of you violate it.

“No,” You say, shaking your head. “I’m just… what if I do poorly?”

“You won’t.” The amusement fills his voice, and you can hear him fighting down laughter. Your feelings would be hurt if not what he says next. “You’re amazing at everything you put your mind to.”

His words do something to you, and you feel the heat low in your belly. You think he’s got a bit of a voyeuristic streak, though nothing he’s ever said has confirmed it. There’s just something about the weight of his gaze, the way his dark eyes watch you. You’ve noticed it before, noticed the way he looked at you wasn’t strictly professional, so you put on a show for him as you remove the tiny black dress you’ve worn to get to the club. It’s barely decent, only just hiding lingerie that you’d spent far too much on. He appreciates the show; the way he looks at it, the way he looks at you as you undress is intense.

You break eye contact to turn on the light indicating that you’re in the room and ready to service people. You’re calmer now that you’ve been reminded that you’re here because you want to be, and you can leave at any time. But you’re nervous in a different way. Xavier is watching. Xavier is watching. You fight the urge to look at him again, and instead turn to survey the available holes.

It doesn’t take long at all for an erect penis to slide through a hole in the wall. This one is human or fae, you think by the size and coloration. You reach for it tentatively, stroking it at first with your fingers, and are pleased to see it jump in response to your touch.

You glance over at Xavier and make eye contact as you tuck your hands behind your back and lick the length of the cock sticking through the wall. You tease it with your tongue, tasting it a bit before wrapping your lips around it and taking it into your mouth. You bob your head and find your rhythm, easing into a comfortable groove that pushes your partner toward their climax. It doesn’t take the person on the other side long at all; your only warning that they’re about to come is the subtle twitch of their cock and a groan from the other side of the wall. You prepare yourself for the flood of semen that inevitably fills your mouth.

They withdraw from the hole. You spit into a trashcan.

Xavier chuckles, and passes you a bottle of water. You rinse your mouth and glance around the room, but nobody else has arrived yet. So far this is entertaining, but you were hoping for a bit more. Xavier’s still just watching you, and you can see from the bulge in his pants that he’s enjoying the show.

You wonder if he’d let you touch him. If you’d be allowed to service him. It’s something you’ve thought about before, many times if you’re honest with yourself. He’s big and gorgeous, and he’s always there. You’ve admired the breadth of his shoulders, the tightness of his ass, the way he fills out a suit when he’s on formal detail, and the way he looks in casual clothes when he’s supposed to blend in with the crowd around you. You think about your fantasies, and wonder how reality would align. You’ve never been able to find out; that professional boundary has always been in the way.

Another penis slides through a different hole. This one juts upward, its green color and height tell you it’s probably a goblin. It’s uncut, darker near the tip than the base. You run your hands along it, pumping it a few times, feeling the way the foreskin moves before you take as much as you can into your mouth. Your lips stretch obscenely around it and you can’t take all of it, but you do your best. The tip hits the back of your throat, teasing your gag reflex, so you ease off some, using your hands to satisfy instead.

Two quick raps on the wall of the gloryhole are all that warn you this time of imminent ejaculation. You try to catch it in your mouth, but there’s a lot, and it ends up making a mess on your face, and spilling onto your chest. Xavier hands you a damp towel without a word, and you clean up quickly, before the next person can discover the “now servicing” light.

“Ugh,” you say with a scowl. “I paid too much for this bra to have it get crusty with strangers’ jizz.”

“Take it off then.” Xavier says. He’s far too casual with the suggestion, and it gives him away. You’re both about to cross a line, and you’re both very aware of it. Though you knew by bringing him here you were pushing that line, there wasn’t any other bodyguard you’d have been willing to bring. You hope that Xavier is as certain about this as you are, because you don’t think you can move back from this, once the line is crossed.

You remove your bra, unfastening it and flinging it aside in one smooth gesture. Xavier glances at it, and then back at you. He seems to drink in the sight of you, particularly your now bare breasts. Your nipples are already pebbled with excitement, but the way he looks at you makes them feel tighter, somehow. You bring your fingers up and caress your breasts, giving Xavier a show. He doesn’t seem to be breathing, just clenching the arms of the chair and staring at you hungrily.

Emboldened by his gaze, you slide one of your hands down along your belly and into your panties. You’re already soaking wet with need, from the weight of Xavier’s gaze, and from the cocks you’ve already serviced tonight. You part your folds and brush your finger against your clit. Even that light touch has you gasping.

“Does that feel good?” He asks, his voice a deeper rumble than usual. You watch him watch you, see the way his gaze focuses intently on where your hand moves inside your panties.

“Yes,” you say, circling your clit slowly, drawing this out.

You see movement from the corner of your eye. Another penis has arrived. This one is different, bulbous and red. You go to touch it, but Xavier interrupts.

“Only use your mouth. Keep touching yourself,” He says. He’s got that tone of command in his voice that you reflexively listen to. It’s saved your life before, but now he’s using it for a very different purpose. “No cumming.”

An undignified whine escapes your lips. It’s completely unbecoming of a woman of your status, but here in this room you don’t care about any of that. You obey him to the best of your ability, using one hand on the wall to steady yourself, keeping the other in your panties, teasing slowly.

You rub your cheek against the cock, feeling the ridges against your skin, and the way it seems to be self-lubricated. You wonder what kind of creature this belongs to, but you’re not experienced enough to know. A careful lick ensures that it doesn’t taste awful before you begin working at it with your mouth. Kissing along the sides of the shaft, rubbing against it a bit before taking it between your lips.

You hear a groan from the other side of the wall, and you feel it press a little bit further forward. It hits the back of your throat, but you’re aroused enough at this point that you’re able to ignore your gag reflex and swallow it down. Your fingers work faster on your clit, and you’re struggling to focus on both the motion of your fingers and the penis thrusting at you. The speed of their thrusts increase as they get closer to their climax, and they become more uncoordinated. There’s two quick knocks against the wall just before they shoot their load into your throat.

Determinedly you swallow this time.

You hear a whispered “thank you” from the other side of the wall.

Xavier hands you the water bottle again. Watches as you rinse your mouth out.

“You’re so gorgeous right now.” He says. “I want to bend you over and fuck you.”

“Yessssss.” The words come out as more of a hiss than anything else as you hit your climax at the mere suggestion of him filling you. Your head falls back and you moan. Sensation washes over you, and you feel yourself clench. It’s not an earth shattering orgasm, but it’s a good start to the evening.

Xavier’s got his pants undone, his erect cock out, one of his hands working it slowly. It’s big, enough that you know it’d hit every nerve just right. If you crossed the room right now and just climbed on his lap, you could hold his horns and ride his gorgeous cock. You want it more than you’ve wanted anything before.

You slide your panties down your hips, and off, standing nude in front of Xavier for the first time, just as another penis slides through a hole.

“I could fuck this one…” you say.

He growls.

“No.” He says, his gorgeous face twisted into a scowl. He doesn’t like the idea of you fucking anyone else, though he’s still tied up enough in his role as your bodyguard that he won’t touch you yet.

“Okay.” You say, ignoring the waiting penis for a moment longer in favor of soothing Xavier. You close the gap between the two of you, running your hands over his furrowed brow. “If you don’t want to watch that, then I won’t do it.”

You lean in and rub your cheek against his, feeling the softness of his fur against your skin. He doesn’t move, doesn’t raise a hand to touch you. Not yet. But he relaxes. You feel the long exhale of tension leave his body, a gust of air over your back.

“How do you want me to serve this one?” You ask, your voice a sultry whisper in his ear.

“Just your hands.” He says, just before you feel one of his hands come up and cup your breast. Internally you sing in triumph. Large fingers tease your nipple, mimicking the way you’d touched yourself earlier. You arch into his touch, whimper softly into his ear so he can hear what he’s doing to you.

“Whatever you want,” you say, and you hope he picks up the full meaning of your words.

Slowly you pull away from him, kissing him gently before you cross back over to where there’s now two cocks waiting in side-by-side holes. One is the dark black of a shadow-being, the other looks as though it might belong to a demon. You glance at Xavier, lube up your hands, and grab both at once. You pump them carefully, to the same rhythm.

It takes just enough concentration that you don’t realize Xavier is coming up behind you until you feel him press against your back. He’s big and warm, and hard. He seems more focused on you than himself though, as his hands rove over your body. He leans down so he can nibble on your neck, scraping blunt teeth against tender flesh as one hand teases your nipple and the other slides between your soaked folds.

“I hope this is what you meant when you said whatever I want.” His lips close to your ear when he speaks, his voice rough and deep with need. He nuzzles against the spot just below your earlobe.

“Yessss.” You breathe.

His finger plunges into you, filling you as his thumb finds your clit. Your hands slow on the cocks in front of you. It’s perfect, and you want more. You want to feel him stretch you, want to feel his hands gripping your hips as he fucks you hard. You’re so focused on the way he’s touching you and the fantasies of more, that your hands nearly stop moving. Xavier withdraws his finger. You lean into him and look up into his face, so familiar, and yet so new in this situation, silently begging him to continue what he was doing.

“Focus,” Xavier says, that stern hint of command in his voice. “If you stop, I stop.”

A whine is your only response, but you pick up your speed again, trying to split your attention between the feelings the minotaur behind you is evoking and the handjobs you’re giving. He chuckles, and you feel the vibrations of his chest against your back, just as much as you hear it. You love this, and you want more, but he’s also so wicked with this, expecting you to multitask.

Another finger slides into you, stretching your channel. You arch against him, chasing the feeling. He pumps his fingers quickly, drawing you toward your climax. You get distracted from the handjobs, and he slows once more. You whine, and are rewarded with a quick slap on the ass. You love it, and you know he must feel you tighten around his fingers.

“Keep going,” he tells you. “You’ve got a job to do, and you only get your reward if you do it well.”

You press back against him, wiggling your ass. He bites your ear and growls at you: a warning. You grin, but focus harder on the handjobs. The sooner they’re done, the better. A rapid tap against the wall warns you that your guests are nearing completion, and then one after the other they ejaculate onto you. The mess coats your hands, which you quickly press against the wall to steady yourself.

“Come for me,” Xavier growls into your ear.

You struggle to stay upright, writhing and mewling as a second orgasm overtakes you. One big arm wraps around you, and he holds you tight, playing your body expertly, drawing your climax out until you hit the point of overstimulation.

“Ah” You gasp, squirming away from his hand. “Too much.”

“Sorry.” He says, withdrawing his fingers and instead focusing on gentle kisses elsewhere for a moment. “Stay right there” Xavier murmurs into your ear. You nod, and hold your position as he rises and moves away. He turns off the ‘now servicing’ light, and grabs some wet-wipes to clean your hands.

You’re still on your knees, looking up at him through your lashes. His erection bobs at face-level, giving you a tempting view of his cock. It’s large, but not overwhelmingly so, uncut, and thick. You hold his eyes as you lean forward and lick it. He doesn’t stop you, so, emboldened you begin to take more of him into your mouth. He reaches for you, tangling one of his hands in your hair, not pressuring you, just holding you as you work to take his entire length into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he groans. “You’re so good at this baby.”

You want to smile, pleased by the way he seems to be melting under your ministrations, but your mouth is otherwise occupied. Instead you show your pleasure by redoubling your efforts, using your tongue and lips to tease as you increase suction, pulling him further into your mouth. You relax your throat and try to swallow him all. He groans, and you feel his fingers clench in your hair.

He pulls your mouth off his cock, spins you around and presses you against the wall, entering you from behind. From this angle he feels huge, and you know if you weren’t so wet from everything you’d been doing tonight, it might have hurt a bit, but he slides home easily. You love the way he’s manhandling you, love the way he’s rutting into you, growling in your ear about how you’re his, and he’s going to fuck you until you can’t walk. You’re relishing the feel of his huge body covering yours, the way he feels thrusting into you, and you’re so close to your climax.

Then there’s a bang just outside the door. You both know that sound.

In an instant, everything is chaos.

Xavier pushes you to the ground, covering you with his jacket. His gun is in his hand and he’s standing over you. The door is kicked open, and you’re hiding your face and ears as you hear the rapid staccato of gunshots in this enclosed space.

Quiet descends.

And then you’re in his arms, your purse and clothes shoved into your grip, but your body still only covered by his jacket. He moves fast, his eyes scanning the hallways for danger, his ears constantly pivoting. You’re quiet and still, clinging to him. He’ll keep you safe. He always does.

You’re bundled into the back of a car that’s waiting around back, one with tinted windows, bulletproof glass. The driver doesn’t ask where to go, and Xavier doesn’t have to tell him. It’s doubtless one of your family’s safehouses.

Xavier is distant, his dark eyes focused on something outside the window, and you feel like despite everything that you shared tonight, he’s further than ever from you. You crawl into his lap, tuck your head under his chin. He holds you, but it’s an automatic gesture, and you can almost feel the emotional distance as a physical pain.

You want to cry. You don’t.

You arrive at the safehouse. The one you probably wouldn’t need if your father’s “business” was actually on the up-and-up. But he’s got his fingers in a lot of pies, and ties to some sort of organized crime. Xavier gets out of the car first, checks for danger, then hustles you into the building. It’s a high-rise condo with a doorman on your father’s staff. The man nods to Xavier, indicating that everything is fine. He’s too professional to so much as look at the fact that you’re wearing nothing but your bodyguard’s coat. The two of you ride the private elevator up to the suite. The security system is still active, the locks still engaged, and you take it all as a good sign as you punch in the pin to deactivate the alarm and wait just in the foyer as Xavier checks the perimeter.

He nods, signifying it’s clear.

“I need a shower.” You say. Despite your best efforts, you hear the upset in your voice.

“Wait,” Xavier says. He catches your arm, looks at you, and you see everything he’s about to say in his face. You don’t want to hear it, but you let him speak. “This is a bad idea. I got distracted, and I nearly got you killed. We can’t do this. We can’t happen.”

“But you didn’t.” You want to shake him. You’re frustrated with Xavier, but deep down you knew pushing him was a bad idea. “It’s fine, Xavier. I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to, and it’s clear that you don’t want this.”

“That’s not…” He runs a big hand over his face, dragging it up and back and through the shaggy hair on top of his head. “I do want you. So much. I probably should have gotten switched off your detail long ago, but I don’t trust anyone else to watch you like I do. And that’s why we shouldn’t… because I almost didn’t react in time.”

“It’s okay.” You lie, feeling your heart breaking as you say those words. You reach up and caress his cheek. “I’m okay, and you did save me, and I’m sorry I pushed you tonight.”

“That’s not…” Xavier growls in frustration, quickly turning away from you. He’s pacing the room, and you recognize that right now he is deeply torn.

“I think we both need a minute.” You finally say, speaking to his back. “I am going to go shower, and then I am going to bed. You can think about what you want. If you want more, join me in my bed. If you don’t, we’ll pretend none of this ever happened, and tomorrow we go back to being perfectly professional.”

He doesn’t move. You try not to let that panic you. You know he values his job, and takes pride in what he does. It’s why he’s your personal guard, and not just one of your father’s random security goons. It’s also what you like about him, and you know he wouldn’t be the Xavier you love (oh gods you do love him don’t you?) if he were willing to compromise himself for a bit of pussy. He needs time and space to come to a decision, and you need to give him that.

You grab some sweats out of the dresser--the clothes kept in safehouses are convenient and flexible, not fashionable or personalized--and climb in the shower. In there, you let the tears you’ve been holding back fall. Tonight was fun, then terrifying, and then heartbreaking. You’re worried Xavier will choose to go on maintaining his professional distance, and then you’ll have to decide if life with him holding you at arm’s length is better or worse than life without him at all.

The bed is big, plush, and cold. You feel small and alone. Anxious thoughts about all the things that you should have done differently with Xavier chase themselves around your head. Sleep eludes you for long enough that you’re tempted to leave the bedroom and find Xavier, throw yourself at him and try to change his mind.

You don’t.

You know that you can’t do that. It’s the wrong choice for a myriad of reasons.

The tears are falling in earnest once more when you hear the quiet creak of the door opening. The figure that stands there, haloed in the light from the hallway is as familiar to you as your own. He hesitates for another minute, then closes the door behind himself as he crosses the distance between the door and your bed.

“Xavier?”

“I can’t go back to watching you from across the room.” He says as he climbs under the blankets and pulls you into his arms. “I don’t know exactly what this means for my career, but I can’t do that anymore.”

“I don’t want you to.” You say, sliding your hands under his shirt so you can touch him directly. You run your hands over the area where soft fur transitions to warm human skin. He shudders and pulls you tighter against him.

“We can talk it out tomorrow,” he says, and you feel his voice rumbling in his chest as he holds you close. “Get some sleep, babe.”

You smile at the pet name, at the idea that everything is future-yous problem, and at the fact that he is here, in your bed, holding you close. You’ll talk tomorrow.

You fall asleep in his arms, feeling like everything is right with the world.

You can find all my writing on my Masterlist. Love what I do? Tip me with a Ko-Fi, and/or back me on Patreon. I also truly appreciate reblogs, likes, and comments. They keep me going. ♥

#Exophilia #kinktober #minotaur boyfriend #monster romance #monster lover #minotaur lover #my writing #reader insert #monster love #grapefruit story #lemon story #monster/reader #monster/human #minotaur

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author-a-holmes · 3 years

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Monthly Magic

@monthly-magic

Just gonna share an excerpt from my current Nanowrimo project, because it happens to include some pretty strange plants. Tree's, specifically!

The Fey use "Sacred Tree's", either an Ash, Oak, Hawthorn or Birch, located in the centre of a Fairy Circle, as portals to the Mortal Realm.

In Chapter 2, my main characters make their way through the Forest of Portals to sneak their way into the Mortal Realm.

Excerpt Beneath the Cut, Wordcount Aprox 1,500

Her steps slowed slightly as she took in the small forest of Sacred Trees. Ash, Birch, Oak and Hawthorn, all acting as portals between the Fey and Mortal Realms, and powered by the Fairy Circles that grew around the base of each trunk. Their twisting limbs stretched up, tall and dark against the night sky and Lizzy was suddenly very grateful to have Booker at her side.

“Ready?” he asked quietly, and Lizzy braced herself before nodding.

Quietly, they climbed the wooden fence, hopping to the grass carpeted ground of the orchard, and quickly making use of the shadows cast by the forest of magical portals to stay out of sight of the roaming Court guards that patrolled the mushroom lined walkways.

“Which one do we need?” Booker whispered as they moved cautiously deeper into the trees, but Lizzy shrugged while carefully stepping over a line of mushrooms so that their destruction didn’t alert the guards to trespassers.

“I don’t have any way to activate a Fairy Circle, so we need one that’s been recently used and still has some lingering power,” she explained softly, “so just… look for the glowing blue mushrooms.”

“Do you not know which one Maddy’s delegation went through?” Booker asked, voice sharp, but he fell silent quickly when Lizzy shot him a sharp look of warning.

“Unless you have a way to activate it, it doesn’t matter,” she reminded him, “We can figure out where the delegation went once we’re there-” She cut herself off sharply when she spotted a patrolling guard approaching along one of the neatly trimmed pathways. Grabbing Booker’s hand and dragging them both behind a large Hawthorn to hide, they watched in tense silence as the guard wandered past her wings fluttering in boredom.

It was only once she was out of sight, and they were in no immediate danger of being overheard, that Booker continued, his voice low and quiet.

“Lizzy,” Booker muttered, “do you have any idea how big the Mortal Realm is? Without knowing which portal Maddy used…”

“Getting out of here is the hard part,” she deflected, “Once we’re there, they won’t follow us and we’ll have time to figure everything else out, and most importantly we’ll be that much closer to mum.”

A quick glance around the tree trunk and Lizzy was ready to move on, she released his hand only to tug lightly on his light linen coat to get him to follow her, “Come on, we need to find an active circle before one of the guards finds us.”

They didn’t have to go much deeper into the orchard, before Booker pointed out the bright blue glow of an active Fairy Circle, and Lizzy immediately headed towards it, excitement and the hope for answers distracting her until she almost walked head first into another of the Court guards.

It was only Booker’s grasp on her wrist, and the shadows of a large Oak that kept her from being seen. She turned to thank him, but silenced herself when he pressed the fingers of his free hand against his own lips, before tapping his temple and Lizzy grimaced at his silent request for telepathy.

Glancing at the guard by the active circle Lizzy watched the woman for a moment, hoping she would walk onto the next leg of her patrol, but the guard didn’t seem inclined to move any time soon and Lizzy slowly turned back to Booker, reluctantly nodding her acceptance.

It only took seconds for Booker to link up their minds, but Lizzy still wrinkled her nose and bit her lip at the uncomfortable sensation of something wriggling against her skull.

‘This would be so much easier if you didn’t fight it every time,’ came the quiet voice in her mind, and she shook her head.

‘I wouldn’t fight it, if it didn’t feel like a fly buzzing against my ear,’ she grumbled, glancing back at the guard again before adding, ‘what are we going to do about her?’

‘You just had to find the Fairy Circle with a permanently stationed guard, didn’t you?’ Booker complained, but with their thoughts linked Lizzy could almost taste the reluctant amusement behind his words.

‘How was I supposed to know?’ she shot back, and the strange sensation of a simultaneous laugh and sigh brushed across her mind.

‘Fine, fine, lemme think for a moment…’

Lizzy grimaced again when she felt the pressure in her head change as Booker retreated slightly and sank into his own thoughts, returning her own attention to the stationed guard. Her dislike for telepathy was just one more thing that set her apart from her peers.

A normal part of Fey society, Lizzy had always shied away from the contact, unless it was Booker or her mother. Someone inside her head always felt intimate and a little foreign to Lizzy, and yet there were some Fey who communicated almost exclusively via telepath.

Lizzy had made it a point to avoid those Fey as much as she could.

She felt Booker’s attention return to her, so wasn’t surprised when his voice echoed through her head once more.

‘I’m going to distract her,’ he said simply, and Lizzy turned to stare at him, eyebrows raised.

‘How?’

‘Do you trust me or not?’ He sent back, but she didn’t need to be inside his head to know he wasn’t as confident as he was pretending to be, the tightening around the corners of his mouth told her that much.

He must have sensed the argument brewing in her mind because Booker continued quickly, ‘Look, just be ready to make a run for the portal if this goes sideways,’ he told her, while dropping his bag onto her shoulder, and before Lizzy could summon any kind of an answer, Booker broke the contact between their minds and stepped away from the tree.

Lizzy watched him from her hiding spot as he made his way onto one of the cultivated paths that led towards the Court guard and began approaching confidently, his pace steady but brisk. The woman came sharply to attention when she heard him, turning to face Booker with an expression of wary warning that melted away as Lizzy watched Booker begin to speak to her, his voice quick and quiet.

She couldn’t make out what her friend was saying, but the guards' features were easy to read and they cycled from confused to panic stricken in a matter of moments, the reactions more than enough to reassure Lizzy that whatever Booker had intended, it was going to plan.

It was only when the guard's wings suddenly lifted away from her body, and she launched herself into the air, disappearing into the night as she quickly flew towards the town centre, that Lizzy felt her jaw drop open in shock.

“Lizzy!” Booker’s hissed call snapped her shocked gaze down from the sky and back to her friend, who was beckoning her urgently, “Hurry up, she won’t be gone long!”

Jerking into motion, Lizzy tightened her grasp around both their bags before jogging over to Booker’s side but he didn’t let her stop, just grabbing her free hand and sending them both running towards the oak tree surrounded by the active Fairy Circle, signified by the perfect ring of large white mushrooms that glowed bright blue, throbbing slowly with Fey magic.

The moment their feet crossed the ring of mushrooms and pressed against the soft grass the blue glow pulsed brighter and raced across the ground beneath their feet like a shockwave, closing in on the sacred tree before it hit and ran up the oaks trunk, sinking into the deep cracks between the bark and giving it a translucent appearance, before an aurora of warning lights lit up the sky above them.

“Shit!”

“Keep running!” Booker snapped back, tugging on Lizzy’s arm when her steps faltered at the light display they’d inadvertently triggered.

Lizzy could hear the sudden buzzing of Fey wings filling the air behind them, knew that the aurora would have summoned every Court guard in the vicinity, but seconds later she and Booker slammed into the still glowing trunk of the tree, and passed through it.

Bright blue faded to black, like the aftermath of an explosion, or from staring into a fire too long and then looking away. Lizzy had just enough time to realise that the whole sensation felt disturbingly like falling, before she slammed into solid ground. Her legs gave way beneath her from the force and Lizzy dropped their bags, her hands snapping out just in time to catch her forward momentum against the grass and to stop herself from smashing face first into the ground.

Booker’s anxious panting beside her suggested that her experience wasn’t a unique one, but Lizzy struggled through the moment of disorientation, rolling quickly to sit on the damp grass, staring anxiously at the tree they’d just passed through as she scrambled backwards and away from the portal.

Despite her reassurances to Booker earlier in the night, Lizzy half expected a contingent of Court guards to follow them through at any moment, dragging them both back to face… whatever the punishment was for an unauthorised portal access, but slowly the glow faded from the tree, leaching out from between the cracks in its bark and sinking into the soil before disappearing entirely.

“We did it,” Lizzy breathed, not quite able to believe in their success for a long moment before she suddenly released a relieved laugh as the realisation began to sink in.

#monthlymagic #Ari Writes #Fey Touched #Lizzy Hail #Lila Isabelle Hail #Booker Reed #YA #YA Fantasy #Fantasy #Fantasy Romance #Mysterious Plants

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roggenmuhme · 4 years

Text

Strawberry Colada

The Pearls x Reader Summary: You get drunk and your unsuspecting gem girlfriends have to deal with it. There's always a first time for everything, right? [A series of short one-shots/Human Antics series] Wordcount: 2.3k

I hope this whole collection isn’t too ‘out there’ for you to enjoy, a lovely person on discord had this prompt idea and it … just took over. I legit couldn’t stop thinking about this, so here goes nothing. So far I have Jasper, Bismuth and the Diamonds planned; if you have any input/ideas, I’d be glad to hear them! (But I can't promise anything, some characters are incredibly hard for me to write unfortunately) As always, feel free to contact me for anything really - imbutahumblefarmer#5583 on discord! Also tumblr is being weird with the format again - can also be read here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23864869/chapters/57363457

Warning: Detailed descriptions of nausea, along with the more uncomfortable feelings of being drunk. Be careful, please (no vomiting)

Dedicated to that one time I fell asleep cuddling a clorox bottle. The hot, humid air around you quickly became overwhelming as you pushed past a couple standing irritatingly close to the exit. Your hand clenched around your smartphone, the only thing grounding your upset stomach right now. You definitely had had one shot too many with your friends an hour earlier and the wild dancing afterwards didn’t help either. As you fought to keep the bile down, you swore off Jägermeister for at least a month. Pushing open the heavy, black door, you greedily breathed in the cold air. It felt almost as good as the ice-cold glass of water you had downed minutes ago, a desperate attempt to keep the nausea at bay. Stumbling away from the entrance, you hastily looked around, searching for any sign of your girlfriends. You had texted them fifteen minutes back, when it became obvious to you that you had to end the night early, too sick to continue. They had answered in seconds, you knew how vigilantly Pink Pearl watched her phone (she had been enamored with the device ever since she got it, because it meant constant and fast communication with you) and now all you had to do was wait for them. Easier said than done, in your drunken stupor all of your thoughts flew to your gut, you knew you had to keep moving or else its contents would soon find another home on the streets - and you hated vomiting.

Pacing around in front of the dimly lit club entrance, the dulled bass soon blended into the background and seconds turned into hours. You cursed yourself for being so careless with alcohol this time, falling victim to the peer pressure of your friends. In the end, it was your fault for accepting too many drinks and you knew tomorrow wouldn’t be fun. But right now, you had different problems on your hand. Just as you were about to check your messages once more, someone yelled out your name as if it wasn’t two in the morning and they hadn’t seen you just hours ago. Quick steps followed and soon an enthusiastic Pink hugged you from behind, her arms digging into your stomach. As much as you wanted to appreciate the sweet gesture, you nearly expelled your hearty dinner in that moment. “H-hey”, you croaked, slowly turning your head to meet a loving gaze. “C-could you let me go?” In an instant her arms were gone and she appeared next to you, a sweet smile on her face. “Hey!” You tried to reciprocate her grin, but it looked rather pained. Somebody pointedly cleared their throat behind you and you didn’t have to turn around to know who the culprit was. Although you were slightly compromised right now, you still made a show out of turning around slowly, clearly trying to annoy Yellow Pearl. When you finally faced both Blue and Yellow, the latter rolled her eyes at your antics, but you knew she didn’t really mean it. Blue Pearl promptly rushed over to you to greet you with a gentle hug, her voice nearly too quiet to be picked up by your abused ears. “I’m so glad you want to go home so early.” You forgot your upset stomach for a moment as you patted her back, melting into her touch. It was adorable how they all missed you the instant your back was out of the door, even grouchy Yellow. Said gem brought you back to reality with a snide comment, one hand touching her chin. “You look absolutely disheveled, what have you been doing?”, she leaned in to inspect you closer, only to recoil in horror. “Stars, you reek!”, her tone was seriously offended, her face scrunched up as she blinked rapidly. “Oh...”, was all you could muster, suddenly aware of you unkempt your whole presence was. A wave of nausea forced the thought into the background, a hand flying to your mouth as your cheeks comically puffed out. “Oh no”, Blue put a hand on your shoulder, as did Pink. With two concerned pearls to either side of you, you only managed to blurt out a ‘let’s go’, hoping you’d make it to your apartment without any accidents. As you tried to power-walk your way back home, the alcohol hit you once again, making you stagger with each step. Blue and Pink stabilized you with a surprisingly firm grip (sometimes you forgot how strong they could be despite of their slender builds) while Yellow took the lead, arms crossed behind her back, throwing you a glance every couple of minutes.The silence was overbearing and your mind too focused on that dreadful feeling in your gut. You couldn't take it any longer.

"Please…", you huffed out. "Tell me something. Talk to me."

Next to you, Pink piped up, her voice excited. "Blue and I made a batch of your favorite cookies!"

An image of said cookies flashed through your head and your stomach turned at the thought. As much as you loved a homemade batch, food was the least appealing thing you could imagine right now.

You made the most disgraceful gurgling sound. "About anything else, please? No food, I beg of you…", you heaved out.

Pink let out a surprised noise, seemingly at loss for words. Even in your inebriated state you could feel the guilt creeping up, they had no clue what you were going through (not that you could explain it right now, anyway) and were just trying to help you. “Ugh”, you tried talking through a surge. “S-sorry, I can tell you why tomorrow, but I’m j-just not up to speed.” Blue clutched your left arm a little harder and Yellow looked at you a little longer than necessary. Yes, they were definitely worried for you. “B-but it’ll pass”, you took a deep breath. “Promise!” Pink gave you a small smile at that, but you could still see concern in her eyes. You owed them a detailed explanation tomorrow. The chatter picked back up, Yellow and Pink taking turns. One was more or less bickering, the other eagerly talking about the evening they had spent without you. Blue practically hang from your arm, slightly massaging your tense muscles when she felt another tremor working its way through you. You got accustomed to walking after a while, your overloaded brain phasing in and out of the situation. When you finally arrived at home, it felt like you had teleported to the location. Your aching feet told you otherwise. To your amazement, the nausea had died down a bit, probably due to time and fresh air. You’re were still hammered though.

As the Pearls ushered you as quietly as possible into your shared apartment, you could feel the exhaustion creeping up your eyes instead. Your walk became even more sluggish, you barely managed to kick off your shoes (much to the displeasure of Yellow, who gave you an indignant sigh) and you blindly wobbled to your bedroom, all three of them following you. As you simply face-planted into the incredibly soft bedding, Yellow was getting winded. “No, no, no!”, she picked you up by the back of your shirt, hauling you back into consciousness. “You’ll ruin the sheets.” Struggling to find your footing, she only released your top after you were out of the door, the soft giggling of Blue and worried gaze of Pink following you. After closing the bathroom door forcefully behind you, she left you alone. Now it was only you and your haggard reflection in the mirror. “Goodness”, you steadied yourself on the sink while you poked your eye bags. You looked very… unfavorable, to say the least. Nothing a full night of sleep couldn’t fix, though. Sighing, you sat down on the toilet lid to wrestle yourself out of your clothing - all those zippers and hooks had been easier to put on a couple of hours ago. Somewhere during the struggle - probably between wiggling out of your socks and fighting with some knots in your hair, your eyes simply clamped shut. You fell asleep then and there, outfit still on, slouched on the toilet seat. After ten minutes of no noise - especially not the tinkling of the shower head - Yellow decided to check up on you, the other two in tow. As the three of them peered into the bathroom, Yellow had to suppress a groan at your sight, while the Pink and Blue laughed silently. Rolling her eyes, she strode up to you, lightly touching your shoulder, trying to wake you up. Your head lolled back in response, eyes flickering open for a moment, promptly closing again. She tapped your chest with her index finger once, as if to chastise you. “You should feel honoured that you’re my human”, her voice was barely above a whisper as she lifted you up with a sour expression, the others quick to help her. Together, they carried you back into the bedroom, freeing you of your restrictive clothing. Pink and Blue quickly found their usual places right next to you, cuddling up to you with ease. Your subconscious made you curl into the both of them, Pink lovingly stroking your hair away from your face. Yellow sat on the edge of the mattress, frowning while she watched the three of you. “Why don’t you join us?”, Blue’s voice was hushed, trying not to wake you up. Yellow raiser her chin in response. “And dirty myse-” She didn’t get to finish that sentence as your hand shot up and pulled her towards the cuddle pile with an iron grip. “C’mere.” She squealed in surprise, face immediately on fire. After a minute of adjusting herself, she eventually settled into a comfortable position and reluctantly drifted off, as did the others. You woke up to the sound of soft breathing and an unfamiliar pressure on your stomach. Looking down, you first saw Blue resting on your chest and further down a lightly snoring Yellow. Pink’s face was nestled in the left side of your hair, her breath warming your scalp. Groaning as quietly as you could, you strained your neck to take a look at the time, only to be greeted by Blue’s head shooting up, a tired smile on her lips. “Morning”, you grinned at her, promptly pressing your hand against your mouth. You had the most terrible morning breath, even you could smell yourself. A wave of humiliation washed over you, along with an agonizing headache. She only giggled and pressed a kiss to your forehead instead, then quickly got up to wake the others. After Yellow basically propelled herself out of bed in shock and Pink finally (after many gentle words and loving touches) was ready to let go of you, you were forced to take a shower and brush your teeth, no matter how bad the headache was. To Yellow’s credit, you did feel better after getting clean. The sun was still painfully bright and your head wasn’t done with throbbing to the beat of some imaginary techno tune, but you felt like you could at least stomach some food now. The smell of your favorite breakfast hit you as soon as you left the bathroom, guiding you to the kitchen, where an excited Pink Pearl prepared a hefty plate for you and Yellow and Blue sat at the kitchen table, a hushed conversation going on between the two. As soon as Yellow caught your eye, she crossed her hands over her chest, her voice shrill in annoyance. “Well, why didn't you tell us you were drunk?”

"Uhm…", you blinked at her for a second, a bit lost. "I thought you weren't familiar with the concept and I swear I didn't plan to escalate like this yesterday. I'm so sorry."

You looked down to your hands, nervously fiddling around with the hem of your shirt. It wasn't like you were lying, in all your excitement you had forgotten to warn them - going out was such a normal thing in life and you weren't usually one to get that wasted. This didn't absolve you of your guilt at all, you had probably scared the ever-loving shit out of them still. They were a trusting bunch that believed you when you told them something - that was perhaps why they hadn't fussed over you yesterday. You had assured them that everything had been alright, after all. Pink sat the plate down at your usual place, a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

"We know you didn't mean to hurt us. But we were worried!"

You said nothing, your face hot with shame, hands now tightly clutching your shirt. “Come, sit down”, Pink lightly pushed you towards the table and you reluctantly plopped down, your non-dominant hand immediately clasped by Blue. She gently stroked it with her thumb, a gesture of reassurance. It helped a bit. Yellow rolled her eyes at your sorry form. “Stars, you are so dramatic!” “It really isn’t much of a problem”, Blue piped up next to you. “Just tell us next time, okay?” One shy glance at each of them later, you reluctantly nodded. “I’m still sorry I fucked up.” “It’s okay”, Pink giggled a bit at your puppy eyes. “I think you’re paying enough already.” As if to illustrate her point, your head throbbed once again. “...Maybe.” As you finally dug in, one last thought got the better of you. Something didn’t really add up here."Wait - how did you know I was drunk?", you asked perplexed, the fork in your hand coming to a grinding halt. Yellow didn't say anything, she grabbed something from her lap instead: Pink's smartphone, cluttered with a million stickers. Holding it between her index finger and her thumb, she began to waggle it in a 'gotcha' motion, her face the ultimate deadpan. The google logo was displayed on screen."You know, your human communication devices aren't that bad after all."

#pink pearl x reader #yellow pearl x reader #blue pearl x reader #steven universe #the pearls x reader #polypearls x reader #My writing #human antics series

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merakiaes · 5 years

Text

Iroh The Matchmaker - Zuko

Pairing: Zuko x reader

Requested: By @star-mum

Prompts: #6 from the common trope-list, #26 and #27 from the kiss-list.

Warnings/notes: I really hope this is what you were looking for, I hope you like it! Let me know what you think.

Wordcount: 1607

Summary: Iroh locks you and Zuko into a room, forcing you to spend time together until you’ve decided to get along.

“Uncle! You can’t do this! I am the prince; I demand you to let me go!” Zuko yelled out as he struggled in his uncle’s grasp, the old man dragging him along by one arm and dragging you along with the other.

“And I am The Dragon in The West and your uncle, and you will stay in here until I say otherwise.” He responded, face hard and eyes as determined as the tone of his voice. He looked away from his nephew to let his eyes flicker between the two of you.

“Iroh.” You joined in on Zuko’s protests tugging on your arm violently in a desperate attempt to get loose. “You know I respect you, but this is madness. If you have any care for your nephew, you let me go right now, because we all know what will happen if you lock us in together.”

Zuko stopped his complaining then, whipping his head around to look at you with the nastiest of scowls. “Is that a threat I hear? We all know I’m the more powerful firebender, I could burn you to ashes on the spot if I wanted to.”

“Oh yeah?” You glared back at him, trying your best to inch closer to him. “Are you willing to bet your life to prove that theory?”

“It’s not a theory!”

“That’s enough, be quiet, the both of you!” Iroh suddenly yelled out, overpowering both of your voices and tugging you both forward harshly, causing you to stumble on each other before you rushed apart.

Iroh reached out and opened a heavy metal door.

“If you really respect me, you will stay in here until I let you out.” He repeated his previous statement, this time aiming it at you as he pushed the two of you into the room, causing you both to land on your butts.

You groaned at the fall and watched as Iroh looked down at you with a glare, eyes flickering between you and Zuko. “Together.” And just like that, the metal door was slammed shut with a bang, followed by the sound of the lock turning and Iroh’s steps disappearing down the hallway.

Zuko hit on the door violently, the entire room echoing with bangs. “Uncle! Uncle, come back here!”

You rolled your eyes at him, shuffling back on your hands and feet and settling in a corner with your back pressed against the wall. “Last time I checked you weren’t a metal bender, just sit your ass down and be quiet until he comes back.”

Zuko ignored you, but nonetheless stopped hitting the door and marched over to the corner furthest from you and slid down, his legs brought up and arms crossed over his chest as he glared into the floor. “I hate you.”

You scoffed at his words. “Wow, so mature, prince Zuko.”

His head shot up, eyes glaring into yours as you were already looking at him. “This is all your fault!”

“How is it my fault?!” You yelled back, feeling the anger coming back in your chest. “You insulted me first!”

“You should know better than to talk back to your superior, no matter what he says!”

“I don’t work for you.” You spit out angrily. “I work with you!”

Zuko laughed. “You’re the daughter of a traitor, you’ll never work with anyone!”

“And you will?” You retorted. “You’ve been banished for three years! You really think you would be out here today if your father loved you with even an inch of his body?”

Zuko’s eyes shot open for a moment, before narrowing as he stood up, pointing a finger at you accusingly. “You better watch your traitor-mouth!”

“Yeah? Or what?” You asked, pushing your back off the wall. “You’ll challenge me to an Agni Kai and burn the other side of your face off, too?! Because we both know I could take you, easily.”

“Go on and prove it then.” He yelled, getting into bending stance and waving his hand at you. “Stand up! Or are you too much of a coward to do so?”

That was all you needed to shoot up from your spot at the floor, wasting no time in getting into stance, knees bent and hands held out in front of you. “Bring it on.”

Zuko made the first move, shooting out a blast of fire through his palms. You easily blocked the red and orange flames, spinning on the heel of your foot and shooting out a blast of similar flames through your foot.

The banished prince yelled out in frustration as you circled each other, kicking out his leg and shooting another blast of fire at you. You quickly spun to the side, letting the wall take the fall, and hurried to channel fire to your hands, shooting out a burst through your palms before quickly jumping and bending from your feet, as well.

He managed to block just in time, although stumbling slightly from the double-hit. He didn’t get the time to attack before you had done so again, sending another blast of fire towards him. Again, he managed to block just in time to avoid being burned, but still got pushed back far enough for his back to hit the wall, causing him to fall to the floor.

You wasted no time in stalking over to him, hands lit up as you watched him groan on the floor. Creating a string of fire with your hands, his hand suddenly clamped around your ankle, tugging on it. You yelled out as you fell, the fire in your hands blowing out and your back hitting the floor uncomfortably.

You groaned, but regained your composure and swept your leg out when noticing Zuko was about to stand up, successfully sending him back to the floor. Rolling away from him, you quickly got to your feet, watching as he did the same before launching at you.

The duel that had previously been an Agni Kai was now one of hand to hand combat, a flurry of hitting hands and swiping feet, your bodies dancing around each other as you took turns throwing punches and kicks.

You were certain you were going to win. Back in the Fire Nation, you had been one of the best firebenders and fighters, but then Zuko threw a trick punch, getting the upper hand when you fell for it and before you knew it, you were on the floor, Zuko’s foot hovering right over your throat.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly, your breathing heavy and ragged from the intensity of the fight. He looked down at you with a smug smile, pressing his foot down harder on your neck. “Maybe you should reconsider where you stand and think twice next time before you challenge me.”

You only glared at him. “Is that supposed to be a threat? You cheated. Let me go.” You snapped, slapping his foot away and getting back on your feet, massaging your tailbone gently and never once letting the glare fall of your face.

“A good warrior would have seen it coming.”

You whipped around to look at him at that, eyes flickering wild with the fire burning inside of you. “A good warrior wouldn’t have needed to cheat to win in the first place. You’re a coward.”

The second after those words left your mouth, you found yourself pinned to the wall, your wrists held together by a strong grip above your head.

Zuko glared into your eyes, and you glared into his, taking note of the way his upper lip was curled upwards in a scowl. You expected him to keep yelling, to tell you how easy you were to defeat and how weak you were, but much to your surprise, he just leaned in and pressed his lips to yours in a hard kiss.

You instantly ripped your hands free from his grip, bringing them to the back of his neck to pull him closer. He let out a quiet growl at the feeling of your body pushing into his, pushing you closer to the wall in return.

His tongue poked out to split your lips, wasting no time in moving to meet him halfway. Your tongues danced around each other, Zuko’s hands traveling from your neck all the way to your waist.

“I’m sorry.” Zuko said, voice muffled by your lips. “I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean all those things about your father. And you were right about mine, I hope you can-“ He kept speaking in a breathy voice in between kisses, and hadn’t your eyes been close, you would’ve rolled them.

Instead, you just pressed your lips harder to his, forcing him to shut up. Taking the hint to stop talking, Zuko went to move his hands even lower, but then the door suddenly opened with a rumble, and before you could split apart, Iroh had entered the room, stopping dead in his tracks when seeing the scene unfold before him.

You quickly broke apart when hearing him enter, staring at the older man, wide-eyed and out of breath.

“Well, when I said I wanted you to get along, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. But this is even better. I always said fate works in m-“

Before he could finish his sentence, both of you had channeled fire to your hands, blasting it in his direction where he stood in the doorway, each of you yelling “Get out!” in sync, forcing Iroh to quickly slam the door shut to avoid being burned, and successfully getting him to leave you alone for the rest of the night.

Tagged: @edarene @nekodemon73

(If you want to be tagged, send me a message with the character and/or fandom you want to be tagged for)

#avatar the last airbender #avatar #avatar: tla #avatar zuko #zuko x reader #fire lord zuko #prince zuko

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klove0511 · 4 years

Text

The Only Way Out

Author: @klove0511 Artist: @dwimpala-67

Genre: Angst Pairing: Gen Rating: G Wordcount: 8108 Warnings: Major Character Death, hurt!Sam, hurt!Dean, ghost!Sam, canon divergent after season 1 Summary: What if Sam had been the one left in a coma after the car accident?

Fic link: AO3

Art link: Tumblr

The world felt heavy, wrapped in wool and weighted to hold him down. Dean came to slowly, aware first of the sluggish response of his limbs, then more distantly aware of pain when he moved them. A steady, irritating beep told him he was in a hospital just as surely as the sterile smell of cleaning products or too white light over his bed. He struggled through the fog of opioids to remember what he'd done to land him here. What had they been hunting? Why was he alone?

A glance at the window told him it was early morning, with the sky beginning to lighten and clear enough to promise warmth later. Still, the room was medical-building-chilly, and Dean was grateful for the blankets keeping him warm.

He felt his thoughts drifting, trying to piece together what had happened. Dean always hated when they put him on the really heavy pain meds because it became a struggle just to think. He didn't know where Sam was, but the fact that he was absent was concerning enough to cut through some of the haze. Dean remembered the last time he'd woken up in a hospital, after the rawhead incident, and Sam had been there nonstop, except when he couldn't be. The cops had pulled him out of the room for questions, the doctors had shooed him away to let them poke and prod Dean in peace, and one nurse in particular had enforced the hospital's visiting hours to make sure Sam went back to the motel long enough to get some sleep. But all of that had been after Dean woke up. Sam should be here, now. So where was he?

Unfortunately, the fog of the drugs was already pulling him back down into sleep, no matter how he fought to stay awake. A burst of cold from the air conditioning made him shiver, and as he drifted off he swore he could hear Sam saying he’d stay until Dean woke up, though he couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from.

When Dean woke again, the sun shone brightly through his window, warming the room almost to an uncomfortable level. A nurse was taking his vitals, and he was pretty sure she said something about going to get a doctor. Maybe. Waking up in a hospital was worse than a killer hangover.

He grayed out for a minute, but when he was able to refocus, he was already feeling clearer than the last time he’d been conscious. The nurse was back with a dude in a lab coat, who Dean assumed was a doctor.

Dean didn’t bother waiting for the doctor to ask him anything. “Where’s Sam?”

The doctor didn’t answer the question right away, which annoyed Dean. Instead, he replied with a question of his own. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been hit by a truck.” He’d meant it to be sarcastic, but judging by the reactions he got from both the doctor and the nurse, that was pretty close to what had landed him in the hospital. That knowledge did nothing to lessen the anxiety he was feeling over Sam’s continued absence. Already feeling sleep pulling him down again, he tried once more, wishing he didn’t sound so much like he was begging. “Please, where’s my brother?”

This time, the doctor took pity on him. “Your father is visiting him now.”

John listened to Sam’s doctor explaining the extent of his injuries with only half his mind. Sam was lying in the hospital bed, broken beyond repair, and that was all he needed to know. He was going to lose his son, but the demon's plans for Sam were over. He was ashamed to admit there was a sliver of relief in the chaotic emotions running through him. At least now Sam would be safe, and John’s worst fears could be laid to rest.

But beyond the fleeting relief and acceptance, there were the beginnings of grief. More than anything, he wanted a drink or four, but he couldn't do that yet. Later, he would drink himself into oblivion, but first he had to tell Dean. He grimaced. Dean was going to be devastated and telling him was going to be painful. At least John was being granted a reprieve from that duty for now, as Dean still hadn’t woken.

In the meantime, he had business to attend to, and while he hated himself for feeling this way, he was grateful for the distraction. He took one more look at Sam’s still form and murmured, “I’m sorry, son.” Then he pulled out his phone and pulled up Bobby’s number as he exited the hospital.

At the junkyard an hour later, John sifted through the wreckage, looking for the Colt. He could feel Bobby’s eyes on him, but he was doing his best to ignore his friend.

“What are you doing out here, John?” Bobby asked, his voice less accusing than it could have been.

John didn’t answer immediately, but he stopped what he was doing, too. “I’m looking for the gun that’ll kill the thing that killed Mary and put my boys in the hospital.” He wondered, briefly, if his voice sounded as dead as he felt inside.

Bobby scoffed at his answer. “Hell, I could have done emptied the car. Those boys need you to be there for them right now.”

John swallowed down irritation at Bobby presuming to know what his sons needed. He was a good friend, but this was an old argument between them. Bobby had always tried to step in and be the father he thought John failed to be. “Didn’t want to put you out like that. Besides, they aren’t awake yet. No reason I couldn’t do this myself.”

Bobby paused before answering, and John wondered if there was going to be more commentary on his parenting forthcoming. Luckily it seemed there wasn’t going to be when Bobby said, “What do you want to do with the car, then? Don’t seem worth a tow.”

John extricated himself from the wreckage, having found the gun he was looking for. Taking a step back, he surveyed the twisted remains of the Impala. “It’s Dean’s now. I say tow it to your place until he’s ready to work on it. And if he doesn’t want to fix her up, then scrap her.”

Ignoring Bobby’s silent sympathy, John walked away from one of the last remnants of his life with Mary and toward the rental car that would take him back to the hospital and Dean.

By the time John arrived, Dean had declined most of his dinner—opioids made him nauseous—and talked himself down from two panic attacks about Sam. He'd gotten the nurse to confirm that they had, in fact, been hit by a truck, and now that Dean thought about it, he was pretty sure he remembered the sound of breaking glass. Once he started to access the memory, he could remember bits and pieces from before the accident—his dad possessed by the demon, Sam shooting their dad in the leg, feeling woozy from blood loss. Piecing together his memory was the only thing that kept him distracted from thinking about Sam, until his dad appeared in the doorway.

His dad looked haggard, weary in a way Dean hadn't seen before. He was on crutches and sported some impressive bruising, but seemed uninjured otherwise.

"Good to see you awake, son," he said.

"You too, sir." Dean swallowed nervously. "How's Sam?"

His dad's face morphed through half a dozen emotions before settling into careful neutrality, and the bottom dropped out of Dean’s stomach. "Sam is in a coma. It’s bad.”

Dean breathed slowly, deeply, fighting the panic that had been hounding him all day. "He's dying." When John didn't answer immediately, Dean spat, "Isn't he?"

John’s face was a damn mask, revealing nothing, and his even tone was no better. "We don't know. The doctors say they've done all they can, and it's up to Sam now."

Dean nodded, then rasped, "So what are we going to do?"

John was silent for a long time. Too long, in Dean's opinion. "We aren't going to do anything, Dean."

“What?”

John’s face darkened. His dad didn’t like being questioned, but Dean didn’t understand. He knew that finding a legitimate healer was a long shot, but Sam had done it. He’d even done it alone; Dean hadn’t been in any position to help, and John sure as hell hadn’t been around. The two of them together, maybe with Bobby’s network to help, had much better odds of finding a hoodoo priest to lay some mojo on his brother.

John had left angry, but Dean was furious. His dad wanted to “let nature take its course,” which was a load of bullshit. They had access to resources the doctors didn’t, things that could save his brother. They might normally hunt most of those resources in the name of the greater good, but this was different. This was Sam.

Dean sat in a wheelchair by Sam’s bed, trying not to stare at the bandages around his brother’s head. He shivered, remembering the doctor listing off Sam’s injuries.

"Sam suffered a severe blow to the head during the accident. He also sustained several broken ribs and crush injuries from the steering column. We repaired the broken ribs with pins, and we placed a chest tube to reinflate his right lung, which had been punctured by one of his ribs. We were also very concerned about the degree of brain swelling, and during surgery we removed a portion of Sam's skull to help alleviate the pressure."

Dean stared at the tubes practically covering every inch of his brother and tried to imagine part of his skull missing underneath the white bandages swaddling his head. Sam was going to be pissed when he woke up. They'd shaved his head to do the surgery. "How's he doing now?"

The doctor shook his head. "He has remained unresponsive, which is not an encouraging sign, but he's stable at the moment. That said, he is a fighter. Most patients would not have survived even this long with his degree of injury. "

Of course he was a fighter. He was a Winchester.

The doc had been sympathetic, but all Dean could focus on was the idea that Sam was a real life Humpty Dumpty, and try as they might, the doctors couldn’t put him back together again. He needed more than they could offer, and that wasn’t considering the possibility of long-term complications from his injuries. He needed a miracle. But it was perfectly, explicitly clear that John wasn’t going to help and didn’t condone Dean wanting to intervene. He didn't know how he was going to do this behind his dad's back, but he would. He'd find something.

Maybe, if he managed to find something innocuous enough, his dad would come around and help. His gut clenched, and he knew he didn't really believe it, but he could hope. He wasn't going to lose his brother again.

He believed that about as much as he believed the flickering lights in Sam’s room were due to bad wiring.

As soon as Dean was released from the hospital, he went to Bobby's place. The Impala was there with all of their stuff.

All of Sam's stuff.

Dean sighed, surveying the car. It was a mess, the frame twisted beyond recognition. The driver’s side was crushed, and the door had been cut away to give the rescue team better access to Sam. There was dark staining on the seat that he knew had to be Sam’s blood. He looked away, throat tight.

He’d fix the car eventually, but the reason he’d come had been to grab his stuff and pull out anything he thought might be helpful in getting Sam back on his feet. His laptop was toast, and the Colt was gone. According to Bobby, John had come by yesterday and retrieved some gear, then taken off again. They both assumed he was back to chasing the Yellow Eyed Demon. Nothing like revenge for a son he hadn't even officially lost yet.

Heading inside, he grabbed a couple beers from Bobby's fridge. He found the hunter in his study, flipping through one of his dozens of books on the supernatural. "Thanks for bringing Baby here," he said, dropping into a chair. Dust motes swirled in the late afternoon sunbeams coming through the dirty windows, drawing Dean’s attention back out to the yard where his mangled childhood home sat.

Bobby looked up, narrowing his eyes at Dean. "What are you planning, idjit?"

Dean grimaced, wishing the older hunter couldn’t read him so well. "I can't leave Sam like this, you know that." He took a long pull from his beer and swallowed nervously. "I was hoping one of your contacts might know something."

" 'Bout the demon?" Bobby said cautiously.

Dean shook his head. "About a healer. Or a white witch or hoodoo priest or something. Anything that might help."

Bobby ran his hand down his face, stubble rasping as he rubbed his chin. "You know that's a long shot at best."

Dean studied the condensation gathering on the bottle as he picked at the label. "I know. But I gotta do something. He's my brother." He looked away, unwilling to watch Bobby pity him as he said, “Dad won’t help.”

Bobby watched him for a moment, then apparently saw whatever it was he was looking for because he replied, "We'll figure it out. How long you staying before you head back?"

Dean shrugged noncommittally. "Not long. He's stable, for now, but the doctors—"

When he didn't finish his sentence, Bobby grumbled and said, "Yeah, I know. Well, you're welcome to stay as long as you want. And before you say it, I know. You're not leaving him in that hospital by himself. I'm just saying my house is open, all right?"

Dean slumped back in the chair, some of the tension gone from his shoulders. "I talked to the doctor today about getting him transferred to Sioux Falls. They didn't love the idea, but they agreed to it when I said he'd be closer to family. Might be able to happen in a couple days, if—"

Bobby cut him off. "Then give me a call when you're on your way back, and I'll clear out the guest room. Don't think it's been used since the last time you boys stayed with me. And, in the meantime, I'll ask around about healers. Let you know if I hear something."

Dean's nod was small and tight; relief wasn't going to come until he had a lead to follow, but it was still nice to know that Bobby was in their corner.

Dean stood in the doorway to Sam's new room. He was still on a ventilator, though most of the bandages had been removed that morning. Sam was pale, gray tinged, and a far cry from the California-tan he'd been just a few months ago. In the week he'd been hospitalized, Dean could tell he was already losing muscle mass. If Dean managed to pull this off, then Sam was still going to have a long road ahead of him before he was back to normal. But at least he'd be alive, Dean reasoned.

He was greeted by a cool breeze when he crossed the threshold and finally entered the room, like every other time he'd come to visit. It didn't matter how many times he asked the staff at the old hospital, the temperature in his room was perpetually freezing. The idea of the problem following Sam across state lines made his stomach turn.

The plastic chair creaked when he settled in, and he tried to ignore how Sam's shaved head made him look like an alien. The problem was that, like a train wreck, he couldn't look away. Finally, he sighed and said aloud, "Damn, Sammy. I cannot believe you were right about that hair all this time." He shivered, and he would have sworn the temperature dropped another couple degrees, but he kept talking. "I know I gave you a lot of crap about it over the years. But you were absolutely right. You look better with long hair. And I don't mean that just because you're a giant girl." He paused, waiting. When nothing happened, he mentally kicked himself. Of course nothing happened. Sam wasn't dead. He wasn't a ghost; he was a dude in a coma.

"Anyway," he continued, "I found a spell that’ll work, but, uh, I don't think you're gonna like it." The lights and monitors picked that moment to flicker, and an alarm sounded that brought the nursing staff running.

Dean stood out of the way, watching tensely as they did their job checking Sam, his equipment, and the monitors. It wasn't the first time it had happened during a visit, but it never stopped being nerve wracking. What if something important shorted out this time? It was one of the reasons he had worked so hard on getting Sam transferred up to Sioux Falls General. Now it was happening here too. The twist in his gut kept telling him it wasn't faulty equipment that produced the shorts, but he refused to believe it. Sam wasn't dead, damn it.

It's better this way.

When the room had cleared out again, Dean resumed his position in the chair by the bed. "Like hell this is better," he muttered to himself. He sighed and scrubbed his face. "Like I was saying, I found something in one of the books I grabbed from Bobby’s before you got transferred. It's a spell, for binding a reaper."

The temperature in the room plummeted until Dean’s breath was ghosting in front of his face. No.

"I know," he said, his voice gruff and quiet. "I don't like it either. But I have to do something. We know this works. And, yeah, we know the cost, so I'll figure it out. I— Whatever I might be willing to do, I know you would never forgive me if I saved you at someone else's expense. I'll figure it out, ok? Maybe it can target a monster, or something, yeah? Something we'd be killing anyway?"

Nothing from the peanut gallery.

"Fine, be a bitch about it. I won't do the spell." He ground his teeth together, hating that he was giving in to, what? A broken air conditioner? "Not unless I'm out of options. Ok, Sam?"

The lights flickered, but none of the other equipment was affected this time, thankfully. Dean took it as agreement, and he left to hit the books again.

The next day, he got a call from one of Bobby's contacts about a faith healer that was supposed to be the real deal.

He looked into the healer John Rogers, checked for suspicious deaths, unusual money transfers, anything that might indicate he was a fraud or of the same ilk as the pastor's wife Sue Ann from that case in Nebraska. The financials came back squeaky clean, but Dean's gut told him there was something he was missing. He was only an hour away, though, so against his better judgment he stopped in for one of the guy's services.

The tent was crowded, like he remembered from the last time. It was a different preacher, but the same crowd, the same stale air with just a hint of desperation. It was too hot with the press of bodies and lack of air conditioning, and Dean wished he'd skipped the flannel overshirt. The murmur of the crowd made it near impossible to listen in on any conversations, but they seemed excited, optimistic. Well, he supposed any hope was better than none. Not like he could relate.

However, where the pastor in Nebraska had been earnest, this guy felt like a used car salesman. From his first words, Dean felt slimy just being in the same room as the guy, even though he hadn't said anything more troubling than 'welcome, new and old patrons alike.'

Dean leaned forward in his seat, trying to relax but appear attentive. His attention wasn't entirely focused on the sermon, though. He watched the guy, sure, but he also watched the crowd. Dozens of people were in the tent, some with obvious ailments and some without. He focused on maladies easy to fake—people in wheelchairs or wearing sunglasses and hugging a stick—and then watched to see if any of them triggered his Spidey senses. Years of practice conning people had made both him and Sam experts on spotting it in others. He couldn't be sure, of course, but he spied three or four people in the crowd that seemed likely to be plants.

Sure enough, after the dude got done wailing and mumbling as he "spoke in tongues" as the "Spirit moved through him" he called for people that needed healing. Half the crowd erupted into noise, but the first person he selected was one of the ones Dean had spotted—the blind woman. The whole scene played out exactly like he expected, and he made to leave.

"Why are you leaving?" he heard the pastor call out over the din.

Dean paused, unsure if he even wanted to bother engaging the guy.

The pastor made the decision for him by continuing to talk. "I'm sorry for your loss. But I can't help your brother."

Dean whirled, eyes flashing and hand automatically moving to his gun.

The preacher smirked, and for a second, Dean wondered if the guy was just that good at reading body language. He'd seen Sam pull a similar trick two or three times.

"If you can't help him, then why does it matter if I leave?" he finally said, slowly easing his defensive stance.

Tilting his head in acknowledgement, Rogers said nothing more as Dean made his exit.

Armed with new knowledge, Dean would have to resume his research. First thing was to learn more about the woman who had been "healed." His instincts screamed bullshit, but he couldn't afford to be wrong. He found a good spot to wait, and when the service was over he followed the woman. He had to give her credit, she kept up the charade even after she exited the tent. Every few moments she'd stop and look around, an expression of awe on her face. He almost believed it.

He slipped back into the crowd, keeping a casual distance from the woman as she moved through the parking lot. They wove through the cars, and he realized that she was alone. No one was walking with her, chatting about her newfound sight. Leading her to their car. Damn, he'd been right. It was confirmed when she dug through her purse and pulled out keys that she used to unlock a shitty looking Volvo. Dean just managed to catch the license plate number before she drove out of sight.

Back at his motel, Dean ran the plates, found the woman, and dug deep into her financials. The trail was hard to find, but, now that he knew it was there, he did manage to find it: small, irregular cash payments deposited into her bank account starting six months ago. Never more than $100 at a time, and never more than twice a month. He didn’t think it was enough money to justify lying to so many people, but it wasn't really up to him to judge in this case. For good measure, he also uncovered as much medical history as he could on the lady and was utterly unsurprised to find zero references to blindness in her files. However, he didn't uncover an explicit link between her and the preacher. He was sure he would if he kept looking, but that wasn't important anymore. The guy was a fraud healer, but he still knew something. Dean needed to find out if that something was information that could help Sam.

The heat of the day was just starting to fade when Dean knocked on the preacher's door. He lived in a nice neighborhood by most people's standards. Dean thought it was mind-numbingly dull, but hey, maybe it was better than it looked. The man didn't even look at Dean when he opened the door, just gestured him into the house.

"You're psychic," Dean said as he settled himself into an overstuffed chair that was more comfortable than it looked.

"I am." He sat down on the couch across from Dean.

"And a fraud. Is your name even John Rogers?"

Rogers smirked. "You know the answer to that." He leaned back, draping his arms over the back of the couch. "I wasn't lying before. I can't help your brother."

"But you do know something," Dean accused.

The preacher sighed. "I know what's in your head right now—he's in a coma, dying a slow death. You came here on the slim chance that I was the real deal. Sorry that didn't work out for you."

Strangely enough, Dean believed the guy actually was sorry, but he didn't buy that Rogers didn't know anything else. Sam was the one who could sweet talk witnesses into giving up info, though, so Dean went with his tried and true method when working alone: stony silence with a hint of aggression.

Rogers rolled his eyes. "Fine. I may have heard of something. I didn't look into it—no need for myself—so it may be another wild goose chase." He stood, moving to pour himself a drink from the sidebar. He didn't offer Dean one.

Dean waited as patiently as he could. This guy could be jerking him around for all he knew, but he didn’t think so, and his instincts hadn't been wrong yet.

With an excessive number of dramatic pauses, he finally told Dean about a spell. It was supposed to be ancient and powerful. Could practically bring people back from the dead. He didn't have much more than that, but he told Dean to look in an old grimoire called The Magus. Dean hadn't heard of it before, but he was sure it would be a bitch to find.

John considered letting his phone go to voicemail until he saw that it was Bobby calling. There were a very limited number of reasons why that self-righteous dick might be calling him, and he knew better than to think Bobby would leave that sort of news in a voicemail. He took a deep breath, burying his grief as far as he could before he flipped open the phone. “Winchester.”

Bobby’s gruff voice didn’t sound devastated, just annoyed, and John breathed a little easier. It wasn’t Sam then. “You need to get your ass back here, John. Dean needs you.”

“Dean doesn’t want me there.” It hurt to admit that, but he couldn’t blame his son. When the demon had possessed him, he’d seen its plans for Sam, and it had been a confirmation of everything he’d learned over the last twenty years. He hadn’t told Dean what he knew, and if John had his way then Dean would never know.

Bobby grumbled, “His brother’s dying. Of course he wants you here. Now, I don’t know what damn fool thing you said, and I don’t care. He’s going after The Magus, John. Says there’s some spell in it should be able to heal Sam.”

John felt his jaw clench so hard he thought he might have cracked a tooth. “He’s going to get himself killed trying to do a spell like that.”

“Why the hell do you think I’m calling you? Boy’s aiming to commit suicide by magic, if he can find the book. If we find it first, then maybe I can convince him to let me do the spell, but we both know that’s a long shot too.” Bobby sighed heavily. “I don’t suppose you have any idea where we might find a medieval grimoire, do you?”

John closed his eyes. “No, but I’ll work it out. I’ll call when I’ve got something. Watch out for Dean.” He didn’t wait to hear Bobby’s reply before he hung up. The man was probably just going to chew him out for not agreeing to head to Sioux Falls immediately.

He looked out the window and saw storm clouds blowing in off Lake Michigan. Dean hadn’t backed off like he should’ve, and now John was going to have to act. He couldn’t let the demon’s plans come to fruition, and he wasn’t going to let Sam suffer because of their selfishness. It was the least he could do. The room blurred as the first drops of rain fell, and John started to work out what could be done to stop Dean.

It had been two weeks of spinning their wheels looking for the grimoire, and they were no closer to the book than they had been originally. Dean flipped through one of Bobby’s books, frowning at the page. This one seemed familiar. A glance at the spine revealed why. He’d read it already. Twice. Sighing in frustration he tossed the book onto the “dud” stack and slumped in his seat, hands tugging at his hair.

They couldn’t afford to take much longer. Sam was deteriorating. The doctor had told him that just this morning; she’d said that the machines could probably keep him going indefinitely, but everything that made him Sam would be gone. It wasn’t a reality Dean was ready to face, and he’d stalked out of the hospital, not even staying for his usual bitchfest at the broken AC in Sam’s room. Just remembering it made anger—fear—coil tightly in the pit of his stomach, and he stood, sweeping the desk clear of the stacks of useless backs, a wordless scream escaping his throat.

Bobby walked in, holding two beers, and he surveyed the mess. Quirking an eyebrow at Dean, he said, “Take a break.”

Dean just stared back incredulously. “I don’t have time to take a break. Sam—”

“Is dying.” Bobby’s tone wasn’t harsh, but Dean flinched anyway. “I know. But you’re no good to him like this. We been through these books twice each, and we’ve got squat. So, go outside, take a break. Work on that car of yours for a bit and burn off some of that anger. Maybe something’ll come to you. I seem to remember cracking a case or two that way. Keep my hands busy enough to turn off my brain, but the problem still gets worked in the background.” He handed over one of the beers as Dean sulked past him to go outside.

He didn’t go to the Impala. Though he’d worked on her off and on for weeks now, it was always a painful reminder of what was happening to Sam. Today he wasn’t sure he could stand to see the wreck without falling apart, and he wasn’t allowed to fall apart until Sam was better. That had always been his rule when Sam was hurt or sick, and he clung to it now like a lifeline. Turning toward the back of the property instead, he started walking, already feeling better despite himself.

He had just reached the edge of the junkyard when his phone rang.

Dean stared at the caller ID in disbelief for a moment before answering. His dad was calling him, after weeks of radio silence. After abandoning Sam to die. He felt his rage reignite, but he kept his tone neutral as he answered. "Dad."

"Dean. I told you to leave it alone."

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. Damn it, Bobby. "This is Sam, Dad. Not some random civilian. How can you just let him die like he means nothing? Where the hell are you?"

"I don't need to explain myself to you." Dean listened to his dad's sigh and rolled his eyes. The man could be a worse drama queen than Sam sometimes.

"Really? That's the answer you're going with?" Dean shook his head in disgust. "Guess Sam was right after all. You really don't give two shits about this family. It's all about your damn revenge."

"That's not fair, Dean." His tone was biting, cold. "Sam chose not to end this fight when he had the chance, and now I have to before the demon hurts anyone else."

Dean scoffed. He could hardly believe they were related. “Is that what this is about? Punishing me for telling Sam not to kill you? Or punishing him for listening?”

There was silence over the line for a long minute before John said, “That’s not why I left, Dean.” More silence. "I might have a lead on the grimoire you need. See you at Bobby's in two days." The phone beeped as John hung up without saying goodbye.

When he collapsed, sobbing, against a rusted-out Honda a minute later, he wasn’t even sure if they were tears of joy or grief.

The lights flickered.

"Heya, Sammy," Dean said, settling into the seat by his brother. "Think I might have something promising, and Dad's helping."

Nothing. He glanced around the room.

"Come on, man, don't be a bitch about it. I know you can hear me."

A cool breeze ruffled his hair.

"Because your lights flicker a thousand times whenever I talk to you. Which, by the way, cut it out. One of these days you're going to short out something important and croak. Also, because it's July and ten degrees colder in your room than the morgue. I feel bad for your nurses."

A gentle thump on his shoulder. Son of a bitch. Sam wasn't supposed to be able to touch him. Dean watched his brother's body on the bed and thought about just how much stronger he'd become over the last few weeks. It was a bad sign. He hadn't told Bobby or his dad about the fact that Sam was apparently haunting his hospital room. He already knew what they would say.

What's dead should stay dead.

"You aren't dead yet. And I'm not giving up on you." He stood and stormed out of the room before Sam could get another word in.

John got out of his truck, but didn’t approach the house. Dean and Bobby were waiting for him on the porch, and Bobby had brought his shotgun out. It was easy to read the tension in Dean's shoulders, the anger simmering just under the surface. Christ, Dean had no idea how bad it was going to get, and he was already this mad. John was going to lose both of his sons today.

The spell he’d faked was in his pocket, and he hated himself for what he was doing. But he was careful not to let his face betray him. Years of hustling poker successfully had taught him that his poker face was the best, and he relied on that skill now. Dean wasn't going to stop, that was clear now, so John had to be the one to make the hard choice.

For one dizzy, terrifying moment, he considered backing out and trying to help them find the grimoire. Then he thought of the demon, still out there and still planning. A demon that wanted to start the Apocalypse and use his son to lead an army of darkness. He didn't know how the demon intended to make Sam cooperate, but it didn't matter. He trusted that the demon would succeed eventually, probably by threatening Dean. There was only one sure way to save Sam from that fate, and this was it. His resolve hardened, and he resigned himself to Dean hating him forever. Knowing Sam was safe would be worth it. Maybe someday Dean would understand, even if John knew Dean would never be able to forgive him for this.

"Dean," he said, voice gruff. He nodded at Bobby, but kept his eyes on his son.

"Where have you been?" Dean demanded, his voice hard. He sounded grown up. Good.

John put an easy smile on his face, trying to diffuse some of the tension in the air, but it didn't reach his eyes. He knew Dean saw that, too, so he let it drop after a moment. "I was following some leads."

"You were hunting the demon. While Sam is laying in a hospital, dying."

"We've had this argument already."

Dean shook his head in disbelief. "So? He's still dying, you're still hunting, and I'm still here, trying to put my family back together! At least tell me what this mysterious lead is."

John steeled himself, and reached into his back pocket. "It's not the whole grimoire, but I was told this came from The Magus. Sounds like something you might be interested in."

Dean eyed him warily, and John couldn't blame him. He'd flipped on this issue fast, and that had to have raised some alarm bells for Dean. It was no surprise Dean didn't trust him. Still, the boy was desperate. He accepted the fragile parchment, unfolding it and scanning the text. Dean couldn't read it, unless he had been studying archaic Greek lately, but John knew Dean would be able to piece together a basic idea of the spell just from the components. It was something he'd drilled them on, to help protect them from witches.

Dean nodded to Bobby, and down went the shotgun barrel. John breathed a little easier at that. He never doubted that Bobby was willing to shoot him, especially after how they’d parted a few years back. With what he was about to pull, he probably deserved it, too.

"Come in, then, if you're staying," Bobby said, turning and walking back inside.

Dean raised his eyebrows in question, then joined Bobby.

John lingered by his truck a moment more before following, grief already pooling in his chest.

Bobby translated the spell while Dean sorted through their inventory of ingredients. More than once the old hunter added a location to the ingredient he read aloud, and Dean would make a run to the kitchen or the basement or the second guest bedroom, in the bottom box next to the dresser, wherever the item happened to be stashed in this old, cluttered house. John had grabbed a beer and puttered around for a few minutes, obviously uncomfortable, before saying he was going to the hospital and would meet them there.

It felt like a miracle that they already had all the ingredients, and Dean said so after he retrieved the salamander tail and Bobby declared it the last ingredient. It was a surprisingly benign looking assortment of items, and it didn't seem possible to Dean that they could heal his brother. He believed in magic, obviously, but he always associated it with blood and entrails. It seemed, well, magical that a few bits and pieces in the right ratios could do something so powerful. It was weirder that his dad had brought him the spell. He'd been so adamant about letting nature take its course, and Dean wondered what had brought him around. A thought crossed his mind, and his skin crawled. He idly touched the top of one of the jars and said tentatively, "Does this seem too easy to you?"

Bobby looked up from the spell in front of him, eyes narrowed at Dean. "What are you thinking?"

Dean gave one quick shake of his head as he frowned, saying, "Nothing. Just." He shrugged a shoulder and looked out the window. "It's just like Dad to swoop in at the last minute and save the day. But. It's a weird way for him to do it, you know?"

Bobby nodded. "I never expected your daddy to be the one bringing spells here for us to cast, if that's what you mean."

Dean's brow furrowed. "Does it check out?"

Hesitating before he spoke, Bobby hemmed and hawed before saying, "I don't know. I've never seen a spell like this, and I've sure as hell never cast one. I can tell you that it looks like it ought to work, if I understand it right, but there's no way to know for sure without trying it."

"That just fills me with confidence, Bobby."

"Hey, you asked. You have a better option?"

Dean grunted. "You know I don't."

"I know you've got something in reserve, just in case." Bobby leveled him a look that told Dean he wasn't going to be able to hide behind denials.

Dean swallowed hard. "I do, but it's not a better option."

Bobby nodded, slowly, but didn't say anything.

Dean cleared his throat. "I'm not sure I can make it work without killing someone."

The tension in the air was palpable, and Bobby's eyes were hard. "I know he's your brother, Dean, but—"

"I know. God, Bobby, I know." He scrubbed a hand down his face and closed his eyes. "I would though. If it came to it, then I would."

"But?"

Dean shook his head, not willing to say that he promised his brother's ghost that he wouldn't. He wasn't sure he was strong enough to let Sam go if this spell didn't work, and he wasn't sure he had the time it would take to pull the other spell together.

When Dean and Bobby arrived at the hospital, John was sitting in the chair by Sam's bed. Dean frowned, noting the overgrown stubble on Sam's chin. They hadn't been by to shave him yet, which meant it was more likely they were going to get interrupted. At best, that would lead to a number of awkward questions, and at worst it could disrupt the spell. He mentioned it, but John scoffed.

"It'll be fine, Dean. The nurse was just in to check on him, and she said she would be back in an hour. No interruptions until then."

Dean frowned but didn't argue. If John thought they were safe to do the spell then they probably were.

Bobby was the most experienced of them with spell work, so he did the spell. Dean watched him like a hawk, stomach flipping nervously the whole time. John's face was grim, but he stayed silent, letting Bobby work. The foreign words droned on, and Bobby added a pinch of this, a jar of that, then more chanting. Dean could feel the energy in the room building, and his eyes darted to Sam. The monitors showed no change, of course, but the lights flickered aggressively as the chanting picked up speed. Dean silently begged Sam to cool it, to keep calm until the spell did its thing.

It's not going to work, Dean.

Dean set his jaw. It had to work. Not working wasn't an option.

Please, let me go.

He glared at his brother. That wasn't an option either, not while Dean was still breathing. He wasn't going to fail Sam. Not when Sam had come through for him last year.

His brother sighed, and he could imagine the epic eye roll that accompanied it. You're going to be so pissed at Dad when this doesn't work.

Dean's eyes narrowed, and he glanced at his brother again. The air was cooling rapidly, not a great sign for Sam's mental health at the moment. But his dad and Bobby seemed oblivious, and with the way the energy swirled through the air, he knew the spell was almost done.

Bobby threw in the last ingredient, and there was a flash, a bang, and the building energy funneled into the center of the room before quietly dissipating. It was...underwhelming.

Dean looked at Sam, at the monitors and held his breath, waiting for any sign at all that he was waking up. There was nothing. If anything, Dean thought the vitals readout was worse than before. Sam was breathing too fast, heartbeat too rapid for someone peacefully asleep.

He turned on the other two in the room. "Why didn't it work? We had all the ingredients, right, Bobby?"

Bobby looked stricken, but he nodded. "I read it exactly as it was written. You know I wouldn't half-ass this."

Dean clamped down on his anger as best he could. He did know. Sometimes spells just didn't work. Maybe Bobby wasn't powerful enough. Maybe they needed a real witch to cast the spell.

Then John said, "You knew this was a long shot at best," and Dean gaped at him.

He understood, on some level, that this was John trying to be supportive. His dad had never been an emotional guy, never one to soothe with words. But this felt like he was writing Sam off all over again. Sam was dying, actively now, and John just...didn't care. Dean didn't understand and didn't want to understand. He wanted his dad to be devastated by this.

Where did you get that spell anyway? It sounded like someone cobbled a bunch of random garbage together and called it finished. The tenses didn't even match through most of it.

That's when Dean put it together.

"You did this, didn't you?" he said, voice frigid and too calm. "You did something to the spell. That's why you didn't bring the book. Not some bullshit about it being too closely guarded in a library or not wanting to set off some crap alarms. You've never had a problem breaking and entering before." Dean shook his head furiously. "I didn't see it before. I didn't want to. But Sam was always right, wasn't he? He never mattered as much to you as the hunt. As getting revenge for Mom. And now you killed him." Dean closed his eyes, unable to even look at John anymore. "Why? Because he didn't take the shot in that cabin?"

When John finally spoke, his voice was brittle. "I know you won't be able to hear this now, Dean, but it was never like that. Someday, I hope you'll understand. This was for the best."

"Get out," Dean said, watching Sam's chest shallowly rise with each breath. He hoped John could hear the threat under the words.

An hour later, Dean watched as Sam struggled to breathe. There was no more time to pull together that spell. John had been thorough. Bobby had gone home, looking for the binding spell at Dean's desperate request, but it was gone from Dean's research pile. Worse, he'd signed the papers to remove Sam from life support before they'd even done the stupid spell. According to the hospital, that meant Dean could do exactly nothing, despite the fact that John hadn't shown his face in the hospital for weeks and Dean had been visiting Sam daily. He felt hollow, wondering what life would be like without his brother at his side. He thought it might be like when Sam was at Stanford: hunting alone or with the occasional hunter acquaintance. He resolutely ignored the burning in his eyes, even as Sam's body blurred in front of him. It wasn't going to be like that. Maybe once in a while he would be able to forget, to fool himself into believing Sam was alive and safe and just away, but most of the time he would know. He imagined the passenger seat of the Impala, empty again. His heart clenched.

Sam was already gone, and he knew that. The body on the bed had been empty since the first time he'd seen the lights in this room flicker. Sam had been haunting him for weeks. They were just waiting for it to be official.

The monitor screeched, jerking Dean's attention up and away from Sam. His breath caught in his throat; Sam was flat-lining. A doctor that had been lurking outside the door quietly came in and turned off the alarm. She checked Sam's vitals manually, checked the time, and announced that Sam had died at 2:48 pm. It was quiet, efficient. Dean didn't understand how she could do that, just say a person—Sam—was dead, and then continue on with her day like the world hadn't ended.

Dean refused Bobby's offer to help build the pyre. This was his job. And if it took a little longer because he was working alone, so much the better. He lifted the body wrapped in white linen. His brother. He lifted his brother, and placed him on the pyre.

Hours later, Dean stared at the burning pyre, numb to all feeling. He'd failed. The hollow pit in his stomach threatened to turn to nausea as he watched Sam burn. The gentle thump against his arm that alerted him to Sam's continued ghostly presence just made the sick feeling grow. John was going to pay for this.

#spn fic #spncanonbigbang #gen #canon divergent #cw character death #hurt!sam #ghost!sam #fic i wrote

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libermachinae · 4 years

Text

Drops in a Bucket, Splashes on the Ground

Also available on AO3! Tags: Mature, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Gen, Whirl (Transformers), Implied/Referenced Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Whirl is Primus AU, Angst, would you believe me if i said i didnt set out to write another angst fic, whirl's just like that Wordcount: 4202 Notes: I would highly recommend you read "Bullets" or at least be familiar with Whirl's abuse of Rotorstorm before reading this fic. The scene containing graphic violence begins with "Tacticians always struggle..." and the scene referencing abuse begins "He shoves his way..." Please feel free to reach out if you need any further information.

~*~

“And I guess old Primus makes five.”

“Hah! No, no, no. That’s not Primus… you’re Primus.”

~*~

Whirl has never been intimidated before. Not so intentionally, not by bots whose forged bodies have been piled on with armor and weaponry, no expenses spared by the ganglords. The Heavies rolled up on treads that left gouges in the streets, painful marks that tomorrow’s taxes will go to fixing, and their transformations took a full five seconds as excess plating moved out of the way while their protoforms tried to bend per their original configurations. They wear identical red visors and dark gray masks: faces, certainly, but only in the barest sense of the word, enough to separate them from lowlifes without affording them identity. It is impossible to tell one from the other and Whirl knows, intrinsically, that it will not matter.

~*~

Rung is the only one who doesn’t flinch. Whirl stands over Adaptus’ body, freshly relieved of what they can all agree was a spectacularly ugly head, and puts away his gun.

“Right,” he says, with a meaningful glance out the window. “Want to agree none of us heard that?”

“Whirl!” Rodimus shouts. “You can’t just kill a god!”

The body explodes into a pile of dust.

“Sure I can,” Whirl says, shaking it off his foot even as he leans down to inspect the scrapple. “Hey Ratch, can you rig me to explode next time I get shot?”

“Is it true?” Nautica asks, doing her intellect a massive disservice by stepping in front of the unhinged bot with a blaster.

“Obviously not,” Ratchet says. “He was lying.”

Whirl nods.

“Yeah. You think I would keep it a secret from any of you if I was a god? You think Cyclonus would ever hear the end of it? Nah.” He stands, kicking pile and sending a spray of metallic dust into the air. “Awesome way to go, though, can’t say I’m not jealous.”

“That doesn’t mean you had to kill him for it.”

“So, you’re not Primus?” Nautica asks. She hasn’t moved, her arms crossed in front of her. If Whirl had been her creator (and he isn’t, he already has his claws full with a nest of scraplets), he would have been pretty proud of her right now.

“Nope!” he says. “I’ve never vouched for the universe before, but that kind of joke would take on an extra level of cruel, don’t you think?”

“Got to agree with Whirl, here,” Rodimus says, a hand on Nautica’s shoulder drawing her back. “I could buy pretty much anyone else. Maybe not Rung, but, say, Velocity? She could be Primus. Or Roller. I guess not Megatron, since we saw him come online, but—”

“The point, Rodimus,” Ratchet deadpans.

“The point is, not Whirl,” Rodimus said, sweeping his hands up to gesture at him. “I get Primus is disappointed in us. We are a textbook example of why a race of sentient war machines should never be left to their own devices, combined with a case study on how to avoid learning from every mistake you’ve ever made. But I really don’t think that disappointment would translate to actively hunting us for sport. Isn’t Primus supposed to be all about forgiveness and loving your cellmate?”

“Right,” Whirl says, clacking his pincers together in his approximation of a snap. “An angry god is so cliché.”

“I don’t think anyone knows what Primus believed,” Rung says. Oh no. He’s taken off his glasses. “I don’t see any reason he couldn’t be Whirl.”

“How about we start where the part where gods don’t exist, and Whirl does?” Ratchet suggests.

“I… I am Solomus, though.”

The whole group turns to the offending voice. Whirl goes for his gun and Rodimus knocks it out of his hand, a stern finger silently telling him not to kill any more gods. As if being an ex-Matrix bearer gives him some sort of say.

Tyrest has not stopped touching his gaudy mantelpiece, poking at the holes. It wouldn’t be so disturbing, except he’s staring at Whirl while he does it.

“Primus, don’t you remember?” he asks.

“Hey, let’s watch the fragging language.”

“Adaptus wanted to send our creations to pointless war,” Tyrest goes on. “Violence for the sake of violence, conquests built on the backs of others. We fought him.” He steps forward and reaches for Whirl. “Together, we—”

Whirl jerks back with his claws extended out.

“I will cut your hand off, I swear to—I swear.”

He is saved from any more interrogation by the ground violently rumbling underneath them.

“Okay, so regardless of whatever’s Whirl’s deal is, we do still have at least one Primus to worry about,” Rodimus says, looking out the window at the approximation of what Whirl, personally, had always assumed god would look like. “Solomus, you still got your teleporting rigged up?”

~*~

No one ever considered giving The Institute a waiting room, so Whirl stands to one side of the hallway while the butchers discuss his case. He knows his proposal intrigues them: they have never had an opportunity to shadowplay a willing subject before. What is there to learn from a brain that does not fight them every step of the way? What backdoors exist that every other victim kept hidden? Whirl does not care about the potential scientific advancements his offer provides. He just wants to stop dreaming of gears, lose the phantom aches of his fingers. He wants to look in a mirror and see nothing: not himself, not a monster. Just an object, fulfilling its purpose.

The scientists who walk by him in the halls stare. Everyone stares, but the look they give him is different. They do not find him exceptional, nor do they feel for him pity or contempt. He is no marvel. He is a creation, perfectly engineered to suit its purpose, every detail minded with care to ensure it all works together as an ideal mechanism. He wishes he could see himself through their eyes.

The door beside him slides open and a bot he has never seen before steps out. His helm comes up no higher than Whirl’s waist and his large yellow optics do not look up from his datapad.

“Whirl of Polyhex, the panel has elected to reject your petition,” he says. “I am to remind—”

“What?” Whirl startles; his new head shoots upward, forcing him into an angle that is both unnatural and instinctual. “Why? Ice Pick said he could—”

“I am to remind you that you have signed a nondisclosure agreement; failure to comply will result in penalty of death.” The little bot flares his plating, the click of a motor lock setting it in place. “You will now submit to full stasis and be escorted back to your home.”

The jack comes from behind.

~*~

“This is my hab suite.”

Whirl knows the tonal difference between a bullet hitting living metal and a wall. He scowls and gives up, waving Cyclonus inside.

“My room’s a mess,” he says. “Think I’m gonna crash here for a while.”

Cyclonus comes in and sits beside Whirl on the berth. When the door slides shut, they are visible only by their biolights: Whirl closed the shutters when he came in, the stars too much like blinking numbers. Cyclonus is a surprisingly quiet machine. His presence comes with none of the usual hisses and clicks one would normally get with their kind, like each component was designed specifically to work with those around it. Compared to Whirl, whose body is a wreck of pieces that almost fit together, clinking and scraping through their standard functions, he practically doesn’t exist.

“This is slagged, huh?” Whirl asks.

Cyclonus thinks on it a moment, then there is a shift of plating as he nods. Is it an admission, a confession? Pri—frag, Whirl doesn’t want to have to start thinking about that.

“Sorry,” he says.

“You don’t need to—”

“Scrap, you’re right. What am I doing?” Whirl laughs. “I’m infallible now, right? It’s all been part of my grand plan for Cybertron. I should be saying you’re welcome; you should be thanking me.”

Cyclonus sighs, a rush of air out his vents.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asks.

Whirl pokes and pinches at his own plating, trying to make sense of it.

“Yeah,” he says. “Start praying, and keep Megatron far away from me.”

~*~

He’s spent two days in the holding cell before he realizes no one else is coming for him.

That Orion Pax… he’s good, and Whirl’s not sure whether it’s the kind that gets people hired or gets people killed. Not that it matters, not that he cares. The Senate’s going to crush all of them one by one, like little cans of oil under a rolling tank. He thought being a tread would come with some measure of relief; instead, it just landed him in a hole.

He digs a claw tip into the wall, another score among a small collection. He has been trying to reconstruct the miner’s face, what it looked like in the split second between recognizing he had been struck and realizing there was more to come. He can’t relish a memory if he can’t keep it, and he’s already struggling well enough to accomplish the former. This assignment was supposed to be a release. Look down at the big thinker and imagine in his place Senator Proteus, Sentinel Prime, the faceless Functionist Council. Tell himself that this is what it would feel like to rip their plating open until their priceless energon spilled onto a dirty floor.

The face, though, it’s escaping him. How can he fell anything about a person with no face? What relief is there to be found in beating the slag out of a nobody? He is trying so hard to adapt, but it’s like his processor is working against him, reminding him how far he got before he was reeled back in. The silhouette of his sketch is familiar.

His claws hurt where he has worn the tip blunt, and the portrait is still incomplete.

~*~

“I don’t make Matrixes,” he insists. The group was polite enough to knock once they found him, but they’re failing to pick up the hint that he wants all of them to go away, right now, and leave him alone forever.

“Well, Epistemus says you can,” Rodimus says, dentae blocked together. “Why do all the other gods have their memories back, but not you?”

“I dunno, maybe Needles can stick me and figure it out.”

It’s almost cute, the way Rewind steps protectively in front of Chromedome.

“Rodimus,” Rung says, trying to get between them, “this isn’t helping.”

“Thank you,” Whirl says. “Now can we get to the part where we storm the planet, guns a-blazin’?”

“That won’t help either.” Rung turns to look at him. “Your memories haven’t been deleted, Whirl. Somehow, there should still be some part of you that remembers creating the Matrix.”

“The Functionists probably took it out,” Whirl says.

“That’s not how mnemosurgery works.”

“Says the dropout.”

“You told me once about your earliest memory,” Rung says. Whirl should be furious that he’s doing this here, in front of people who have no business knowing what’s in his head, but he’s more interested in the way Rung has taken off his glasses and is squinting up at him. “What happened just before it?”

They did not bring Ratchet, a testament to the fact that they will not leave before he gives them answers. He could start lying again, or find another way to forgo the question, but something about Cyclonus’ presence at his back helps him settle down the compulsion. Everybody lies about their forging. Everybody wants to say it was overseen by the Prime, or that they settled into their form like resin poured into a mold, instant and perfect. Whirl has a set of seven stories he deploys on rotation, ranging from heroic to beautifully tragic, and he spends a moment picking through them, trying to remember which was the real one.

“I showed up at the Functionsts’ place to get my docs in order,” he says. “I was… I was trying to get Polyhexian citizenship.” Awful city, but he had always sworn the energon tasted better there than anywhere else.

“But you said you were forged in Polyhex,” Rung says.

“Yeah. It was easier that way.” Whirl puts a claw to his head. “I… augh, nope. No, this is stupid.”

“Whirl—”

“No, I’m done,” he says, pushing Rung away. “Fully done, Rung. That’s right. You were god’s therapist, and he fired you. I’m gonna go take out a planet.”

~*~

Tacticians always struggle with where to put Whirl on a battlefield. On the one hand, he’s an attack helicopter, equipped with long-range cannons and advanced aiming modules. Keeping him in the sky is the perfect way to set up a terrible surprise for Cons on the ground. On the other, he’s Whirl, and facing him head-on can be just as chilling and or fatal.

In the end it rarely matters which call they make because, as stated before, he’s Whirl. He will do whatever he damn well feels like. Right now, that means skimming over the top of the battlefield, sights trained on the odd dot who tries to disgorge themselves from the fighting mass. He is supposed to be providing support to the ground troops, peppering the Decepticon line so they can break through, but no one is going to complain about a few more dead soldiers.

A truck breaks free and he pitches down, giving chase, machine guns firing before he’s got a lock on. The ground explodes in shrapnel as they try to serpentine out of the way, but he keeps firing and soon enough their paths cross.

He riddles them. Their roof is already a puckered, punctured mass of warped metal before their back tires blow and they go skidding and flip onto their side. Their plating shuffles, uncoordinated, as they try to transform, and Whirl goes for the underbelly, shattering the exposed protoform in a burst of pink energon. They slump with their legs disengaged. There is a buzzing, crunching noise as the dying t-cog tries to settle into either mode, then a jet of smoke erupts from the body. The engine has seized, locking it in a permanent limbo.

Whirl spins around to track down his next prey. He loves his job. The Autobots have a need, and he fills it with a gusto that only occasionally gets him in trouble. He’s no hitmech: he lacks the finesse, the style. But he can rain irreverent murder down from the sky, send Cons fleeing just long enough to make them think they had a chance, and he can do it without questioning an order. The war needs people like him.

Two soldiers are trying to escape together, one with their arm over the other’s shoulder, a sparkling stump of a leg between them. Whirl gets low, following them until the roar of his rotors is unmistakable, until they cannot help but turn and he sees their optics. Then he fires.

The wounded one falls first, knocked onto their front and grasping uselessly until their hand is blown off and they go still. The other gets their legs knocked off and goes spinning, landing on their head with a crunch. Whirl keeps advancing, keeps firing, tearing open their plating and reducing their inner working to molten slag, spattering the ground with used energon. They flop, over and over, until Whirl gets bored of the show and hauls off, leaving them almost indistinguishable from the carnage of the land itself.

Whirl hovers over the fighting and looks down while he scans for a target. This high up, visuals are useless for determining Bots from Cons. Little Cybertronians run around, whacking and shooting at each other, falling down, down, down. The metal under their pedes is slippery pink with energon. It splashes against their plating, over their insignias, until they are all just little wandering targets.

Whirl has his job, and he loves it, and he does it well.

~*~

He should feel something, but his spark is a void as he tosses the rest of the guns into the shuttle, all the stuff he held off using because he wasn’t ready to get kicked off the ship. He is not coming back from this. He knows it, so better to take it all.

He’s just fastened the locker when he hears the footsteps on the hatch and looks up. It’s Tailgate, of course. Tailgate, who has a pack hanging from one shoulder and a gun holstered at his side. It’s a shrimpy thing, something Cyclonus taught him to shoot in case they ever got separated, more useful for making noise than taking down an aggressor. It has room for one round of ammo and Whirl doubts he brought a bullet more.

He comes aboard without saying anything and stops beside world, continuing to say nothing. The hand on his pack is clenching: he’s being brave. He’s also waiting for some grand speech, some sacred insight to the nature of their quest and their places in the universe. Well, tough. He should know Whirl better than Primus.

He lifts a claw to shove Tailgate backward and down the hatch, but it stops an inch before Tailgate’s plating. What does it matter? Cyclonus can’t kill him where he’s going and Tailgate himself is just a drop in the bucket. Standing there with his chest puffed out, optic band steely and focused, he looks like any other Cybertronian, never mind a few years left behind.

Whirl retracts his claw. Tailgate nods at him.

Another drop in the bucket.

~*~

He shoves his way to the front row, slamming himself into his chosen seat just ahead of a little spy plane who had been angling for the same spot.

“Buzz off,” he says. Never mind the spy plane outranks him. This is his big day! He got here early so he could get this seat, right in front, though he can barely hold it as the audience fills in around him, so many Bots he does not know and who do not matter. The only one he cares about it up on the stage, smiling with an air of detached cooperation, off in his own head again like he always was. Whirl thought they had made progress on that, but some habits were just too hard to break.

The opening speech is long and predictably boring, lots of talk about this base he has never been on before. Whirl’s engine clicks in agitation. When bots give him dirty looks, he sneers.

“Chronic fanbelt lockup, ever heard of it?” he hisses at them, adding in a few extra ticks for good measure. They go back to minding their own business, but Whirl still catches the optics glancing at him, and his engine goes from annoyed click to angry hum. He knows what they see.

Luckily, the speaker eventually gets over himself and moves on.

“Rotorstorm, will you please step forward?”

Whirl is on his feet before the other copter has a chance to rise, his cheering rising well above the swell of the crowd. He shouts, he stomps his feet, and he bangs his claws together until the bots on either side of him wince, and he gets even louder when he knows Rotorstorm has noticed him.

“Go on, get up there!” he shouts. “You earned this, didn’t you?” The rest of the crowd has calmed down, but he stays standing, arms dropped to his sides. He stares at Rotorstorm as he crosses the stage, shoulders pressed back, each step placed so precisely in front of the last that it must be calculated. He waits until Rotorstorm has reached the edge to sit back down, and then still his optic is pointed, refusing to let Rotorstorm look anywhere else. Rotorstorm’s own optics are wide, though the rest of his expression is slack. His biolights are steady, his ventilations manual and even. He’s perfect.

“Rotorstorm,” the presenter says, “I hope you will forgive us; this is an honor that is long overdue. During the Simanzi Massacre, you singlehandedly scouted a pass through Mount Helix that allowed for the rapid evacuation of the 9th Battalion. Your commanding officers estimate that your decisive actions saved upwards of one thousand Autobot lives.” Whirl’s engine is silent. He’s drinking in every word. “Today, we present you with the Novic Medal for Outstanding Honor. ‘Til all are one.” Rotorstorm ducks his helm as the award is magnetized to the right of his cockpit, finally breaking his optic contact with Whirl.

“’Til all are one,” he repeats, though most of the crowd does not hear him over Whirl’s cheers.

Rotorstorm turns without looking up and returns to his seat. The next recipient is called forward and Whirl walks out.

~*~

He can’t do it. He’ll blame it on the way Tailgate’s plating quietly rattles or Cyclonus’ entire personality as he starts to board, but he shuts off the shuttle’s engine and disembarks with them trailing behind. He retreats to his hab suite, and though he does not invite them he’s glad when they make it inside before the door closes.

“Nobody in the mutiny is allowed to have any of my stuff. I don’t care if Thunderclash is dying again and my innermost energon is the only compatible fuel in the galactic sector, he can’t have it.”

Tailgate nods along, his fingers in a death grip around Whirl’s pincer.

“And when you guys are talking about me later, no one call me anything but Whirl. I’m serious. I don’t know about anything I did before that, so what could it matter?” He looks up at the ceiling. “In fact, don’t tell anyone about the Primus thing. No point.”

Cyclonus is a solid, immobile presence on his other side.

“Am I forgetting anything? Oh, tell Roadbuster I’ll be waiting for him in the pit.”

“Do gods go to the Afterspark?” It’s not clear who Tailgate is asking.

“I definitely don’t plan to stick around and watch over you or whatever. Think I’ve had enough of this universe.” He chuckles, a strained sound. “Yeah. So, that’s it. Better get this show on the road, huh?”

“We’ll be with you the entire time,” Tailgate promises.

“For as long as you want us,” Cyclonus amends.

“Yeah, I know.” He shrugs, laughs again. “I’m not even really scared of the whole dying thing. I’d made peace with that. Whenever there was something I needed to do, I took care of it, so I wouldn’t have to worry about it if the right bullet finally found its mark.” He glances between them. “Now, though… you two better behave, I swear. I’m making it your Primus-sworn duty to take care of and listen to each other, okay?”

Cyclonus nods, and the way he takes it so seriously makes Whirl almost glad he’s on his way out. He couldn’t handle being looked at like that all the time, and especially it’s the way they reach across his lap and entwine their hands that really does him in. He hates them dearly.

“Okay,” he says, winding up his t-cog for the big spin. “Okay, twelve Matrixes. No problem.”

~*~

Whirl times the blinking numbers to the rotations of his spark. 1,600 exactly. He’s done it.

He leans back in his chair but cannot stop staring at the little device in his hands. It is perfect. After years of researching, studying, trying, and failing, the pieces have come together to allow him to create this one perfect thing. He loves it, and a dangerous feeling of pride fills his spark, the kind that has so long been missing from his work in the Aerial Corps. If there is a Primus (and he’s still not sure, whatever the Functionists insist), this is what he built Whirl to do.

He gets up from his desk and walks across his small living space to a shelf. Nearing capacity, it has just enough room for him to push a few previous attempts aside to make room for the latest version. Surrounded by its brethren, it becomes lost almost immediately amid the sea of blinking lights, indistinguishable even from those he considers lesser. Some defects are more obvious than others: one has sat at the same time since the moment he brought it online, while another counts one klik backward for every two forward. But most are just slightly imperfect, necessary steps to get to this point, and he loves them all dearly.

He stands back. It feels like the work of a lifetime, these clocks, though he knows he took up the pursuit relatively recently. It’s just hard to remember how he filled his time before he had this project to work on, and he is again grateful he discovered it at all.

It is a gift to be able to create, he thinks, to cast a broad eye over his creations. The numbers blink at him, all out of tune, and he lets himself imagine being content doing just this for the rest of his life.

#maccadams #transformers #idw #whirl #abuse tw #death tw #my writing #oneshot #drops in a bucket #tbh im just so glad this is done #put too much time into it

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not-poignant · 4 years

Note

hi!! i hope you are doing well :D im going through your ‘writing/on writing’ tag and im not finished yet, but i was wondering if you have the time could you share your writing process/routine? and how do you write lengthy stories? do you have any tips for that? i have been struggling to push past 1-2k words

Hi anon!

i was wondering if you have the time could you share your writing process/routine?

Tbh, the whole process from start to finish (story conception to execution) is probably a bit too long to do here and there are a literal fuckton of podcasts that explain all of that. But generally in the day to day:

I wake up, I get ready for my day (shower/get dressed/have tea or breakfast or water) and then I sit down and start writing. I usually know what project I’m meant to be working on (I have a very strict schedule that I adhere to, which I need when juggling multiple projects) and I usually have an idea of what I will be writing.

Once I’ve hit my wordcount, which usually happens, I’ll keep writing if I feel like it. From there, I’ll usually end off in a place where I’m confident to continue the next day (i.e. in the middle of a paragraph, or at the end of a paragraph where I know what the next line of dialogue will be; that way I never start ‘cold’ once I’ve started a story, which helps with writing flow).

And I do that every day.

On days when I’m very sick, sometimes I can’t get more than 500 words, or sometimes I can’t get any words at all until late at night, those are frustrating days, but I live with multiple illnesses and sometimes they demand all my attention and physical energy!

Otherwise, I feel like my process is very typical in terms of: I get an idea, I decide if I like my characters and the plot, I research/worldbuild to see if it’s viable, I may/may not chapter plan here (usually not), I start writing, I get about halfway and if I haven’t written a chapter plan, I will, and then I keep writing and then I finish. But…obviously that process is complex, and involves a lot of different stages, and as you’re about to see, this post is going to be an essay even without further explanation XD

and how do you write lengthy stories?

I honestly don’t know how beyond storytelling basics (which I’ll get to in a moment). They’re very comfortable for me to write, and I don’t have to fight myself to write them, nor did I have to research how to write them or challenge myself to learn now skills to write them (though I do that nowadays, I wrote them in the first place because that was where I just felt comfortable writing, and I didn’t know that about myself until I’d done it). (Also I should say I did do some units on Creative Writing at university, though I actually did more on short stories and poetry, and never actually did a unit of novel study).

That being said, I really enjoyed reading lengthy epic/quest/high fantasy as a teenager, and that may have influenced my expectations regarding length and pacing, but I don’t know for sure.

I wouldn’t encourage anyone to write stories as long as I write them (like Fae Tales), they don’t sell in publishing, publishers don’t like picking them up, and they’ll drive you into a corner (i.e. I have to be ‘Patreon only’ for the serials because they’re largely too long and explicit for anything else).

HOWEVER, for stories longer than 1-2k, you might want to think in terms of multiple moments, instead of just one moment. In a oneshot, you’re generally depicting (with some exceptions) one major event. A longer story is usually just several major events strung together.

So a oneshot might be:

Jake and Derek make up after a fight and kiss. The ‘event’ is that they kiss and make up (event 1)

A longer story might be:

Jake and Derek make up after a fight, and kiss (event 1)

The next day, they realise they need to talk about what they fought about (event 2)

While talking they realise they have some conflict here they need to resolve, and Derek is reluctant to talk (event 3)

Jake pushes and it almost becomes another argument, Derek becomes avoidant and leaves for the day (event 4)

Jake sends an apology text and is genuinely remorseful for pushing (event 5)

Derek comes home that night and says he’ll talk about it, but he doesn’t know when (event 6)

Jake decides to be patient, and after a few days of anguish, Derek finally decides to talk about what was making him upset in the first place. This creates a breakthrough in their relationship. (event 7)

They ‘level up’ into a new area of increased depth and trust, and have a good night together. (event 8).

In fact, in many of my Fae Tales chapters, you will see that I’ve strung together usually 3 or 4 significant events (or scenes) to make a 6-7,000 word chapter. Therefore, a much longer novel might then track the entirety of Jake and Derek’s relationship, and the issues Derek has in his history that are hurting him (so…a romance novel if it has a happy ending, and some kind of romantic literature if it doesn’t), if you throw in a lot of guns and murder and intrigue it’ll become a different genre, lol.

This is basically how all longer stories work. They string together multiple moments in a sequence over (linear or non-linear) time. They might also flesh this out - when you’re stringing together multiple moments, you can introduce other characters, you can introduce other storylines. It’s definitely worth research Acts 1 / 2 / 3 in storytelling, and the A, B and C storylines in storytelling. Learning some basics in writing will really help you. In terms of book recommendations you might want to look at Save the Cat! Writes a Novel: The Last Book On Novel Writing You’ll Ever Needby Jessica Brody.

But free storytelling basics are available online, and you’re better off looking at a lot of them! Many people have different ways of writing and it’s the best way to discover the ones that work for you - generally speaking it’ll be a mish-mash of a lot of other techniques. :D

But there are also people who just never write anything longer than a short story, and that’s okay too! There are plenty of authors out there who have a name for themselves in their chosen fields, just on short stories (and even flash fiction) alone. Every length story is its own skillset.

One way to explore ‘events’ more is to actually watch some of your favourite movies or TV shows, and write down the ‘events’ that you’re seeing in the sequence they’re being shown. It’s really good narrative practice, and if you do this enough times, you’ll begin to see storytelling rhythms on a level that’s conscious, rather than subconscious.

Good luck anon!

#asks and answers #pia on writing #pia on fanfiction #dodgy advice #seriously though it's mostly just... taking yourself out of 'single event writing'#and looking at 'multi event writing'#it's a different skill set #but it can help to think of it as stringing together multiple short stories #about the same two characters #and honestly this is how some people write their longer works #and it's fine!#administrator Gwyn wants this in the queue #Anonymous

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aliypop · 4 years

Text

All Roads Lead To Nowhere

Wordcount: 2,757

Character Count: 15,189

A/N: This is part 7 to Empatia I hope you guys enjoy it!

Warning: Usual Hannibal tendancies

"Sorry, i'm bleeding on your couch," Abigail grunted as she tried to ease herself in a more comfortable position. Hannibal pressed the gauze pad over her wound, "What was that... I couldn't hear you over the gaping hole in your chest," he looked at the young woman. While holding his hand out for his assistant to give him his surgical needle and thread, he couldn't help but wonder how his wounded deer found its way home. Shanel, on the other hand, watched his hands move, guiding the needle and thread gracefully against the wound area. It was almost like cooking to him a second nature in the form of many talents.

"What were you doing out there.." Shanel asked in a motherly type of tone. Watching the way Abigail had reacted almost brought back memories from her upbringing when she would try to "escape" Christoper.

"I was trying to outrun my past.." she looked up at the other woman hoping she would understand what she meant by her phrasing. Shanel gave her a nod and a teacup, "You'll need it, to take your mind off that troublesome past a bit.." she smiled, walking back upstairs. Hannibal looked back at her then at Abigail as he felt that for one moment in his life, he had everything he could have asked for, but sometimes happiness came with a price that not everyone was ready to pay.

As the night got darker, the silence in the room became thicker. One with Shanel pondering on how to lean the evidence on Chilton, and two how to set Will free and back to his habitat,

Hannibal, who had agreed to take Will's place for the remainder of his cases, laid there thinking as to how he could get away with all of his beautiful masterpieces, as he pulled Shanel closer towards his person.

"How would you like to-"

"No." Shanel turned to look at the maroon eyed killer.

"No?" he asked, shocked that she even answered before he finished asking.

"Murder is not on tomorrow's agenda, Lecter.." she laughed, her hand dangling off the bed.

"It's not on anyone's my pet.." he laughed, kissing her nose.

"Oh no, it's on mine, just not until Thursday." she half-heartedly joked, cuddling deep into the warmth of his skin, taking in his fresh scent of clean linen with a hint of lemon. "Why Thursday?" he asked, taking her hand to his lips, giving it a nice " passionate" nip." If you must know.." she watched the way his lips parted, "Hey, if you're planning to eat me at least make me into a nice alfredo,"

she laughed, seeing his eyes go into complete shock,

He had never met a woman so full of life and dark humor that he would kill for except for maybe his aunt, who he hadn't heard from in years. "Does your mother know about your agenda." he gave her a soft, tired laugh.

"Good night Hannibal.." she rolled over, giggling at him.

"There's food in the refrigerator, books in the study, of course, in any case of an emergency-"

"Call you or Hannibal," Abigail said, her hands behind her back, watching Shanel pick up her keys from the kitchen counter, "And if we don't answer?" she paused to look at the teenager,

"Code butterfly," she smirked.

"That's my girl." Shanel smiled, kissing her forehead while walking out the door.

When she entered her office, she saw two things. One was Carl flirting, and the other was the tattle crime magazine on her desk. "WHO LET LOUNDS IN!" her voice nearly booming through the halls of the building. Susana ducked down, hearing the rage in her voice. Animalistic brown eyes made their way to the younger woman while the room around them was deathly still, "I trusted you.."

"You can't blame me for your mistake." Susana gave a small chuckle while Carl turned away, "And besides, are you not Will's love toy-" Shanel grabbed her throat, hearing the sweet sound of life mangled in beautiful sounds of struggling,

"I know where you live.. and I'll kill you if you speak to me again like that.." Shanel laughed, whispering in her ear, taking a nice lick of her ear, "Good, you're scared of me." she heard the other woman whimper under her like a hurt dog. "Y-you're hurting me.." she felt her let go. Although Shanel's day was a bit rough, it wasn't as bad as Hannibals. Playing Will Graham was becoming a challenge, so many ingredients for a presented in front of him yet so little time to sneak away and take a prize for himself in front of him was a beautifully preserved body apart of a feast for sight. Yet he would do anything to get his hands on it to take a bite of the juicy flesh covered in resin. The aroma was practically killing him to fight it as he dwelled into the scent. Jack stood behind him, watching the way he observed the body almost like it was art. "Well, did you find anything doctor.," he asked as Hannibal looked behind himself,

" Preserved while still alive..." he examed some more of the body, "A rare case that can happen," he asked, watching the way Jack looked it over. Hannibal was pleased, to say the least, that he was blending in so quickly. Back in the office, however, Shanel had quite the news to tell Hannibal about mostly because her receptionist had now gone missing. Which was something Hannibal would have found exciting, but as she saw it, he was busy.

"Well... this is lovely.." Abigail stood behind the two adults, a butterfly knife in hand just in case she had to kill them both, "Simonetta would have been so proud.." the older woman who resembled Shanel whispered, looking at the portraits on the wall. Next to the woman was a man, he had short brown hair and glasses,

"Do you think she'll be surprised.." he asked, watching the way his lover looked him, "Amore, we are her surprise." she kissed him on the cheek. Abigail crept closer, trying to take a slash at the couple.

Abigail wasn't quick enough as she felt the pain surge into her arm. "I wouldn't do that piccola ragazza." he laughed, with a dark expression on his face. As the door creaked open, he leaned in closer, "Let us pretend you didn't try to kill me." he winked, watching her nod.

Shanel and Hannibal walked through the door exchanging, their interesting days as she took off her suit jacket, not noticing how quiet the house was around her while on the other hand, Hannibal could sense that someone was there the scent of Dolce & Gabbana Light Blue went past his nose,

"Rosalina.," he whispered to himself, hearing the sound of her voice, he hadn't seen her in years though he didn't know that his dinner exhibition had made news to Italy. Sitting in the living room was Shanel, who had made it her duty to relax first before she had gotten all dressed up for the occasion. But sneaking up behind her was someone that she knew very well. The footsteps behind her were silent, and his breathing was non- existent. Before she could turn around and he could plan his attack, she grabbed him into a hug filled with laughter and love. "Il mio piccolo guastafeste!" he nearly squeezed the woman. Shanel chuckled, shaking her head, "I am not a trouble starter, Milo." Hannibal, on the other hand, was stuck with Rosalina.

"Taking care of my Shanel.." she asked, holding him by the arm.

"She is my first concern, your highness." he turned to look at her, hist face aglow at the woman who once made him feel like home in his times in Italy. "You don't have to call me that here," she smirked, taking in his more mature features. Hannibal couldn't help but laugh at the way she looked at him. Turning his head, he could hear the cold metal clanking of swords in the living room and the sounds of grunts and laughter, "Ah, they've picked up where they left off.." she gestured for him to walk in. Abigail, who was keeping track of their score, looked over at Hannibal like a concerned child looks at their parents.

"Like daughter like father.." Rosalina smiled, not noticing what she had just let slip from her mouth. Shanel looked over at her mother in disbelief. "Like who.," she asked, hoping she didn't hear the phrase correctly. In her mind, it didn't make sense for Milo to be the big F word in her life. It wasn't possible, and she refused to believe that her mother's butler was her dad, but if he were, he would have some explaining to do, like sitting there when her life was slowly leaving her, or sending her away to boarding school when she would have been home, let alone the wards and hospitals.

"I have so much to do... Hannibal come with?" she ushered upstairs.

"Shanel, wait!" Milo said, watching her slowly walk out his life again.

Hannibal sighed, watching as she threw another knife, this time catching it. He knew that at times she was one to lash out in anger, and luckily it was something he was good at, "You're taking this a bit hard, Ms. Mahone, what to do we do when we are angry." seeing the look of a shark smelling blood, he realized that his old tricks would no longer work. "Lets, talk this out perhaps." he ushered for her to sit on the bed. She looked up at him playing with her fingers, shaking her leg the things she used to do when they had first started therapy.

"Well, I was thinking about us.." She got behind him, taking her pearl necklace from behind him.

"Changing the subject, are we.." he nodded, knowing that in time she would take it out on one of their victims. " No.." she looked away from and then back. "Yes..but the point is.." Hannibal sighed, growing impatience with her struggling. Though he couldn't say, he couldn't relate to it.

"DON'T YOU SEE I'M TRYING!" she burst out, hands almost hitting his chest. Hannibal grabbed her wrist, a blank expression on his face watching the way she acted like a spoiled child, not getting her way. She had been excusably rude in the past, but this was going to be his last straw. As she tried to fight, she felt a sharp prick in her thigh.

"Shanel... dove sei.. where are you?" A familiar voice said. Sat in the middle of the woods was Shanel, covered in blood. Butterflies flew past her, but each one was different. "Where am I?" she asked, looking towards the sound of familiar footsteps. A hand covered her lips as another one grabbed her waist. As the grasp got tighter, she felt as if they'd rip her in two. Blood began to drip down her dress as she watched from afar two creatures feasting on what looked like her eight-year-old body. Standing there was a Wendigo and a Butterfly Moth creature eating away her eyeballs.

"Help me! don't let them take me away HEL-"

Shanel jolted out the bed, her mouth dry and eyes wide. Her breathy was unsteady, and she knew why. "Vistaril.. nice.." she began getting drossy again as her head hit the pillow and into a slow thickness of blood.

" Must I denounce myself as a monster while you still refuse to see the one growing inside you?" the familiar voice said, blood gushing into her lungs and out her mouth. In her hair even was blood but by her feet was the body of Albert and Christopher. Hannibal, who looked at her stone-cold, had in his hand a slaughter knife while the other reached out to grab her. "Well, must I... " he asked, watching her reach for the knife,

" If I kill the rude. While another detests the righteous, what will you have left in my pantheon," he asked.

"The wicked.."

Another prick of pain hit her as she stood up, deep scars on her arm, as she laid there a bit. " Parasomnia.," he mumbled, realizing why she had has tended to squirm around whenever he'd leave her side while sleeping. "Someones up.." he smiled, "And in time for dinner.," he added, handing her dress over to her. Though something confusing was going on in his heart every time he watched her struggle, it was a pain that made him want to hold her tell her everything would be alright, much like he wish he could with his sister Misha a stinging pain in his arm when it rains. Looking down at his feet, he saw trails of blood mostly from Shanel. Taking his finger to get a taste, he had noticed something different about the blood "Low in iron.. " he smiled to himself, "Perhaps I should fix things.." he then made his way into the bathroom.

"Why did you do.."

"To relax you, you went into hysterics .." he walked closer towards her watching her body language, "It's nar-"

"I know what it is.. you wouldn't be the first to inject me." she rolled her eyes, feeling insecure about her response, "You would know that..." she got dressed, her eyes looking down and away from his. "I was happy once as a kid.. you know I wasn't always a psicopatica." she turned her back towards him, and he felt that pain again, but this time in his heart. The trust he had built was fading. He walked closer towards her trying to hold her hand.

"GET away from me!" she pushed him aside.

"I can't do that." he looked into her brown eyes seeing something he had never seen before reflecting at him. "And why can't you."

" Sometimes, I think of the sun and moon as lovers who rarely meet. Always chase and almost always miss one another." he smiled, helping her zip her dress,

" But once in a while, they do catch up, and they kiss." he looked at her reflection. "And the world stands in awe of their eclipse." his voice went hoarse while his heart stung in a long-forgotten pain called love. Shanel turned to look at him catching his eyes for her own. She could see it in his eyes that cupid hit him in his murderous heart. " Say it.." she nearly whimpered, her eyes on his lips.

"I love-"

"Dad... um, Mr. Lecter, the guests are arriving," Abigail mentioned.

"We'll finish this later?" he looked over at Shanel, who gave him a sigh and a nod.

Everyone who was anyone showed up at the luxurious dinner party. There wasn't a soul in there that Shanel didn't know except, of course, her parents. She and Hannibal had been socializing all night. It seemed like forever since she had even sat down. That, of course, was until Hannibal had gestured for everyone to migrate like birds to his set to theme beautifully Greek pantheon dining room. Shanel giggled a bit watching, as she noticed the details in Hannibal's food decor of pomegranates, hers having six seeds next to it. "Some say that this very feast is what Persephone didn't eat upon," Hannibal said, standing behind Shanel, his pitch-black suit matching her soft spring pink dress traced with roses in the fabric.

" The story of Hades and Persephone is one of the most well-known love stories in Greek mythology." he pulled out Shanel's chair, waiting for her to sit. "Hades, was known for rarely ever leaving the underworld," he laughed a bit. "But one of the few times he did, he came across Persephone, and he fell instantly in love." Hannibal kissed Shanel on the forehead, his hand resting on her shoulder. " But Demeter would never allow her daughter to marry the god of the underworld." he then looked at Rosalina and Milo.

"With each pomegranate seed, I proclaim my love to you." he smiled, holding out a box kneeling on one leg, "With this ring, I confess my dying need to l'amore della mia vita." he kissed her hand.

"What do you choose, my pet," he asked.

Shanel looked around, her heart fluttering with many emotions eyes staring her down. Her mother and apparent father both looked at her as she looked at the ring. She could hear the mumbling going on from her mother.

"Yes."

#hannibal x oc #Hannibal Lector #nbc hannibal #shanel mahone #New Chapter #new #fanfiction #fandom

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borathae · 5 years

Text

↳ The Index [#07 Come Back]

Genre: mostly Angst with some Fluff thrown into the mix

Warnings: a physical fight, mentions/description of blood & injuries, self-hatred, it’s a whole ass Angst fest again lmao sorry not sorry

a/n: Okay so at this point... I am afraid of my own ability to make my characters suffer. Like I legit had to stop writing and take some deep breaths at some points because my heart couldn’t handle it lmao. Anyways, enjoy because dear lord it’s gonna be an angsty ride

Wordcount: 10.4k

You had tried everything the following week, calling Yoongi multiple times a day, sending him message after message begging him to just hear you out. You had waited in front of the restaurant ever day, hoping that he would show up eventually but he never came making you eat alone with a heavy heart. You had gone to his apartment a few times, but you had found it empty every time. Your last hope had been his studio, but you had given up the third time the security guard refused to let you walk any further than to the lobby. So to keep it short, you were out of plans and pretty desperate. You know you had fucked up big times and you can’t blame Yoongi for not wanting to see you. But still you wanted to apologize to him, not because it would make your heart feel lighter, but because he deserves the best apology in the world.

“Y/N you need to come down quickly” Namjoon rushes into your office startling you. You had been thinking about Yoongi again, staring at the email you had sent him just a few moments ago. Your head snaps into his direction, he is panting hard, looking scared.

“What happened?” you ask worriedly.

“Hoseok and Yoongi, they both came to see you. They are in the lobby, literally at each other’s throats”, he rushes out pointing into the direction of the lobby.

They both – what? You feel dizzy, your heart stops in your chest only to race afterwards. You jump up, running out of your office with Namjoon following close by. You stop in front of the closed elevator doors looking at the sign which tells you on which floor it was right now. Sixteenth?! You groan, furiously pressing the elevator button.

“Let’s take the stairs, it’s faster”, Namjoon tells you, grabbing your wrist and pulling you to the big metal doors leading to the stairwell. You rush down the stairs, your toes getting painfully squished in your tight high heels, but you fight through it.

Namjoon pushes the door open for you, never letting go of your wrist until you finally arrive at the side of the two men clawing at each other with a panicky looking Taehyung in the middle.

“Let fucking go of me Taehyung”, Hoseok yells, trying his hardest to push a struggling Taehyung away.

“What’s going on here?” you call out. Their heads snap into your direction, both of them staring at you with anger burning in their eyes.

Hoseoks stance relaxes slightly, the relief obvious in Taehyungs face.

“Oh hey Y/N, finally you are here. I actually came to see you, but I met your lying fiancé first. How are you?” Hoseok says, his voice at a normal volume now that he had noticed you.

“As a matter of fact I’m bad. What the actual fuck is your problem coming to my work and causing a scene like that?” you spit positioning yourself in front of Yoongi with crossed arms.

“I wouldn’t have caused a scene if I hadn’t met this bastard”, Hoseok says pointing at Yoongi.

“Call me a bastard once more and I’ll wipe that smug look off your face”, Yoongi spits.

“I’d like to see you try asshole”, Hoseok growls trying to step closer but Taehyung stops him.

“Stop it man! Calm down!” Taehyung says, struggling once again to keep Hoseok at bay.

“Guys please stop, people are already staring”, you hiss, trying your hardest not to look at the judging faces of your by-passing colleagues.

“Tell me Yoongi how does it feel knowing that I had her first? Knowing that we shared everything together?” Hoseok continues with an evil smirk on his face.

“Hoseok stop it!” you yell sending him a warning glare.

He looks at you, contemplating if he should continue when he sees your angry eyes. His eyes wander to Yoongi, his jaw is clenched, eyes burning holes into Hoseoks face. He just looks like such an easy target right now. He needs to say these things to him.

“How does it feel knowing that despite you trying your hardest, she still came running back to me?” Hoseok spits and you can feel Yoongis hot breath in the back of your neck.

“Shut it!” Yoongi growls, his nostril flaring.

“You want to know how loud she screamed when I made her cum?” Hoseok says chuckling afterwards.

Taehyungs and Namjoons eyes snap into your direction, their mouths falling open. You glance sideways, feeling nervous now that you had noticed not only their judging stares but from the people walking by as well.

“What is your problem Hoseok?!” you hiss, stepping closer to him with anger burning in your eyes. He looks past you, staring directly into Yoongis dark eyes.

“You know whose name she screamed when I asked her who she belongs to? Mine, she screamed my name!” Hoseok practically yells pointing at his chest.

“You motherfucking asshole”, Yoongi screams, so loud that both you and Namjoon flinch back. He is fast, too fast for anyone to react, launching himself onto Hoseok. The first punch is hard, making Hoseok stumble backwards groaning in pain. His hand comes resting on his aching jaw before a deep chuckle leave his throat.

“Good. Come on hit me asshole! Show Y/N your true self. Come on man punch me!” Hoseok urges Yoongi on, stretching his arms out to make himself an easier target.

Yoongis mind is clouded with anger, his common sense long gone. He launches himself onto Hoseok again, the momentum throwing Hoseok onto the ground, his head hitting the hard stone floor. Yoongi throws punch after punch at Hoseoks face and soon Hoseoks chuckles turn into begs of mercy. Both Namjoon and Taehyung grab at Yoongi, trying their hardest to drag him off of Hoseoks body, but Yoongi has gained inhuman strength making it impossible for them.

“Stop it please I’ve had enough”, Hoseok begs, trying to shield his bleeding face with his hands.

“Fuck you!” Yoongi yells, throwing another punch. It lands directly onto Hoseoks nose, a loud crack echoing through the lobby before an agonizing wail from Hoseok can be heard.

Panic shoots through your system, if you don’t do anything now, Yoongi is going to kill him.

“That’s enough Yoongi!” you scream throwing yourself onto your knees next to Hoseok so you are able to look into Yoongis face.

His dark eyes are boring holes into Hoseoks bleeding face, not even registering you beside him. He raises his arm once again to throw another punch, but you are faster, grabbing at him.

“I said that’s enough!” you spit. His eyes snap into your direction, his features softening upon seeing you, the anger clearing from his eyes.

His slack in strength allows Namjoon and Taehyung to drag him off of Hoseok making Yoongi fall back onto his behind. He looks at his blood covered hands, his knuckles pulsating underneath the bruised skin. His eyes grow big, his stomach twisting in disgust.

“You weren’t supposed to see me like that”, he whispers, crawling backwards before jumping up and rushing off to the toilets.

“Yoongi!” you scream, already launching into running after him before Taehyung stops you.

“We got this. Stay with Hoseok he needs you. Here take my car and get him to the nearest hospital”, he orders you handing you his car keys. You nod, your eyes wandering to Hoseoks curled up form. He is shaking, his body turned to the side and blood dripping onto the white floor.

“Okay”, you say, just so they would get a reaction from you before kneeling down next to Hoseok. Your hand comes resting on his arm making him flinch at your touch, a quiet whimper leaving his lips.

“Oh my god Hoseok, are you okay?” you stutter, gently pushing him onto his back to get a better look at his face. His body is weak, making it easy for you to roll him onto his back. He groans, new blood spilling out from his ruined nose.

“It hurts”, he chokes out, trying to open his eyes to look at you.

You swallow hard, Yoongi had managed to pop a blood vessel in Hoseoks left eye painting the white in a deep red.

“I’m so sorry Hoseok. I’m so sorry I’ll make it good again. I-I’ll take you to the hospital. Don’t worry you’ll be alright”, you sob, pulling out a tissue from your left jeans pocket. It’s dirty and probably terribly unhygienic, but you just want to clean him up a bit. You carefully tap his cheeks, the white tissue instantly turning red. He watches you, clasping onto your thigh for support.

“I told you so Y/N”, he stutters out, wincing when you had accidently pressed down too hard making new pain shoot through his cheek.

“Just shut up right now Hoseok”, you spit, “I’m not in the mood for anything related to my love life.”

“Fine I’ll shut up, ouch, ah fuck, careful”, he nearly yells. You had pressed the tissue to his nose to try and clean him up, but had accidentally put too much pressure on it. He squeezes his eyes closed, his fingernails painfully digging into your thigh.

“Oh shit, fuck, Hobi I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry”, you gasp ripping your hand from his face staring at him in utter shock. He nods, his eyebrows furrowed together in pain.

“Yeah it’s okay”, he groans, forcing a smile to his face.

“No it’s not, it’s my fault. I’m so sorry I’ll make it good again okay? You just, just”, you say, grabbing at his arm to try and pull him up onto his feet, “-just have to work with me real quick, can you do that? I’ll get you to the hospital. Just try and stand up”, you grunt helping him get up on his feet with all your might.

Once he had stood up, you wrap an arm around his waist, griping him as tightly as possible so he wouldn’t fall down again. He wraps his arm around your shoulder, resting his weight on you.

“Thank you Y/N”, he whispers, trying his hardest to focus his eyes. His head is spinning making it hard for him to move, but you are stubborn dragging him out of the building and to the fountain.

“Don’t mention it, just, just sit down here for a moment and we’ll try and get the bleeding to stop okay?” you say helping him sit down on the cold stone before sitting down next to him.

He leans back looking up into the sky, groaning in pain.

“What? No what are you doing? You need to look down, you don’t want the blood to run down the back of your throat”, you tell him gently pushing his head down.

“But then it ruins the pavement”, he croaks pressing his eyes shut. He can feel the blood running from his nose, warm and heavy.

“I don’t fucking care about the pavement right now Hoseok, you are far more important”, you spit gently pressing the already soaked tissue to his nose.

He hisses at first, jerking back at the sudden feeling of something pressing against his face, but relaxes once he realises how gentle you are with him.

“I’m so sorry Hobi”, you whisper caressing the nape of his neck with your other hand.

He hums in acknowledgement nodding ever so slightly. You use the time it takes for Hoseoks nose to stop bleeding to actually take a good look at his face. A deep purple spot is already forming on his left cheekbone and his left eye is so swollen that he can’t even open it, a single tear glistening in the corner.

“Does it hurt much?” you ask, knowing well enough how unnecessary your question was, making Hoseok scoff.

“Yeah? Hurts like hell actually”, he mumbles before raising his head to look at you. You want to reach out and force him to lower his head again but his words stop you, “I think the bleeding stopped”, he states, touching his nose.

“Oh, yeah? Well, then let’s take you to a hospital now”, you stutter grabbing his arm and pulling him to his feet. You wrap your arm around his waist again, too scared that if you let him walk alone he might collapse. He lets you, draping his arm around your shoulder and trying his hardest not to put too much of his weight on you.

“Okay there, are you sitting comfortably?” you ask him, once you had sat him down on the passenger seat of Taehyungs car. He nods, the new gush of blood oozing out of his nose making you gasp, “Oh my god Hobi! I-, oh my god. Here wait, Taehyung has got some tissues on his backseat”, you stutter out, reaching behind you to pull the tissue box to the front. You pull out three tissues putting them into Hoseoks hand and helping him raise it to his bleeding nose, “Here can you hold it onto your nose like that?”

“Yeah I can, don’t worry it doesn’t even hurt that bad anymore”, Hoseok assures you to which you raise your right eyebrow in disbelief. “Okay maybe it does”, he mumbles before leaning forward as good as the cramped car allows him to.

You start the engine, steering it out of the parking lot and onto the main road. The streets are fairly empty at this time of the day and you are able to drive quite fluently the whole time.

“Hoseok I have to ask”, silence had been present ever since you started driving, only now getting interrupted by you, “What did you think would happen when you talked to Yoongi like that?”

“Definitely not that. I thought he’d punch me two, three times nothing more”, he answers staring out of the window, now that the bleeding had stopped again.

“You are stupid Hobi”, you state making him scoff.

He winces the movement had made new pain shoot up his head. You look at him with worried eyes. He looks miserable, dried patches of blood run all the way down from his nose to his neck before it collects in the white material of his hoodie. You reach over to him, taking his left hand into yours, gently squeezing it. You can see him tense up at your touch, before he relaxes again.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know that Yoongi could do that, I really didn’t. Why did you challenge him like that?”

“Because I want you back Y/N and if that means getting beaten up then so be it”, he says before furrowing his eyebrows at the new pain pulsating in his nose.

“What the hell are you on about? Stop talking like that. I don’t want you to get hurt, stop acting so reckless”, you say, gently caressing his skin, “You know that I’m with Yoongi now”, you add and you can feel his hand turn ice cold in yours.

He closes his eyes, forcing his tears down again.

“Hearing you say that hurts far more than any physical wound ever could”, he croaks.

“Hoseok please stop”, you plead. You feel helpless. You want to help him, you really do. You want to see him become better again and move on. But how could you? When deep down in your heart you don’t even want him to?

“Why?”

“Because you don’t deserve to hurt like that.”

“Then why did you suddenly leave?” he says turning his head to look at you.

You swallow staring at the hospital appearing in your view.

“And why did you sleep with me and get my hopes up again?”

His grasp around your hand tightens, your heart beat racing in your chest.

“And why did you call me ‘your Hobi’?” he chokes out.

“I don’t know Hoseok. Please just stop”, you say and you can hear him choke down a sob. You don’t dare to look at him, staring at an empty parking space you had spotted.

“We are here”, you announce pulling the keys out before opening to door and walking to Hoseoks side.

He watches you open the door for him and lean down to help him out of the car. He lets you touch him, despite the stinging pain it causes his heart to feel. You wrap your arm around his waist, draping his arm around your shoulder so he could lean his weight on you.

“Let’s just focus on getting you patched up now”, you say helping him get up the two stairs with your tongue sticking out of your mouth.

“Yeah okay”, he answers quietly, letting you sit him down on one of metal chairs close to the ER reception. He watches you storm off to the counter after that to talk with the receptionist your fingers pointing into his direction. The receptionist looks over your shoulder and he can see him gasp before he nods and raises the telephone receiver to his ear and starts to speak, probably telling someone about Hoseoks current situation.

You return after that sitting down next to him. You sigh, rubbing your eyebrows and resting your elbows on the metal armrest afterwards.

“Everything’s okay?” he asks, eventhough it should be you asking this question.

“Mhm?”, you raise your head, “Oh, yeah everything’s okay, they just-“, you stop turning in your seat to look at him, “-Hoseok why am I still your emergency contact?”

He shrugs his shoulder, avoiding your eyes. Because maybe if something had happened to him and you had been called to the hospital, you would have realised how much you still needed him.

“I don’t know, I was just too lazy to change it that’s all”, he says nonchalantly.

“Alright, well maybe change it one day please”, you say turning away from him again.

It hurts him, his heart stings in his chest and he needs to take a deep breath to force down the whimper threatening to escape. Did you make it your goal to mess with his emotions like that? To make him enjoy every second you spend with him only to crush it mere moments later? He clenches his hand, to stop it from shaking. It really hurts and still he can’t find himself to just stand up and leave you behind on this metal bench. You notice his change in stance, your head snapping around.

“Are you in pain again? Should I tell the receptionist to move you up the patients list”, you babble already rising from your seat.

“No it’s okay just stay seated”, he tells you and you fall down on your chair again.

“Alright, just tell me if it gets worse again. Just hang in there for now, the receptionist told me that it wouldn’t take long”, you say, resting your hand on his and squeezing gently.

It confuses him, your constant change in moods. One moment your throw hurtful words at his head and in the next moment you are caressing him with gentle touches. What exactly do you want him to believe? That you despise him and that you heart doesn’t beat for him anymore? Or that you still enjoy his company and your heart yearns for him deep down? It drives him mad, your hand feels like home and still it feels painfully heavy on his skin.

“Y/N can I-“, he starts but his name ringing through the speakers above your heads stops him.

“It’s your turn”, you gasp staring at the speakers before jumping up and offering him your hand to hold onto, “Come on let’s go.”

He stands up, ignoring your hand and looking down at you afterwards.

“I think I can handle going to the doctor alone”, he tells you and you laugh awkwardly.

“Yeah, I’m sorry I’m just so worried that’s all”, you confess scratching your head, “I’ll wait outside for you okay? I need to go to the toilet anyways”, you add, pointing at the grey door with the word “women” written on it.

“Yeah okay do that”, he says before walking off and opening the doors of the room he had been called to.

You watch him disappear into the room and storm off to the toilets afterwards. Your bladder had been killing you for the last hour already. You sit down on the metal seats after you had relieved yourself, unlocking your phone to kill the time. Judging by Hoseoks wounds, it will still take some time for the doctors to take care of everything. A new messages blinks on top of your screen, calling your attention.

- Tae 🐯: managed to calm down Yoongi ….

- Tae 🐯: what the actual fuck did you do Y/N?

Shit, shit, shit. You had been so immersed in trying to get Yoongi to stop punching Hoseok that you had totally forgotten about Namjoon and Taehyung witnessing the whole scene. They are going to be so angry with you. You lock your phone, ignoring the messages of Taehyung on your screen. You are definitely not ready for a confrontation; you will have enough of that later today. You groan, hiding your face in the palm of your hands. Why does life have to be so complicated?

“I’m finished”, Hoseoks voice rips you from your bubble of self-pity and you look up. He is holding a big bag of ice against his cheek and eye and a white plaster spreads across the bridge of his nose.

You jump up, the worries from before already forgotten.

“So? What did the doctor say? Is your nose broken? And, and what about the blood in your eye? Are you going to have problems seeing because of it? Are you still in pain? Do you want to sit down for a moment?” you bombard him with questions.

He stops you, pressing his pointer finger to your lips. It sends a shiver down your spine, making you swallow.

“First of all take a deep breath Y/N”, he tells you removing his finger from your lips so you would able to let fresh air into your lungs. Once you seem calm enough he continues.

“Good that’s it. To keep it short. I am fine. Somehow I was lucky enough that my nose didn’t break completely, I got nothing more than a hairline fracture. The doctor told me that I will be healed in around two more likely three weeks.”

“But there was so much blood.”

“Yeah well, I still got pretty much punched straight onto the nose, so a nose bleed was unavoidable really”, he says and you can hear the annoyance clear in his voice.

“I’m really sorry”, you mumble but he dismisses you with a shake of his head.

“Yeah, it’s okay. And to answer your other question, my eye is fine, the doctor told me that a blood vessel popped nothing more. She said and I quote ‘it looks scarier than it actually is’, so don’t worry you won’t have to see me in glasses from now on”, he tells you sending you a smile afterwards.

“That-“, you grunt crossing your arms in front of your chest, “-that wasn’t the reason why I asked you if you would have problems seeing. Besides what do you have against glasses? I like glasses.”

“I’ve got nothing against glasses, I was just teasing you that’s all, you look funny when you are flustered”, he says, laughing.

You scoff, rolling your eyes at him.

“Whatever, let’s go and get you home. You still need to rest some more”, you mumble under your breath before taking his hand and pulling him to the exit.

“Wait? Are you going to drive me home too?” he gasps staring at the back of your head with big eyes.

“Yeah? Of course I am, that’s the least I can do to make it up to you for what Yoongi did”, you tell him turning around and leaning against the passenger door of Taehyungs car.

“That’s very nice of you actually”, he says scratching the back of his neck.

“I’m always nice”, you say shrugging your shoulder and opening the door for him.

“Are you though?” he asks raising his left eyebrow.

“Can you like-“, you stop your sentence, making a gesture of pulling your lips closed by a zipper, “-not test me right now?”

He laughs, clearly amused by being able to tease you, shrugging his shoulders afterwards.

“We’ll see once the pain medication starts working”, he tells you sitting down on the passenger seat.

The ride home is filled with silence, just as Hoseok had hoped the pain medication had started to work and after several tries of wanting to keep teasing you he had fallen silent. Now he is just staring out of the window with half-lidded eyes and his head tiredly swaying from side to side every time you turn the car.

“Keep seated I’ll help you”, you tell him once you have arrived at his apartment, stepping out of the car and running over to his side.

You can feel his eyes on you when you open the passenger seat door and put your arms underneath his armpit to pull him out of the car and to his feet. He wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer than probably necessary, but you ignore it blaming it on the pain medication instead. Thankfully Hoseoks apartment complex has an elevator, which makes the journey to his flat fairly easy.

“Where are your keys?” you ask once the two of you stand in front of his locked front door.

“Inner coat pocket”, he tells you and you reach inside without thinking.

You glide your fingers over his sculpted chest until you can finally feel the hem of his pocket. You reach inside, having to raise your head to avoid squishing your nose against his chest, instantly locking eyes with him. He is so damn close.

“The pocket’s deeper than I thought”, you laugh awkwardly, moving even closer to him to be able to reach deeper into the pocket. His hot breath is tickling your face and you blink trying to re-focus your eyes away from his lips.

“It really is”, he says, his eyes racing between yours.

The sudden cold feeling of his keys against your fingers nearly makes you sigh in relief and you pull back quickly the moment you have them in your fingers. So much for making it clear for him that you don’t want anything from him anymore. You clear your throat, unlocking the door with shaky fingers and wrapping your arm around his waist afterwards.

“Let’s get you inside and ready for bed now”, you tell him ignoring his eyes still staring at your face, leading him past his entrance hall and straight to his bedroom.

Your eyes instantly lock onto his bed, memories of your shared night coming into your mind. You blush, hoping that Hoseok wouldn’t notice, but of course he does smirking to himself. So don’t regret it as much as you wanted to let him believe. He thinks to himself, silently signing songs of victory in his head.

“Here just sit down first and I’ll help you get out of your shoes”, you say, helping him sit down on his bed before kneeling down in front of him and taking his left foot into your hands afterwards.

He is wearing sneakers, just like always, which makes it fairly easy for you to rid him of his shoes. Once you have taken off his coat as well, you rush back to his hallway to store his’ as well as your coat and shoes away. Hoseok is still sitting on the edge of his bed when you return, his eyes staring out of the window.

“Do you want me to help you get out of your ruined sweater?” you ask pointing at the blood-stained collar of his sweater.

He hums, nodding hesitantly. You rush to his closet first, pulling out the first best t-shirt you can find before you walk back to Hoseok.

“Let’s get you comfortable and clean shall we?” you say hooking your fingers under the hem of his sweater before pulling it over his stomach.

He watches you with big eyes, raising his arms once you tell him to. You study his upper body, trying your hardest to stay as collected as possible right now. This is not an opportunity to stare at his body, he is wounded and you offered your help nothing more.

“There is still some blood on your neck and collarbones. Would you mind if I cleaned you up?”

He shrugs his shoulders.

“Do what you need to do”, he says and you nod.

“Alright I’ll be back soon”, you say before storming out of the bedroom and into the bathroom the get a bowl of warm water and a wash cloth. You return once you have everything, putting the bowl down on the floor and wringing out the excess water from the wash cloth.

“Tell me if I hurt you”, you say and start cleaning the blood from his skin afterwards. You start at his collarbones first, working your way up his neck and ear to stop at his face, “you okay?” you ask sending him a quick glance.

“I’ll tell you if I’m not, just continue”, he says staring into your eyes.

They are sparkling with a feeling you can’t quite make out. Is it discomfort because of your hands touching him? Is it hatred for what you did to him? Or is it adoration, love that still burns fiercely in his heart? What you know however, is that it makes you nervous and you look away, watching your fingers work instead. You rub the wash cloth over his cheek, your tongue sticking out in concentration. You just need to put as little pressure as possible on his face and everything should be fine.

“There, now you look pretty again”, you say once you have finished and he snorts.

“I look like shit but thanks for lying I guess”, he scoffs and you roll your eyes.

“Just wanted to give you some positive affirmations but whatever, raise your arms again mister grumpy so I can put your t-shirt on”, you tell him waving the black shirt in front of his pouting face.

“Don’t call me like that”, he tells you once the t-shirt is over his head and he looks at you with his lips turned downwards.

“Well, then don’t act like one”, you laugh gently petting his healthy cheek.

“I can be as grumpy as I want to be, I am in pain and my face is ruined I have a good right to be bad-mooded”, he spits and you raise your hands in defence.

“Fine, I’m sorry I won’t call you like that again”, you say, defeated. “Do you want me to change the ice bag instead?” you ask pointing at the bag of ice on his lap. Condensation water is running down its blue outside surface wetting Hoseoks fingers and grey sweatpants.

He slowly lowers his head to look at it before shaking it.

“No it’s okay, it’s gotten uncomfortably cold on my skin, I think I need a break from it”, he tells you, his voice calmer than before.

“Of course, sure, but let me put it into the freezer in the mean time”, you say pulling the ice bag out of his fingers.

You rush out of his bedroom and into the kitchen. His fridge is far emptier than you had imagined it to be, three bottles of beer and a container of kimchi the only thing you can actually call ‘food’. You sigh, he really needs to take better care of himself. The next thing you spot is a small packet of apple juice and you smile, he still drinks them even after all these years.

The first time you saw him drink one of these had been at one of your shared lunch breaks in junior year of high school. Taehyung had been sick the whole week and with your weak social skills you practically sat alone at your lunch table for five days in a row. Well. Three days in a row to be exact. On the fourth day, one of the a-class students of your parallel class sat down on the empty spot next to you, a big grin on his face and a packet of apple juice in his hand. It was Hoseok. Hoseok, the boy who had moved up to Seoul from a small province high school after his father had found a new job in the city. Hoseok, the boy whom you had sent secret glances every time you saw him walk down the hallways or sit on one of the wooden benches in the schoolyard. Hoseok, the boy who had once stopped the bus driver to drive off without you after one of you teachers had delayed you. Hoseok, the boy on who you had a crush ever since then. He had handed you the packet of apple juice then, and when his fingers brushed yours you both knew you wouldn’t be able to live without you.

You smile sadly. Back then you both were young, young and naïve without any knowledge about how cruel the real world can actually be.

Your hands reach out on their own, grabbing two apple juice packets before closing the fridge door. You take an opened box of chocolate cookies you can find in the rightmost drawer next to his sink as well and leave his kitchen afterwards.

He is still sitting on his bed, staring at nothing, when you enter his bedroom. He looks more tired than before, the bags underneath his eyes obvious in the dim light of the afternoon sun.

“Hoseok there is practically no food in your fridge, you need to take better care of yourself I don’t want you to starve”, you scold and he scoffs.

“Why? Starving sounds like fun”, he jokes and you tilt your head in confusion.

“Don’t say stuff like that, it’s not funny”, you huff, walking in front of him so he would have to look up at you.

“I was just joking”, he says coldly.

“It’s still not funny Hobi, here take some of these cookies, they will lift your mood”, you say, waving the box of chocolate cookies in front of his face. He snorts, reaching out to take two of the five cookies.

“Thank you”, he mumbles before biting into the first one.

“Also here I found this. Drink it will make you feel better”, you say, sitting down next to him and handing him one of the juice packets.

“I haven’t had this juice in ages”, he mumbles, turning the apple juice packet in his hands.

“But I found it in your fridge” you scoff, tilting your head to the side, “Do you really open your fridge that rarely that you don’t even know the contents of it?” you say in a teasing voice, gently poking your elbow into his side.

He stops drinking, swallowing down the rest of the apple juice loudly. He looks at you and shakes his head.

“I didn’t buy them for me. I bought them for-“, he looks away, “-it’s not important anymore”, he mumbles, sounding sad.

You watch his face in silence. Your mind is racing. Did he buy them for the person you think he bought them for? You?

“For who?” you ask, knowing very well that you have no reason to be that noisy. Not after what you had done to him.

“I’m so tired all of a sudden”, he ignores your question, turning his head to look back into your eyes.

“Sure of course I’m sorry I kept you awake for far too long. You need to rest”, you stutter, jumping up from his bed and taking both of your empty juice packets to throw them into the bin next to his door. You turn around, looking at him, “I’ll go now. Do you want me to go grocery shopping for you before I leave you for good? Just tell me what you want and I can get it for you, that’s the least I can do.”

“Y/N”, he sighs, “please stop feeling bad about what happened, you weren’t the one who punched me. I’m not mad at you.”

“Still, I feel bad because it wasn’t supposed to happen like that”, you murmur lowering your head.

“What do you mean?” he asked sounding confused.

“What I mean is that I was planning on not telling Yoongi about us sleeping together, but he waited for me at my apartment and-“, you groan sitting down on the bed next to Hoseok, “-I’m just so annoyed that everything spiralled out of control like that. I wanted to spare Yoongi of the pain and I failed and by failing I managed to hurt you as well.”

“I honestly don’t really know if you want me to comfort you right now or not”, he says coldly.

“No don’t comfort me, you don’t need to feel sorry for me I brought this shit upon myself”, you groan again lying down on the soft mattress, dangling your legs over the edge of the bed.

He turns around, studying your face.

“You kind of did”, he says and you send him a glance, “but I think I still need to apologize for one thing, no two things actually. First of all I’m sorry for the way I behaved at your company, it was childish and borderline stupid of me and I’m sorry I embarrassed you in front of your colleagues.”

“Yeah, thank you for realising”, you scoff and he laughs quietly.

“And the second thing is”, he takes a deep breath before turning his back to you, “I’m sorry for sleeping with you, I saw how distressed it made you the next day and that was never my intention I’m really sor-“

“No please stop, oh my god Hoseok stop”, you gasp sitting up and putting a hand on his shoulder, “don’t you dare apologize for that, why would you even think that?”

He looks at your hands resting on his shoulder first before looking away.

“I mean you made it kind of very obvious how you felt about it the next day, so I figured why not apologize so the risk of you starting to hate me would be out of the way.”

“Hobi look at me”, you murmur grabbing his chin and making his head to turn to you, “I told you that I could never hate you and I stand by that. And as far as my stance on us sleeping together is”, you sigh, “I was unfair to you the next morning I realised it the moment I stepped out of your apartment, but I was too much of a coward to ring your bell and tell you that. I’m sorry for causing you such pain.”

“You mean that?”

“I mean that, technically yes I shouldn’t have slept with you because, well you know why. But I don’t know”, you sigh, shrugging your shoulders. “I just don’t want you to think that it’s your fault”, you add giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“Thank you Y/N”, he mumbles, smiling at you afterwards. He sighs with relief before lying down on the mattress.

You watch him, hovering you fingers over his stomach but deciding against touching him. Let’s not repeat the same mistake. One time can maybe still be seen as an accident, but twice? No, twice is a conscious choice and you don’t want to give Hoseok hope again. You had apologized now, you let him know how sorry you were for being mean to him, but you had also made it clear enough for him that you were with Yoongi now - in your mind at least.

“So now that everything is settled I’ll be going, I still need to talk with Yoongi and make it up to him. Do you still need something from me before I go?” you say standing up from his bed.

His head snaps up, his eyes big.

“Wait? You are leaving already?”

“Yeah, I told you that I would just bring you home and see that you are all safe in your apartment nothing more”, you tell him and he pouts.

“Oh, yeah true you did tell me that”, he mumbles, his voice becoming quieter with every word, “You sure you can’t stay any longer?”

“I am pretty sure, there is still a lot of talking I need to do today and it’s already far too late”, you tell him putting distance between the two of you.

“Okay”, he murmurs before taking a deep breath, “can you at least help me get into bed? My head started to spin again and I want nothing more than to sleep now”, he asks and you nod.

“Sure here take my hand first”, you say stretching your arm out and pulling Hoseok to his feet afterwards. He wobbles a little, holding onto your arm the whole time you pull the blanket back and help him lie down again (his thumb caressing up and down your arm you skilfully ignore).

“Are you comfortable like that?” you ask fluffing up his pillow.

“Yeah I am thank you”, he tells you.

“You are welcome Hobi, sleep well and if you need my help again just call me okay?” you say smiling at him.

“Can I really?” he asks with hopeful eyes.

“Yes you can, I don’t want you to waste away in your apartment like that.”

“Thank you”, he says grinning from ear to ear.

“Don’t mention it”, you smile, cupping his cheek like a mother would her child’s but regretting it right after. Judging by the growing smile on Hoseoks face, it really didn’t seem all the innocent right now.

You pull back, clearing your throat rather loudly and kneeling down to take the bowl of dirty water. “I’ll clean the bowl and I’ll get a glass of water and your pain medication and then I’m gone”, you say walking out of the bedroom to get everything you had told him.

“Thank you”, he calls after you, still smiling brightly.

Once you return to his bedroom he is already fast asleep, breathing steadily out of his opened mouth. You smile sadly, putting the glass of ice-cold water and his pain medication onto his bedside table and stroking through his hair afterwards. He hums in his sleep, his lips twitching up into a smile.

“I’m really sorry Hobi, it hurts me acting this cold towards you, but it’s only for your best”, you whisper before breaking away.

You leave his apartment afterwards, but not before you leave a note on his kitchen table, telling him to only take some pain medication when the pain gets too much to bear and that you will tell Seokjin to bring some groceries to his apartment later that day.

The lobby is empty once you arrive at your work place, the blood stain is already cleaned up and everything seems as if nothing had happened. Well, nearly everything. Your eyes land on Namjoon and Taehyung sitting on one of the stone benches next to the big pot of greenery in the lobby with their arms crossed in front of their chest, both of them staring coldly at you.

Should you even go to them? But then, you don’t know where Yoongi is right now, so you need to talk to them and ask them about his whereabouts. You swallow changing your route from walking to the men’s bathroom to your friends sitting in the corner of the lobby.

“Hey guys have you seen Yoongi?” you greet them, fondling with the sleeves of your coat.

“Why? So can cheat on him again?” Namjoon growls standing up to hover over you.

You look up into his angry face, instantly feeling yourself grow small. His jaw is clenched, his eyebrows furrowed together and his eyes as dark as the night sky. He looks intimidating, too intimidating to keep looking into his eyes and you lower your head.

“No I just wanted to apologize to him”, you mumble staring at the watch on Namjoon’s wrist.

“It’s a little too late for that don’t you think, also if you wouldn’t have been so stupid to cheat on him in the first place there wouldn’t be anything to apologize for”, he growls, closing the distance between the two of you even more, making you take two steps back.

“It, it was a mistake. I didn’t plan on cheating on him I promise, it just got way out of my control”, you try to sound as confident as possible, but Namjoon’s eyes only grow darker.

“Oh for fucks sake woman, you are acting as if you had no opportunity to stop your little adventure with Hoseok. As far as I know Hoseok he probably asked you multiple times if it was okay for him to keep going and you never had the fucking balls to say ‘no actually that’s wrong right now’?”, he barks.

“It’s not as easy as you make it seem Namjoon!” you yell raising your head to look angrily into his eyes, “I was confused and weak and-“, you stop, crossing your arms in front of your chest defensively, “-actually no I don’t need to explain myself to you. Why should I?”

Namjoon scoffs, tracing his tongue over the inside of his mouth.

“I despise people like you, you have no fucking respect for relationships”, he spits and you can’t ignore the pain it causes you to feel.

“Joon”, you gasp stepping back, letting your arms fall to your side.

“It’s Namjoon for you”, he hisses, his eyes as cold as ice.

“Don’t you think you are a bit unfair to me right now”, you say before averting your eyes to look at Taehyung still sitting behind Namjoon, “Tae say something please help me.”

“No I don’t want to help you”, he says turning his head away from you to look at the ceiling with a big pout on his lips.

“Are you angry too?” you ask, your voice small.

“Yes I am”, he mumbles still avoiding your eyes, “I thought we swore to tell each other everything and you keep something as big as this from me? I am hurt.”

“Tae please don’t be like that right now please”, you plead walking past Namjoon to sit down next to Taehyung. You reach out to take his hand into yours, but he pulls away finally looking at you.

Hurt flickers in his eyes, deep creases run across his forehead from the way he is furrowing his eyebrows together.

“No don’t touch me with your traitor hands”, he growls scooting away from you.

“Tae please don’t be-“, you start but Namjoon falls into your words.

“What are you even trying to do here Y/N? Can’t you see that we don’t want to see you right now, just go and talk to your precious Yoongi or whatever you had planned on doing”, he spits and your heart stings in your chest. His words hurt yes, but the knowledge that two of your closest friends are angry with you hurts far more than any words could ever do.

“But I don’t even know where he is”, you mumble, your lower lip already trembling.

“He’s in his studio”, Taehyung mumbles.

“Let’s hope he actually lets you in”, Namjoon adds.

“Yeah, I-“, you stand up, handing Taehyung his car key back, “I, I’ll get going then”, you whisper before turning your back to them and running out of the lobby.

You have never seen them like this before, fuming with anger and hatred burning in their eyes. It had scared you, made you think that Namjoon would explode any second and yell at you in front of everyone in the lobby. And it had hurt you, their words as painful as a freshly sharpened blade piercing through your beating heart. They are disappointed at you and you had no one else to blame for than yourself.

You whimper, stopping in your tracks to take a deep breath. No, you will not cry again. You had cried enough in the past week, you have enough of your eyes burning and your body feeling weak. You just need to keep going a little more, jump into a taxi and drive to Yoongis workplace, to beg the security guard to let you through and then ask Yoongi for his forgiveness, it’s easy you can do it.

The drive to Yoongis workplace turns out to be fight between your stomach telling you it needed to empty itself and your mind telling you to just keep on breathing and endure the sick feeling in your stomach just a little longer. After all, you knew it was just your nerves going crazy with what was to come. You really don’t want to talk with Yoongi right now. What if you he won’t forgive you?

Just as you had assumed the security guard is as persistent with not letting you past the entrance hall as he had been the last few days. You are practically begging him at this point with your hand folded in front of your chest and glassy eyes looking up at him.

“Please Sejin, please let me through just this once I really need to talk with Yoongi please”, you beg with trembling lips. But he shakes his head.

“I’m sorry Y/N, but he told me to not let you through no matter how much you beg and cry”, he states shaking his head.

“Please Sejin, please I’ll pay for your lunch for the next three years, I’ll drive your children to school if you want, please I’ll do anything just please let me through”, you plead but he shakes his head again.

“No, bribery doesn’t work on me”, he states and you sigh already giving up.

“Let her through it’s okay”, a deep voice rings from behind the security guard making him turn around. His tall frame is blocking your view and no matter how much you move and jump around you aren’t able to see the owner of the voice.

“Yes of course sir, I was just doing my job please forgive me”, the security guard says before stepping away from the entrance.

Yoongis slim frame appears in front of you, a black mask covering the lower side of his face and his long bangs nearly covering all of his forehead and eyes.

“Don’t apologize you are doing an amazing job”, Yoongi reassures the guard before letting his eyes wander to you. He signals you to enter the secured area with a nod of his head, “Follow me”, he mumbles before turning his back to you and walking away.

You rush through the now opened baffle gate, bidding the security guard goodbye with a bow of your head and storming after Yoongis disappearing figure.

“Thank you”, you say once you arrive at his side, panting hard from having to run.

He hums, nodding his head.

“Sure”, he mumbles before stopping in front of his closed studio door. He presses the buttons on his passcode-pad and his door springs open with a loud peep. “Shoes off”, he mumbles slipping out of his boots into his fur slippers and disappearing behind the black curtain, which is hanging in front of his studio door.

You pull your high heels from your feet, only now realising how much they had painfully squished your toes together and slip into the cloth slippers Yoongi always keeps outside for you before walking into his studio.

It smells like alcohol and cheap instant ramen inside and you have to cough at first, holding your hand over your nose. You look around, your eyes land on the small coffee table he normally likes to keep clean, but now piles of empty instant food packages and a variety of empty alcohol bottles, mostly soju and beer, are littering the whole glass surface.

“Sit down”, he says, turning around in his chair and pointing at the sofa on which a pillow and a dirty looking blanket are spread out.

You nod, taking the pillow into your hands to make some space for you and sit down. It creaks underneath you, the sound deafeningly loud in the silent room. He is just staring at you through his dark bangs, the mask making it hard for you to decipher his current emotion. Is he disgusted with you? Is he sad? Is he angry with you? The silence kills you, you want to break it, want to say something but your mind is blank, all of the conversations you had planned out in the taxi beforehand suddenly washed away from your memories.

“Did you come here to stare?” he asks coldly and it makes you jump.

“Hm? What? Oh, no, I, no”, you stutter, straightening yourself on his couch. You take a deep breath, trying to calm your shaking voice, “I came to apologize”, you say, swallowing hard once the words had left your lips.

Is he going to snap at you and send you away? Or is he going to listen to you? You hold your breath, fidgeting with the hem of your skirt.

“Alright then do that”, he says leaning back in his chair, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Oh, yes, yes of course”, you mumble looking away.

Is he actually going to hear you out? You feel lighter already, now that your first worry of him sending you away had been proven wrong. The conversation you had planned out comes back into your mind and you take a deep breath. Now you just need to say it exactly how you had planned and everything will be good.

“Okay so I want to apologize to you. I did the worst thing a person can do to their partner, I broke your trust and I am so terribly sorry for that. I hurt you, I know I did and I understand if you don’t want to see me anymore. I just-”, you take a breath, you feel dizzy suddenly, having forgotten to breathe the whole time, “-I want to say how sorry I am, not because it would me make feel less guilty no, but because you deserve to hear these words from me. So yes, I am so, so, so sorry Yoongi for hurting you, I’m so sorry”, you hold your breath once you have finished your words staring at him with racing eyes.

He stays silent, his whole body stiff. If it wasn’t for his chest heaving up and down quickly, you would have thought he had dropped dead.

“I hope you know how much you actually hurt me. I trusted you, you even pinky-promised me that you wouldn’t cheat on me and then just a week later I find you walking into your apartment, hair messy, his sweats hanging on your hips like it is the most normal thing in the world and his cum probably still sticking to your legs. Do you even know how much that fucking hurts?”

“I know, I’m sorry”, you whisper looking to the ground.

“And then he even dares to come to your work as if he owns you again and even dares to fucking challenge me and you-”, he stops leaning forward in his chair, “-you abandon me to care for him? Seriously Y/N? I was brave enough to actually leave my studio for once and to ask you if you wanted to talk because I actually missed you and you run off with him. Again you chose to hurt me”, he spits pointing an accusing finger at you.

“No, Yoongi it wasn’t like this you have to believe me. He was in pain, bleeding out of his nose and I just wanted to make sure that he was going to get the proper care. I would have done this to every person, not just him please believe me. I didn’t do it to hurt you, please believe me”, you plead folding your hands in front of your chest.

“And driving him to the hospital took you-”, he rolls the sleeve of his jumper up to take a look at his watch, “-four hours?” he finishes, shaking his head so his eyes would finally be visible through his bangs.

They are cold, anger burning in them, but still you could see the hurt flickering up every now and then.

“I drove him home as well. The doctor said it’s better for him not to drive with a broken nose and swollen eye”, you confess and you expect him to scoff, to shake his head and to tell you how much you had hurt him.

What you hadn’t expected was for him to lower his head in shame to stare at his shaking hands. Your eyes follow his, landing on the bruised skin of his knuckles. He clenches his hands into fists before hiding them between his legs.

“You weren’t supposed to see me like this”, he murmurs and you can hear him sniffle.

“What do you mean Yoongi?”

“I hate violence, hell I hate every kind of confrontation. I have never yelled at a person in my life before let alone punched someone, but I, I didn’t want to beat him up like that, I don’t know what happened to me, it was like I was blinded by my anger and jealousy and hurt that I became this monster of a human.”

“You are not a monster”, you tell him shaking your head.

“Am I not?” he asks raising his head to stare at you with glassy eyes, “First I lie to you like a coward and then I let my anger get the best of me and beat up another person so badly he needs to be treated in hospital”, he hides his head in his hands afterwards sighing loudly, well more like whimpering.

“Yoongi please don’t blame yourself, it was my betrayal that made everything spiral out of control”, you try to comfort him.

“Well, it was still my fucking hands that beat up another human. You don’t understand Y/N, I wanted him dead, I actually wanted him dead. The voice inside of me kept telling me to punch harder and harder that he needed to die”, he confesses, his whole body shaking.

You can’t deny the sick feeling in your stomach his words cause but despite that you stay, getting up from the couch to close the distance between the two of you, kneeling down in front of him.

“I hate myself so much Y/N. I always manage to ruin every relationship that I cherish. I manage to lose my best friend since middle-school just because I was too proud to apologize to him before he changed school. I manage to make my parents hate me, just because I was too fucking stubborn to actually agree to go the law school instead of studying music. And now I manage to scare the love of my life away just because I couldn’t control the demon inside of me”, he sobs, pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes to stop the tears from falling.

“I’m still here am I not? Baby please stop blaming yourself”, you whisper resting your hands on his knees. His muscle tightens underneath your fingers, his breath hitching in his throat.

“I’m so scared of loosing you Y/N”, he whispers, letting his right hand fall onto yours. It feels wet against your skin and you turn your hand to intertwine your fingers with his.

“I won’t be going anywhere Yoongi. If you let me be by your side again, if you can give me another chance I promise to stay with you and to treat you with nothing but respect and love”, you tell him, squeezing his hand.

He looks up, his eyes red and swollen, his mask had slipped down his face, exposing the red tip of his nose.

“I think I would want that”, he murmurs blinking twice, “Despite everyone telling me to just break up with you, I can’t bring it over my heart. I don’t know if that makes me weak or just plainly stupid, but I think I want to give you another chance Y/N, I just need you too much”, he says and it’s your turn to break into tears.

You sob resting your head on his knees and hugging his calves like it was the only thing keeping you from falling down. You only realise now, how much the last few days had burdened you and you sob nuzzling your face into his leg. You cry letting everything get washed away from your heavy heart, the fear that Yoongi would never forgive you, the guilt you feel for seeing Hoseok in so much pain and the heartache Namjoons and Taehyungs words had caused. You need that right now, you want to cry everything away that had made it so hard to sleep in the last few days.

Yoongi just watches you in silence, combing his fingers through your hair to sooth you. It calms him in a weird way, watching you cry all your worries away, knowing that you would feel lighter afterwards. He wants to see you happy again, he had missed your smile so much.

“It’s okay princess I am here”, he whispers massaging your scalp.

“Thank you baby for giving me another chance, thank you so much”, you hiccup, raising your head to look up at him.

He smiles, wiping away the tears staining your cheeks.

“Thank you for apologizing to me”, he answers and you nod furiously.

“Of course, of course baby you deserve this apology, you deserve it so much”, you babble, straightening yourself up.

You hook your fingers in his mask to pull it under his chin, it squishes his cheeks, before cupping his now naked face in your hands. You lean forward to kiss him, to really make it up to him, but he leans back, wrapping his fingers around your wrist and pulling your hands from his face.

“Can you give me some time please? I don’t think I’m ready to kiss you again”, he confesses, looking scared.

You put distance between the two of you, standing up and taking a step back, not wanting to make him feel uncomfortable.

“Oh, yes of course take as much time as you need. I don’t want to pressure you into anything”, you assure him and he smiles.

“Thank you for understanding”, he says and you nod.

“Of course baby, always tell me if something I’m doing makes you uncomfortable”, you tell him and he nods.

“I will thank you”, he smiles looking at you with fond eyes.

You feel warm inside, your heart fluttering in your chest; you really had missed his beautiful smile and warm eyes.

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cookiecutterwrites · 5 years

Text

The Curious Case of John Smith - How to Save the World in 12 Easy Steps, S1E6

There have been John Smith episodes, but this one’s THE John Smith episode.

Genre: Fantasy/Sci-Fi Kitchen Sink, Slice of Life

Wordcount: ~2400.

Because the continuity gags, pilot characters, and little bits of world building are really starting to compound: WIP Intro, Pilot, E1, E2, E3, E4, E5

INT. CLASSROOM - DAY

JOHN SMITH sits at his desk, brows furrowed. He scribbles notes on the indistinct lecture.

His phone's on the desk. He scrolls through grades and past assignments. In the corner of his notepad, he constructs a table: MEDIAN | WHAT I GOT

A 96 under both headings. 71. 56. 84. It dawns on him: he's hit the median every single time. His leg bounces restlessly, he grimaces, buries his face in the crook of his arm, sinks down into the desk, shuts his eyes. It all becomes too much -

The light directly above him EXPLODES!

He's showered with glass, stumbles out of his seat, trips, lands on all fours, staggers for the door. EVERYONE stares.

MR. PISCOLI turns, sniffling into his pine-bristle frost mustache, chalk still suspended at board-writing height. He's a monocled history teacher who looks like he very well could've lived through everything he teaches. Left on the board behind him: "WE CONCLUDE HIS ALIAS WAS 'MOON MOON'"

John Smith makes it out to the hall, collapses, scrabbles to his feet, gasps. His hat slips off and he abandons it.

Heads swivel in flawless synchrony to the seat by the window, three rows back. JAIDYN snoozes at the Protagonist Seat, cheek propped up in his palm. His head slips, face SLAMS against the desk. He snaps awake, blinks, rubs his nose, casts an accusatory glance around the room.

JAIDYN What?

Everyone tips their head toward the door. Outside, John Smith stumbles down the hall. Lights FLICKER above him. All swivel back in vacant anticipation.

Jaidyn groans. He stands, everyone sucks in air through their teeth. Jaidyn sighs and sits back down.

JAIDYN Can I -

The class collectively sucks in air through their teeth.

JAIDYN - May I. Go to the bathroom -

Mr. Piscoli flourishes a yellow neckerchief with HALL PASS sharpie'd on it.

JAIDYN - Have a bathroom pass.

MR. PISCOLI Yes you may.

INT. HALLWAY - DAY

John Smith enters the frame, hand to the wall, hand to his chest. He's trembling, struggling to breathe, fighting to stay on his feet. He screws his eyes shut -

Lights EXPLODE.

He looks, his EYES ARE BOLT-WHITE. He lurches out of frame.

Moments later, another door BURSTS open and MARLEY sprints out, dragging TETRA in tow.

TETRA We can't just leave in the middle of class, we don't have -

MARLEY Hall passes are for the feeble-minded! We think for ourselves! You saw that John Smith guy, didn't you? He's not who he says he is -

Tetra sighs as she's lugged past rows upon rows of lockers.

TETRA (under her breath) No duh. (normally) Why are you really doing this?

MARLEY You're catching on quick, grasshopper.

TETRA That doesn't answer my question.

MARLEY If he's destructive, I can use him.

TETRA Is that all?

Marley forges on, unfazed. Tetra casts her gaze downward.

They approach an open door leading to a dark underground. Marley pivots Tetra to stand in front of her.

MARLEY You see well in the dark, right?

Tetra nods uneasily. Marley gives her a little push and she tiptoes toward the inky, definitely-have-killed-a-few-people steps. Her pupils dilate, adjusting to the dark.

A BOLT TEARS THROUGH THE DARK, ZAPPING HER SHOULDER! Tetra falls back, hissing and gripping her blistered arm.

Marley clicks her tongue, hand held thoughtfully to her chin. She skirts around Tetra and flips a light switch in the stairwell. Sterile fluorescents illuminate the stairs.

Marley starts, turns, suddenly remembering she's not alone.

MARLEY Are you alright?

TETRA I'm fine.

Marley nods, makes for the staircase, squeezes up against the wall as she descends.

Another bolt WHIPS out of the depths and ELECTROCUTES Tetra IN THE FACE! She collapses, twitching and crying weakly.

Marley acknowledges this tragedy for but a second, turns, descends.

INT. BOILER ROOM - DAY

Marley's footfalls echo off the walls.

In the distance, a dim light sputters. It’s distinctly alive. It moves, grows in size, it’s coming straight for her -

Marley flicks on a light.

It’s only Jaidyn gripping tight to a faintly glowing stalk of bamboo. A yellow neckerchief sticks out of his pocket. At first, he’s all bewilderment and apprehension. And then, recognition. Then a muffled smirk.

Marley surveys him as if he were something stuck to the bottom of her spotless Mary Janes.

JAIDYN Have we met?

MARLEY Oh, shut up.

LIGHTS RATTLE and FLICKER. SPARKS run along the pipes. Jaidyn raises Hoover a little higher, Marley reaches for her watch.

The electrical spasm dies down and John Smith groans from somewhere further down in the dark.

MARLEY Let’s get formalities out of the way.

She throws her backpack down and whips out a thick glove. She slips it on and extends her hand.

MARLEY Marley Benson.

Jaidyn’s eyes dart from Marley’s face to her outstretched hand and back. He subtly turns away, refusing her offer.

JAIDYN Jaidyn.

Another CRASH, roar, rattle. Marley raises her brows.

MARLEY Well, what are you standing around for?

INT. BASEMENT - DAY

Marley and Jaidyn take slow and measured steps toward John Smith, who's collapsed on the floor, hacking for breath, eyes flashing between blinding white and stale brown. There's a palpable thrum in the air, a heartstring's strained and bound to snap. He throws a hand up but can't bring himself to meet their eyes.

JOHN SMITH Stay back!

He passes out, faceplanting in the dust-carpeted concrete.

THE LIGHTS GO WILD, crackling, sparking, bursting -

Jaidyn hops back, wincing.

Then all at once, it ceases. Darkness. Silence.

Then -

Lights are back. Marley's stood by the fuse box, having plunged a sparking lever back to restore electricity. The only thing keeping her from being electrocuted is that inordinately thick electrician's glove.

Lightning BLASTS from the ceiling, hitting John Smith in the back. He bolts upright. His eyes are frozen-lightning white.

Marley tosses her glove to the ground, casually flips her hair, storms up to him -

JAIDYN You're not seriously going to kick him while he's down, are you?

Marley shoots him a 'Who exactly do you think I am?' look and pointedly kicks John Smith in the side of the head without breaking eye contact with Jaidyn, who hastily looks away. She presses her heel to John Smith's chest.

MARLEY I never believed you were human for a second. I was right to pressure you...

TETRA (O.S.) Wait!

Tetra rushes in, TACKLES Marley. Both girls eat dust. Tetra HOISTS Marley into the air. She's much stronger than her tiny frame betrays.

TETRA What's he ever done to you?!

She HURLS Marley, who BOWLS into Jaidyn, who in turn makes no attempt to move out of the way, having already accepted his fate. Marley winds up on top of Jaidyn but not a moment is wasted on blushing and sentimentality. She springs back to her feet, fists balled.

Tetra moves to put a hand on John Smith's shoulder -

JOHN SMITH Don't touch me! Please. I don't want to hurt anyone.

She retracts her hand, kneels to his level, never once taking her violet-drenched eyes off him -- a chaos-feeder in action.

TETRA It's okay. Everything's gonna be okay.

JOHN SMITH I don't - we -

He clamps his hands over his mouth, trembles, convulses of the electricity skating over his skin.

MARLEY I'm sorry, did he just say 'we' -

TETRA Marlene! I got this! (back to John Smith) I'm sorry, did you just say 'we' and shut your mouth right after?

He nods though he's unsure. He's tearing up.

TETRA Can you tell me a little more about that? It's okay, it's just us. And Marley and Jaidyn. But just pretend they're not here.

Marley scoffs, crosses her arms, turns away. Jaidyn tosses Hoover to the ground. He clangs hollowly off the concrete.

Tetra takes John Smith's hand. He cringes but doesn't shock her.

TETRA See? It's okay.

He takes a deep, ragged breath.

JOHN SMITH My name... isn't John Smith.

MARLEY (under her breath) No duh.

TETRA MARLENE!

Marley throws her hands up in surrender, starts pacing. Jaidyn plops down, cheek in hand, eager to nap.

TETRA (back to John Smith) Please continue.

JOHN SMITH It's Keh - K-Kay - Ep -Ked -

He screams and grips his head in agony. Lights RATTLE and FLICKER. He can only speak through gritted teeth.

JOHN SMITH - Shut it! That's our name -- that isn't it -- What?! Let us say -- that's our original - it's not that -- been so long -- you all are - yeah, well, we're not the ones screaming -

Tetra grips his hand harder.

TETRA Khep, was it?

JOHN SMITH (quieting down) Yeah, that's. Really close, actually.

TETRA I'm glad it is.

From now on, John Smith will be referred to as Khep. They sit together until the protesting, knocking lights die down to just a static electric hum.

When he finally opens his mouth, it's like he's disintegrating just to speak:

KHEP We're not from here...

FLASHBACK START:

EXT. CLOUD FOREST - NIGHT

A young HIKER wanders through a fog-suffused forest, his hiking stick stabbing the ground at regular intervals. CRACK -- a twig's snapped. He turns, looks -

ZAP! A bolt of LIGHTNING strikes him on the head, killing him instantly.

Dark clouds swirl and rumble. Lightning jitters across the vast expanse of the grey-cast sky.

KHEP (V.O.) We don't know where we came from or what we really are.

The clouds animate, gliding through the air with living mass.

KHEP (V.O.) But we know we were the reason those who entered the woods never returned. We collected lives. Memories mostly. We made new friends. And then...

A SLASH materializes in the very fabric of the sky. Space warps, thunder claps, people point and scream. Through the portal, ANOTHER EARTH can be seen. It's speeding up, drifting closer, it's going to hit -

KHEP (V.O.) We did the only thing we could think of -

EXT. CITY PLAZA - NIGHT

It's crowded. People murmur, point at the growing hole in the sky. Suddenly -

SOMEONE COLLAPSES. The corpse smokes.

LIGHTNING.

More people collapse. Khep works through the whole crowd.

EXT. SPACE

The two planets collide. At the point of contact between dimensions, a wispy cloud leeches from one world to another, carrying a spark with it.

FLASHBACK END.

Tetra holds a sullen Khep gently, pity in her quartz-marble eyes. In the back, Jaidyn's sealed his gaze to the floor, not quite awake and yet somehow ashamed.

KHEP A while later we figured out how to spare and even inhabit hosts. We've been growing in numbers ever since.

TETRA How many people am I talking to?

KHEP (sighing) ... 11 million. And some aren't even human.

TETRA How is that possible?

They smile gently.

KHEP Memories are just electrical information.

Marley grunts in exasperation, points an accusatory finger.

MARLEY First of all, that's not how that works, at all -

KHEP We're several ten thousand lifetimes, cumulative. If you really want to talk what does and doesn't work, we could be here a while -

MARLEY - Second of all! All that knowledge and you choose to go back to school?! You fry your own brain or something -

Khep screeches and two lights SHATTER!

KHEP We did all the traveling and teaching and learning already! We just missed being normal! We knew we could pull it off, crunch the numbers and act perfectly average, pick the most common first and last names -

TETRA So what went wrong?

KHEP Nothing! It's just... everyone wants to be special, but average can't be special! We're all screaming in here but we can't afford to lose this host.

TETRA But Khep, no one's forcing you to be average! You are all so special and you need to know that!

KHEP Really?

TETRA Yes! You're amazing and you should be proud of who you are!

She offhandedly brushes shards of glass from her hair.

KHEP You really think so?

Tetra nods vigorously. Khep shuts their eyes for a moment. When they open them, they're vanilla-brown, back to normal. Tetra pats their hand. Khep smiles weakly.

Tetra turns to Jaidyn and Marley.

TETRA We're the only ones who know.

She sticks her hand out.

TETRA Hands in. All together now. This stays between us.

KHEP No.

All turn to them.

KHEP I - we, we wanna show the world who we really are. It's about time.

Their eyes glow, fill with light, turning completely white.

INT. HALLWAY - DAY

Khep struts down the hall, dignified, elegant, awash with sunlight streaming in from an open window. Their eyes glow, they crackle with electricity.

STUDENTS turn and stare. Marley, Jaidyn, and Tetra watch them go.

SOME EXTRA Is that John Smith?

MARLEY They clean up nicely, don't they?

JAIDYN They're wearing the exact same -

TETRA I'm proud of them. They're happy in their fragile, perishable host, and that's what matters.

Jaidyn ties his hall pass around Tetra's singed arm. She smiles and nods appreciatively.

CARTER KENETT watches Khep go and WHIPS his thick plastic-rimmed glasses off his face to wipe the lenses on his shirt, as if that'd help him see better. He's a beryl-eyed platinum blonde jock who blithely carries himself with just a tad too much self-importance and the confidence of say, a superhero.

SOME OTHER EXTRA Am I crazy or did I just see Attesservate here?

Carter starts and shoves his glasses back on.

CARTER No way! You must have just imagined it.

Jaidyn hands Khep their mesh cap and they put it on backwards with a self-assured smile as if nothing had changed at all. They blink, eyes returning to familiar brown.

KHEP That went so much better than we imagined. But we think we prefer to be inconspicuous. We were just starting to get used to it.

Tetra throws her arms around Marley and Khep, pulling them close to each side of her. She grins between the both of them. Khep catches on and yanks Jaidyn toward the slowly-yet-surely forming human wall. Jaidyn sighs and leans into Khep, having already accepted his fate.

Thanks for reading this slightly longer-than-usual episode!!!

This episode’s shoutout goes to @esoteric-eclectic-eccentric for ‘Moon Moon’.

HTSTW tag list (ask to be added/removed!): @maxbeewriting @eyelessfatdragon @glacizata @maple-writes@theforgottencoolkid @delerious-wordsmith @leskinggoddesskittycat@klywrites @aslanwrites @chaosandtrickery @deepestbelieverstranger @izzuniiwrites @managingmymuse @livingthelovelylife @piratequeenofpixies @jynecca @wordofthedey @loopyhoopydrabbles @beatlesandbards @mysterysiria @penicilliums

Next time on How to Save the World, dining hall food and puppies!

#s1e6 #wip #htstw #cookie's writing #cookie's stuff #script #screenplay #screenwriting #amwriting #fantasy kitchen sink #slice of life #comedy #writers on tumblr #tetra #john smith #khep #sorry i took so long with this one #and that its so long

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neuxue · 5 years

Note

Before you get to the arc payoffs, I think it would be cool if you could illustrate your thoughts on the journeys the main characters have gone on to get to this point. Like, your thoughts on their consistency and what you think worked and didn't work, aside from Perrin's plotline temporarily dying and Mat disappearing for a book.

This is an excellent question and I could probably take several weeks to compile an answer but I’m going to answer it now because I am an adult who is entirely in control of her life and her choices especially regarding fiction, fictional characters, and the discussion thereof.

‘Main characters’ is a rather flexible definition in WoT so I’ll start with the original set from EotW and go from there, and we’ll see how far I get.

(Okay it turns out I only got through the Emond’s Field group, becasue I’m me and I can’t just write a sentence or two for each one, but I might try later to do the same for some other characters)

Rand al’Thor: Rand’s character arc, and the way it’s executed, is fantastic. He definitely benefits from the sheer length of the series (well, his arc does; he just suffers), because it allows for a nuanced, complex, thorough character journey from farmboy to broken hero, from human viewpoint protagonist to distant focal point around which everything spirals, from determined trusting optimist to desperate half-mad fatalist. Any of those transitions can be and have been done in shorter wordcounts, but the length of the series, and the way everything about what Rand does and goes through escalates a little (or sometimes a lot) with each book, gives his arc this feeling of an inexorable pull, of compounding pain, of just a series of small steps, each only a little further than the next.

When you have 12 books (so far) to do that with, you can end up a huge distance away from where you started, without it ever feeling like too great a jump. Each ‘level’ (either of what he has to endure or what he himself does and becomes) is gradually normalised over time; he and the reader acclimate, so then it’s time to step up to the next. Put The Last That Could Be Done after, say, Falme, and it would still hurt but it would feel almost like too much (and also not enough, because it would lack the weight and momentum of everything that came before). Instead, you get to watch the slow unravelling of a character even as his power grows, tension building, until (like his ancestors the Aiel) he becomes all but unrecognisable as who he was at the start, but every step along the way feels like just another step, until a single step is all it takes to push him off the cliff his narrative has spent the better part of twelve books building for him.

I also love the way Jordan has played with POV in this particular arc, with Rand going from the main viewpoint character to barely having a POV. It suits the way he goes from being a protagonist beginning his journey to becoming the centre of a whirlpool that expands to encompass the entire world, as well as how he goes from being very young and human and real to… “I don’t know how human the Dragon Reborn can afford to be,“ to just dragging himself and the world to the Last Battle. He loses POV chapters because he no longer sees himself as a person with agency or even the right to his own mind – which, too, is invaded and eroded as time goes on, again fitting well with the decrease in POV chapters: his mind is literally no longer his own, nor – he believes – is his life.

I expect his to be one of the arcs with the greatest catharsis in its payoff, just because there’s so much that’s built up over time; the potential energy, if you will, is huge, and at some point it has to be released, and while building it took 12 books and counting, there’s…not all that much time left, so it’s going to be released in a far shorter time than it was built, and if anyone remembers anything from physics class, that means it’s going to hit with a hell of a lot of force.

Also okay in my head this was going to be maybe a paragraph or two per character so uh….

Egwene al’Vere: Another character arc I absolutely love, because she grows so much. She goes from strong-willed village girl seeking adventure and trying adulthood on for size to young woman finding her place in the world to true Amyrlin in strength and understanding and maturity. She’s allowed to make mistakes; and throw herself wholeheartedly into things the way so many of us do when we’re still figuring out who we are; and then smooth all of those pieces together into somoene who is still herself; but a more experienced, older, wiser, stronger version of herself. She grows up, in a very real sense, and we get to watch that play out in a way that isn’t always smooth and isn’t always perfect, but feels very real.

I’ve also talked a few times about how the main difference between her and Rand, beneath all the parallels drawn between them, is that in terms of their heroic arcs, she chooses while he is chosen. It’s something I love about Egwene’s arc and her character overall – she’s allowed to be ambitious and to want things and strive for things, and is rewarded for it rather than shut down.

She asks the world for a chance to be more, and it demands a great deal from her in return, but she rises to the challenge at each step, and then takes the next one, and then the next – like Rand, a gradual change that seems small at any given point but is huge overall – but for all that she leaves her home behind, she never loses who she is. And some of that means she keeps some of her flaws, and makes some mistakes along the way because of those flaws, and that’s…permitted, and taken into her overall arc.

And the way her arc is drawn parallel to Rand’s, in a way that draws similarities and yet simultaneously highlights the differences in how they approach these similar things, is excellent and, I think, enhances both of them as a result.

Mat Cauthon: Here’s an arc that I feel is a bit uneven or inconsistent. Some of that fits who he is – the rogue, the trickster, the one who is by his very nature inconsistent except for the aspects of him that are absolutely constant (his commitment to keeping his promises, for instance). So to some extent you don’t expect his arc to follow the same pattern as a more ‘standard’ heroic archetype. This archetype demands a bit of freedom and flexibility to play around with and sometimes flip on its head.

And I think that works well for him from TDR through TFoH. There, we watch the push-pull of denying his fate yet remaining loyal to promises and friends, telling himself he wants no responsibility and is no bloody hero and yet very much acting the part and gathering an army who follow him because they respect and believe in and trust him. We see him learn to use his luck, see him visit the Aelfinn and Eelfinn and manage to come out just a little bit ahead despite always feeling a few steps behind (and also almost dying, can’t forget that). And by the end of TFoH, he has grown, even if he doesn’t want to admit it to himself.

And then…he stagnates (’the right hand falters’), for approximately five goddamn books. He gets bogged down in a storyline that at times seems to exist purely to be a ‘battle of the sexes’ sandbox, serves as a narrative tool for belittling or putting down other characters when it’s not belittling or diminishing him, and vanishes for a book for no particular narrative reason beyond not having much to do. And then he wanders with the circus for a while before finally taking some bloody initiative and marrying his enemy’s empress. By accident, but still, it’s progress.

The thing is, if he had gone straight from the end of TFoH, with a newly acquired army and responsibility that he claims to want nothing to do with, to freeing the Windfinder(s) in Ebou Dar and then staring out at the devastation that escape caused, to giving Tuon a cluster of silk rosebuds while planning the use of gunpowder in war, to the events of As If The World Were Fog and Prince of the Ravens, I think I’d still enjoy reading about him. The pieces of a great arc are there, but the pacing is off, and there’s too much in the middle that seems to serve no real purpose (except to irritate and be irritated by other characters, which doesn’t make anyone look good).

I also think one of the issues with Mat’s arc is that more than others, he is put in positions where his gain is another central character’s loss (see for example the latter half of Swovan Night and Small Sacrifices) for…seemingly no reason. I much prefer the moments where he gains by his own merit (see This Place, This Day and The Lesser Sadness, where he acquires the Band and helps win the battle of Cairhien by being awesome), or, if it’s to be at the expense of other characters, in a way that doesn’t end up making other protagonists just look…less.

For the record, I also disliked when Egwene spent a few chapters making a fool of Nynaeve as part of flipping the leadership/power dynamic between them. I have no problem with conflict between characters (Egwene and Nynaeve bickering all the way to Tear felt real, and suited their development) or with power struggles, but I think it’s important to make sure it’s…fair, I suppose, if you’re using protagonists on both sides. A character can be narratively served by losing a conflict, so long as they’re treated as an actual agent in it, rather being temporarily demoted to narrative device, existing just to make another character look good at their expense. And the resulting ‘benefit’ to the other character feels sour as a result. (An example of this being done better is Mat fighting Gawyn and Galad; the stakes are relatively low, it’s done in a lighthearted way, and while Galad and Gawyn lose, they don’t really lose face).

I also feel like there’s so much more that could be done with the memories Mat acquires - they certainly contribute to his arc and to the positions he ends up in, and recently there was the issue with him realising that the Eelfinn might have some sort of link to him, but we never go very far into the…psychological impact, I suppose. I mean, he remembers dying. Multiple times. And even the memories that don’t involve death often involve battle. So he’s got sort-of-but-no-longer-really secondhand literal war flashbacks coming out his ears, he has howmany fragments of identity floating around in his head and seeming a part of him and yet also not? That’s fascinating, give me more. It just seems like such a cool thing to play with, and instead more often than not it’s a plot device.

Nynaeve al’Meara: Ah, Nynaeve. Another arc I love. I’ve actually written about hers already (albeit a three years and several books ago) but I’ll go into some of it briefly here as well. Where we see Egwene grow up, Nynaeve begins the book as an adult, if still on the younger side, but established in her position and her identity, even if she has to fight for it at times because of her youth and particular personality quirks. And then she has all of that taken from her, and is thrown into a world where she no longer knows who she is or should be, where none of that authority or experience she possessed means anything. It’s such an interesting way to start a character’s arc, and it plays out beautifully as Nynaeve tries to find her footing again and stumbles so many times along the way but, like Egwene, in a way that feels very real.

Through it all she holds to certain core aspects of herself even as others are recognised as mutable, and thus learns who she is and grows into not a different person entirely, but someone more herself. Not self-aware, precisely, but…in control. She breaks her block by finally surrendering, by letting go of the walls she built around herself and her own power out of fear and insecurity, and in doing so accepts what lies beneath them. And as a result, she now controls that vast power within her, rather than having only an occasional grasp of it through anger. That’s something of a metaphor for her entire arc, really: she faces herself as much as she faces any external enemy, pushing past those walls and insecurities and fears, through that uncertainty of where she fits in a world so much vaster than the one she came of age in, and thus gains control of her abilities and strengths and self, and can use that to work toward what she has always held as most important: protecting and helping and defending and healing those she loves.

Perrin Aybara: I love his arc from the beginning through to the end of TSR. The Two Rivers arc? Absolutely gorgeous. But, like Mat, I think his arc falters a little (or, if we’re continuing with the prophecy, strays) in part, perhaps, because he almost completes some of it too early. I do like that it’s not treated as perfectly linear – that just because he’s learned leadership and come to more or less accept it in his home village doesn’t mean he’ll be 100% great at it and fully on board from here on out – but I also think the way we revisit some of those problems could be done better.

I also just hate the Malden arc in general, because once again it makes Perrin look good (sort of) by putting Faile in the role of damsel-in-distress (not in mindset but absolutely in contrived situation) and forcibly holding her there until Perrin can finish his arc. Which detracts from the payoff of the arc itself, for me.

I’d rather have seen that done differently – there are other ways Perrin could have struggled with truly accepting leadership, and also come to throw away the axe – and perhaps slightly earlier, which would allow Perrin to make the decision regarding the wolf dream a little earlier as well, because I don’t see how he’s supposed to convincingly learn it well enough to do anything with it between now and the ending. And if he doesn’t have time to do that, why was it brought up?

All of that said, I do think his arc itself is a really interesting and sometimes understated but often beautiful one. The axe/hammer conflict that winds its way through so much of his arc across ten books is not always subtle but it’s present like a drumbeat, a constant that illustrates the heart of the conflict at the core of who he is and who he wants to be and who he needs to be. It also ties so well into the overall salvation/destruction theme and duality. It’s an interesting way to handle a character of the general archetype Perrin represents, and I think that aspect of his arc is done very, very well. He’s not always my type of character, and there are some inconsistencies in his arc and places where the way aspects of it are accomplished that irritate me, but the overall shape of it is lovely.

#all of this with the usual caveat that #I do love this series #and I like these charactesr and arcs #even the ones I've criticised #asks #anon #wheel of time #rand al'thor #egwene al'vere #nynaeve al'meara #perrin aybara #mat cauthon

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