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the-scarlet-witch-22 · 3 years

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Chaconne: Part 9 (Agatha Harkness x Fem!Reader)

Summary: With the first concert of the season approaching, you continue working as the personal assistant of Maestra Agatha Harkness, while attempting to juggle your relationship and future in the process.

Word Count: 5K Words

Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QCfDtxcFoyM

A/N: Hello everyone! Welcome to Part 9 of Chaconne. One quick thing...I have decided to extend this story by just a few parts, I really don’t want to rush through the ending and there are a few more things I want to write haha. Anyways, I included a link to the first movement of Dvorak Symphony No. 9, and it’s briefly mentioned throughout the story so if you feel inclined feel free to listen. I really hope all of you are still enjoying the story, and that you enjoy Part 9! As always, please feel free to leave a comment and my asks/messages are open if you have any questions :)

Tag List: @annie-mit-ie @celasteria @danvers97 @imthedoctorlove @mcfriggingonagall @meowsaidmissy @notsosecretlyalesbian @sarahp-stan @scarletwxtxh @scarletmeltstheice @shinkomiii @sxfwap @thestrangeundoing @teenwonder @upsidedowndanvers @venticalooks @vintagegoddess12 @everythingmarvelsherlockspn @thoroughly--confused

You weren’t sure how long you were frozen on stage, completely lost in your thoughts before the sound of Agatha’s heels came clicking from backstage. Just as you managed to clear your head of Wanda’s offer, the alluring scent of lavender invaded your senses. Even from a few feet away you could hear the conductor mumbling to herself about god knows what. As soon as she spotted you, however, the ramblings immediately stopped.

“Ah, there you are,” Agatha said, offering you a rare but genuine smile as she set her belongings down on the podium. “I see you set the stage.”

Nodding you motioned across the hall. “It didn’t take too long but I gave the winds extra room like you requested.”

The conductor nodded before curiously eyeing you. “Are you alright, dear? You seem distracted.”

Well you could tell her that her least favorite concert pianist had just suggested you move to Vienna. Or how Wanda was apparently aware that there was something going on between the two of you. A part of you did think it would be important to inform Agatha of that, but you also didn’t want to make the situation any worse than it already was.

You quickly nodded and gave her a reassuring smile. “I’m fine. Just a bit tired.”

Agatha’s eyes searched yours for a moment before nodding and turning her attention to her Dvorak score. A few minutes later, various MSO musicians arrived and began unpacking on and off stage. You eventually headed out to sit in one of the front rows, and you realized you never told Monica that she would be getting a new stand partner.

Luckily it didn’t take long for the violinist to enter the hall, followed closely by Jimmy and Darcy. Her face lit up when she saw you, and went to set her violin down in the row you were sitting in.

“Hey Y/N,” Monica greeted you brightly, before frowning when she noticed something was amiss. “Where’s your violin?”

“I...I’m not playing with the MSO anymore,” you explained quietly, watching Agatha berate the second chair oboist on stage for the way she tuned. “Hayward had blind auditions to fill the chair and I didn’t get it.”

“That’s whack,” Darcy immediately replied, causing Jimmy and Monica to glare at her. “What? It is.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Monica said sincerely. “You’re really talented, I hope you know that.”

“Yeah and it’s only one audition,” Jimmy pointed out. “Hayward’s always been a bit hard headed when it comes to filling seats, especially if it’s someone he picked.”

“It’s okay,” you insisted. “And Monica you’ll be getting a new stand partner so I’m sure he’ll be really good.”

“Which one is he?” Darcy asked curiously as she scanned the hall.

You discreetly glanced around the room before you found him. He was already heading on stage, violin in hand. You hadn’t really paid him much mind before the audition, but now you seemed to notice every detail about him. The sure way he presented himself as he practically strutted up the stage. His rigid posture as he sat in his seat, as if that was a comfortable way to sit.

You motioned your head to the stage and Darcy let out a quiet snort. “Oh good. John Walker.”

Monica rolled her eyes at her friend. “You know this guy?”

“Of course I do,” Darcy replied. “I know everyone.”

“What’s his deal?” Jimmy asked curiously. “He seems a bit...”

“Like he has a stick up his ass?” Darcy guessed, and Jimmy laughed.

“I was going to say uptight, but sure.”

“Walker fancies himself to be a bit of a prodigy,” Darcy explained and shook her head. “He’s good, don’t get me wrong, but he’s not amazing. I played a few gigs with him last summer in the Hamptons and I dreaded every moment spent in his company.”

“I’m sure he’s not that bad,” Monica argued before giving you a sympathetic glance. “Sorry, Y/N.”

“You don’t have to apologize, I agree with you,” you reassured the violinist. “I’m going to go see if Ag- Maestra needs anything before rehearsal so I’ll see you guys later?”

Agatha was leaning against the podium, drinking her water when she saw you approach her. The conductor appeared exhausted again, and you made a mental note to make sure she went straight home after rehearsal.

“Is there anything you need me to do?”

Agatha handed you her spare Dvorak score. “I’ll need you to tell me how the sound projects through the hall. We’ll be running the first movement today and I need to make sure the opening cello theme is clear enough.”

“Right, and if something isn’t clear what do you want me to do?”

“Well you could always throw something at Dottie,” Agatha suggested. “That would certainly get my attention.”

“Very funny,” you deadpanned. “I’m being serious.”

“As was I, dear. Dottie needs to look up from her music more. Perhaps that would encourage her to do so,” Agatha replied nonchalantly before sighing at the look you gave her. “Fine. I’ll ask you at the end of the movement what your notes are.”

“You mean my notes on sound projection, right?”

Agatha shrugged. “Or any suggestions you have on how to improve different sections. I...” the conductor paused and glanced around the hall to make sure no one else was listening in. “I do value your opinion.”

Your felt your heart sing at those words, and it took everything in you to not grab the older woman and kiss her senseless. Instead you gave her a bright smile. “Well I suppose I can try really hard to come up with a few meaningful suggestions.”

Rolling her eyes at your words, Agatha shook her head. “Try not to make me regret my decision, dear. Take a seat a few rows back, I’ll be starting rehearsal soon.”

Sure enough, just as you took your seat Agatha had the orchestra tuning before instructing them to start at the beginning of the first movement of the Dvorak. You loved every movement of Dvorak Symphony No. 9, and while you adored the fourth movement, there was something quite special about the first. There was this beautiful building intensity that started in the strings before slowly rising to include the entire ensemble. It was passionate, colorful, and left you eager for more.

As much as you loved performing, and you did more than anything, you found yourself enjoying getting to observe the rehearsal from your seat in the audience. It allowed you to focus on so much more than when you would be sitting in the first violin section. Before you never saw how Jimmy appears to have his entire part memorized since he usually has his eyes locked on Agatha the entire time. Or how talented Darcy was. You knew she had to be a good percussionist to be subbing for the MSO, but she performed with so much energy you found it hard to tear your eyes away from her.

Then there was Agatha. The conductor appeared lost in the music as she mindlessly conducted, but you swore you never saw anything more beautiful. Every single time you had the privilege of watching her conduct you swore she kept finding new ways to draw you in. How someone could make the simple movements with a baton and her hand so enticing. She had so much energy in her while conducting, and the love she had for the music was so clear in her eyes. What was even more fascinating to you was how easily the rest of the orchestra seemed to follow her. All of her cues were perfect, and she never missed a downbeat. She was by far the best conductor you had ever seen and you would never tire of getting to see this side of her.

The movement progressed and you turned your attention to the first violin section. Monica was was entirely in her element, and you immediately felt a slight pang at not being next to her on stage. You had a few stand partners who had been lovely over the years but Monica was better than all of them combined. She was so precise in her playing, and her technique was absolutely flawless. But what made Monica so unique was how genuinely kind she was. A lot of violinists were so focused on their craft it didn’t matter who they stepped on to get their way, but it was clear Monica didn’t play by those rules.

As you felt your eyes wander, they landed on the new violinist. John Walker. He was...good. The egomaniac violinist inside of you wanted to argue that you were better, but you shoved those comments away. For one thing he used far too much bow on his tremolos, and you were worried he was going to send his bow flying across the stage with the way he was holding it. Then there was his posture, he sat so rigid in his seat. After a few moments, you realized you were sounding more and more like Agatha.

Tearing your eyes away from the first violin section, you wrote down a few notes on sound quality throughout the movement and forced yourself to stay focused. The movement progressed and you couldn’t help but note how good the orchestra was sounding. Granted Agatha ran them hard, but it was clearly paying off. They were good before, but they were finally playing with more of a purpose. Unfortunately, you didn’t think Agatha felt the same was. As soon as the final chord rang out, the conductor whipped her baton on her stand, and you could tell she was angry.

“I don’t know where to begin,” Agatha spat out as she flipped through her score. “That was the saddest attempt of Dvorak I have ever heard in all my years of conducting. I’ve worked with youth symphonies who sounded better than all of you combined.”

Personally you felt Agatha was exaggerating a tad, but you watched her continue to rant.

“Woo, your projection is eons better than before but I still need more,” Agatha called out to the winds section, and you saw Jimmy shoot up in his seat as the conductor called his name. From the percussion section, Darcy also appeared to notice Jimmy’s change in posture and she glanced over and shook her head at you.

“If the rest of you could play as well as Woo I doubt we would be having this conversation but alas,” Agatha sighed, before tapping her baton on the stand. “Flutes, I’m starting to wonder if all of you are deaf or just enjoy the sound of my voice berating you, because what the hell was that? Jones, all of your solos are splitting my brain open. Either work on your intonation and have it fixed by tomorrow morning or I’ll be moving you to second chair.”

Dottie slouched in her seat and you bit your lip. Agatha had lost her temper before during rehearsal but this was slowly starting to get worse.

“I don’t have to time to rerun all of this because we have the idi-Miss Maximoff joining us shortly, but please turn your attention to measure seventy-five,” Agatha instructed the ensemble, before turning her attention to the first violins. “First violins, I need this melody to be sweet and light as we begin, don’t give me too much too soon.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the new violinist raise his bow to ask a question. Oh good. That would definitely end well...Agatha continued rambling on about vibrato and tone, seemingly unaware of the violinist and a part of you hoped perhaps he would simply move on and ask the question later. But it appeared he was the persistent type as he cleared his throat to get the conductor’s attention. Although you were positive Agatha heard him, you were a few rows back and the sound was clear as day, she continued her rant, ignoring him completely. At this point the rest of the orchestra seemed aware of what was going on and everyone seemed to be waiting for Agatha to acknowledge him.

“Maestra? I had a question,” The violinist’s voice boomed through the hall, and you internally winced as you watched Agatha whip her head to look at him.

“Ah yes, our new addition,” Agatha said briefly, as she eyed the violinist. “John Walker, is it?”

He nodded. “I hate to interrupt Maestra-“

Agatha cut him off, appearing to grow more uninterested with every word that came out of his mouth. “Yet you still proceed to act like a privileged toddler to get my attention, so please, Walker, what is it?”

“I merely wanted to suggest a different approach to measure seventy-five,” John explained and he had far too much cockiness for your liking. “I know you feel it’s best to take a softer approach, I was always told to start with a bigger sound then slowly decrescendo. It’s just a suggestion.”

There was another pause as Agatha stared at the violinist with a calculating and cold stare. A part of you wondered if this would be the day she finally snapped and whipped her baton at someone. You had heard rumors of a betting pool the interns had on when Agatha would inevitably strangle someone for making her too angry. You had thought they were being a bit drastic at the time, but seeing the way she was looking at Walker was making you reconsider that.

“Thank you for sharing your very generous suggestions with us, Mr. Walker,” Agatha replied, and there was emphasis on the word suggestions. “I’m not sure if you are aware of where you are, but this is my orchestra.”

John frowned at that, and once again unwisely opened his mouth. “Maestra, I wasn’t attempting to overstep. I just thought I would offer my opinion on how to make the section stronger.”

“Ah yes, my mistake. I must have forgot when I asked for your opinion,” Agatha retorted. her temper appearing to grow more and more heated. “Would you like to offer any other suggestions, Walker? I’m positive the entire orchestra is simply dying to hear your words of wisdom.”

This time John remained silent, but you saw how darker his appearance grew at being called out in front of the entire orchestra. Agatha appeared satisfied by that and she tapped her baton against the stand again. “Lovely to see the newbie catching on. Measure seventy-five.”

The rehearsal of Dvorak continued to drag, and you marked a few notes for suggestions like Agatha had asked you to. You would occasionally check the clock, wondering when Wanda would be arriving since the orchestra was set to rehearse Rachmaninoff at 8:30 sharp. Eventually the doors to the hall opened, but instead of Wanda entering the room it was one of the interns Agatha hadn’t managed to scare away during her early reign of terror. The intern appeared nervous about something, who knows what, and they quickly sought you out.

“Y/N, you have to tell Maestra Harkness that Miss Maximoff won’t be attending rehearsal this evening,” the intern told you, and it looked like they were going to pass out from the fear of having to tell Agatha.

“Wanda’s not coming to rehearsal?” You asked curiously.

The intern quickly nodded. “She’s sick.”

Sick? You had just seen the pianist a couple hours ago and she appeared fine, but maybe she just came down with something. Giving the intern a small smile, you stood up. “I’ll tell Maestra, don’t worry.”

“Thank you,” the intern said sincerely. “I’m pretty sure if I tell her she’ll find a way to fire me.”

The intern hurried back out of the hall and you slowly made your way to the front of the stage, hoping Agatha would call for the orchestra to take a break so you could make your move. With there only being a few rehearsals left until opening night you knew the absence of a soloist would send the conductor over the edge. But hopefully her strong dislike of Wanda would lighten the blow. As if the two of you were telepathically connected, Agatha turned around as you approached the stage and signaled for the orchestra to stop.

“Let’s take ten,” Agatha instructed them. “Have Rachmaninoff ready by the time we come back.”

The musicians all but hurried off the stage, and said hello to the few you had gotten to know over the past few weeks. Darcy caught your eye as she walked down the stairs and motioned her head to where John Walker was standing by his case, rolling her eyes in the process. You swallowed the laughter that threatened to escape as you went to join Agatha on stage. It didn’t take the older woman long to realize something was wrong.

“If you’re going to say I was being too hard on Walker, don’t,” Agatha quietly warned you, and it was apparent she was still fuming.

“I need you to promise me that you’re not going to throw a temper tantrum after I tell you this,” you said, and your tone was light, but Agatha gave you a look.

“I do not throw temper tantrums,” the conductor hissed as you motioned for her to follow you backstage.

“Of course not, Maestra. Your outbursts are completely normal for a woman of your-“ you quickly paused as Agatha arched an eyebrow at you, clearly unamused.

“My what, darling?” Agatha questioned, giving you an unconvincing glare as you laughed.

“Your stature,” you corrected yourself.

“You’re on thin ice,” the conductor warned you. “I’m not sure I like how easily you tease me.”

“Coming from the woman who’s done nothing but tease me since we met I think it’s only fair,” you offered, and Agatha smirked. “But really, please don’t freak out.”

“If you don’t tell me what’s wrong I’ll have no choice but to tie you up and force the words out of you myself,” Agatha mused, causing you to blush, which made her smirk grow wider. “Ah, do you like the sound of that, darling?”

“The rest of the orchestra is only a few feet away,” you warned her as she took a step closer to you. “If our relationship is supposed to stay private wouldn’t it be a bit unwise to...”

“Oh no, dear, don’t stop using your words now,” Agatha practically purred, she closed the distance between you, lightly shoving you against the wall. “We’re just getting started.”

“Agatha, I really think maybe we should do this somewhere-“ you began to say, and you truly had every intention of trying to be the rational one here, but any remaining brain function you had left was erased as Agatha’s lips began trailing up your neck, occasionally stoping to nip at skin. “Agatha...”

“Now, what was it you wanted to tell me?” Agatha whispered against your ear, the warm air of her breath sending tingles down your spine. “Or do I need to encourage you a bit more?”

“I don’t know how you doing this is supposed to encourage me to talk,” you argued, and bit back a moan as the conductor bit down on your earlobe.

“I’m just trying to help, darling,” Agatha insisted, pulling you impossibly closer to her as you were pressed against the wall. “I can help even more if you would like.”

“Wanda’s not coming to rehearsal,” you finally managed to let out with a gasp, and Agatha paused her movements at that.

“Darling, I know I’m a bit distracted but I believe you just said the Sokovian dingbat won’t be at rehearsal,” Agatha said slowly, as if she was trying to wrap her brain around what you just said.

Unwrapping yourself from the conductor, you nodded, trying to gauge her reaction. “She’s sick so she won’t be in attendance today.”

Agatha scoffed, shaking her head at your words. “Wanda Maximoff doesn’t get sick and miss rehearsal. I was-I worked with her long enough to know that.”

“Well that’s what personnel told me, so I’m not sure what to tell you,” you said, and you found yourself stuck on what Agatha had almost said. What wasn’t she telling you?

The conductor took a moment to pull her phone out of her pocket and her frown deepened even more. “Oh for the love of...” Agatha trailed off before whipping her phone against the wall, shattering it in the process.

You jumped at the sound, but Agatha barely seemed to notice you as she was entirely too lost in her thoughts. “Agatha, what’s wrong?”

“Cancel the rest of rehearsal,” Agatha said dismissively as she straightened her sweater. “Those idiots are infuriating me far too much and without Wanda we won’t make any progress on the Rachmaninoff.”

Gaping at her, you took a moment to process what she said. “You’ve never cancelled rehearsal before. Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Now, Y/N. I have something I need to do,” Agatha said before storming out of the room, leaving you alone.

To say the MSO musicians were relieved Agatha had cancelled the remaining two hours of rehearsal would have been a vast understatement. You swore you never saw half of them move so quickly when you gave them the okay to leave. Since Agatha had apparently left for the day, you took the liberty of grabbing her belongings and dropped them off in her office on your way out. It wasn’t out of character for Agatha to lose her temper, you had grown used to her yelling and ranting. But her outburst backstage was unlike anything you had ever seen before. There was something the conductor wasn’t telling you, and while you had no idea what it was there was a sinking feeling in your chest that it had something to do with Wanda. Regardless of how curious, and anxious, you were over Agatha’s abrupt exit, you knew there was no good in worrying. She would tell you what was wrong...right?

It had been two days since you heard from Agatha. You received a call from management personnel early Saturday morning informing you that the conductor had cancelled all weekend rehearsals due to a stomach bug, which made you immediately go to call her until you remembered she left her shattered phone backstage. It wasn’t unusual for you to go a day without hearing from Agatha, the conductor valued her privacy and you respected her enough to give her what she needed. But after the practical smothering you had received from the older woman since the blind audition, it left you with a gut feeling that you had done something wrong.

What were the odds that Agatha was sick mere hours after storming out of rehearsal? They were slim, and it didn’t take a genius to tell you that. You had told Sam and Bucky what happened, and while they thought it was suspicious they also agreed that giving Agatha space would be the smartest move. Rationally speaking you knew that everything was fine, it just would have been nice to have received confirmation from the woman you were worrying so much about.

It had been a long time since you last had a Saturday off, so you spent your weekend watching Disney movies and napping while trying your best to keep your mind off Agatha. In fact you had been so distracted with the radio silence from the conductor that you almost forgot about Natasha Romanov and Vienna. The keyword being almost. You knew you needed to make a decision on if you were going to meet with the violinist, and you needed to make one soon. There was no guarantee Natasha would even choose you for her group, but still you found yourself imagining a world where you were performing in Vienna and finally getting to live your dreams. Only those dreams seemed somewhat bittersweet at the prospect of having them without Agatha. It was cliche being this attached this soon, but you couldn’t help it. You had never felt this strongly for anyone you dated before, there was something so different about Agatha that kept drawing you in.

Would it be fair to her if you moved to another continent when you were just starting your relationship? You knew she was concerned you would leave the Symphony after not getting the chair placement. While she had never directly told you, it was what made the most sense when considering her recent behavior. You didn’t want to leave her, you really didn’t. Agatha had given you so much while asking for nothing in return.

But the voice in your head asked if it was fair for you to stay somewhere you wouldn’t be happy. Would you grow to resent your job, or Agatha by association by remaining on as her assistant? Sam had been right when he said there were other jobs in New York City, but you knew nothing here would compare to the Manhattan Symphony Orchestra. While quitting would allow the two of you to date publicly, maybe, it would also ruin any chance you still had of hoping to join the MSO. Was that something you were willing to sacrifice? You had a lot you needed to consider, you just wished Agatha was there to help you.

Monday morning came far too quickly for your liking. You were anxious to see Agatha, to make sure she was okay, but you also had to make up your mind on whether to meet with Natasha Romanov. Wanda had sent you a polite, but short, email late Sunday night asking if you made a decision or not. You were still just as torn as you had been all weekend, and sadly this was a decision only you could make for yourself. As you exited the coffee shop, you were slightly surprised to see Agatha’s car waiting for you. The rear window was rolled down and Agatha had her gaze fixated on yours. Giving her a small smile, you approached the car while balancing both coffees.

“Good morning Maestra. Fancy seeing you here.”

Agatha rolled her eyes before helping open the door. “Yes yes, good morning dear. Please hurry up and get in before I have Hank leave without you.”

“You’re in a mood today,” you said lightly after making yourself comfortable in the vehicle. “Rough weekend?”

Agatha grimaced at your choice of words before shrugging. “Oh it was fine. A lot better since I didn’t have to hear those morons butcher Dvorak on Saturday.”

You gave her a look as you motioned to your coffee. “Oh right, your stomach bug? Maybe this won’t sit well then, should I give it to Hank?”

The conductor all but snatched the coffee out of your hands, glaring at you. “Funny, as always darling. I’m feeling much better now.”

So she was sticking with the sick story. As much as you wanted to press and find out why she stormed out of rehearsal so suddenly, you thought it best to not start a possible argument this early in the morning. Besides, Agatha wouldn’t lie to you, right?

You decided to take the safe approach. “Well I should probably keep my distance in case you’re still contagious. Wouldn’t want to catch anything.”

“If that’s what you think best, dear,” Agatha replied. “I would hate to get you sick.”

That’s how things remained the rest of the day. Agatha was clearly not over whatever upset her on Friday, and it appeared she wasn’t willing to share her troubles with you. So you did what you did best, and ignored the persistent voice begging you to talk to her. You busied yourself with various tasks both in and out of the conductor’s office. Opening night was in two weeks and there was much to do still. Even though Agatha had promised to be nicer to the interns, it appeared her generosity had run out as you began counting the number of crying individuals sent running from her office since lunch. Her mood was only growing more and more unstable as the hours passed, and even you found being in her company to be slightly unbearable. Agatha was clearly stressed, and you understood she was under a lot of pressure, you just wish she thought of healthier outlets to relieve it.

Towards the end of the day you received yet another polite, yet persistent email from Wanda and you knew the time had come. On one hand you wanted to ask Agatha’s opinion on the potential job, for you valued her opinion over anyone else’s. But the fear of a fight, especially over something involving Wanda, was enough to make you realize now was not the right time to bring up a potential move to Vienna. Plus you were only meeting with Natasha, it wasn’t like she was going to offer you a job on sight. There would be little to no harm in setting up a meeting. Then you could talk to Agatha.

Satisfied with your decision, you sent a quick reply to Wanda stating you would be interested in meeting with Natasha before heading back to Agatha’s office. Hopefully the conductor had enough time to cool down to consider leaving work within the next few hours. However, when you opened the door you were surprised to find her hunched over her desk, eyes locked on her laptop. She didn’t appear to hear you enter, and a part of you wondered if you should leave and come back later. Ultimately deciding that you would stay, you lightly knocked on the door to attempt to draw her attention away from the screen. It worked, only when she finally looked at you, you saw something unfamiliar in her eyes. Fear.

“Y/N...” Agatha trailed off, and you could practically see the frown lines become embedded in her skin.

“Agatha?” You barely recognized the sound of your own voice as you approached the conductor. “What’s wrong?”

Before the conductor could reply, your phone began to repeatedly ding. Pulling it out of your pocket you felt your heart sink at the notification. You had several texts from Sam, Bucky, Monica, even Darcy, but what caught your eye was an article from The New York Times.

‘Agatha All Along? An Inside Scoop to the Alleged Affair Between MSO Conductor Agatha Harkness and Concert Pianist Wanda Maximoff’

#agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness imagine #agatha harkness #agatha wandavision #agatha harkness x you #wandavision #wandavision au

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snakeanon · 3 years

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1+1=Fun

Maths lessons were the worst. Your head slumped against the table, trying to pass the time by sleeping. But s much as you tried, the noise to your left kept you awake. You tried to ignore it, but it was getting irritating. You turn around to tell your seatmates to be quiet. Your eyes widen at what exactly they were doing. One of them had their hands down in the other’s lap, furiously rubbing the other’s cock under the desk. Your eyes lifted to the faces of Wooyoung and San smirking at you. San brings his finger up to his lips before signalling you to stay quiet as Wooyoung continued his movements on San’s dick.

You poke Wooyoung in the side and hiss a “What are you two doing? We’re in class” Wooyoung shrugs and replies “Can’t solve maths problems until we solve these problems” nodding towards San’s cock and his own obvious hard-on. You shake your head and turn your back to them when you hear San whisper something to Wooyoung. Next thing you know it, you feel an arm snake around your waist and turn you around. You go to snap at Wooyoung, but he takes you by surprise by taking your hand and placing it on his crotch. He looks up at you with puppy eyes and begs at you quietly “Help me out Mommy. Please?”.

Shocked to say the least, you look at San who gives you an encouraging nod. You bite your lip, and they see you hesitate. “Don’t worry Doll, he’ll return the favour, won’t you?” San whispers. Wooyoung nods along and pouts his lip. Of course, you cannot resist their pleads and so you reach your hand around Wooyoung’s length through his pants and start to pump him in time with the movements on San. Wooyoung moves his touches from your hips to draw circles on your inner thigh. His fingers brush over your core lightly, bring out of a small moan from your lips. He chuckles and goes to your ear and murmurs “Shush now, don’t want to get us all caught” Wooyoung moves the fabric of your panties to the side as he slips a finger into your wet folds, teasing them apart before rubbing on your clit. Shocked by the quickness of his movements, you freeze up until San’s hand joins yours on Wooyoung’s crotch. He takes your fingers and brings them up to Wooyoung’s waistband before dropping your hand inside. You can feel Wooyoung’s dick throb underneath your touch and you can hear his breath hitch as you rub your thumb across the tip.

Wooyoung decides to take it even further and takes his finger down to your waiting hole and starts to slide the digit in. You bite back a moan as he starts to thrust his finger inside you in time with the rubs he gives to San. As you start to rub faster on Wooyoung, he starts to add more fingers in your pussy. He is pumping four of his fingers deep inside your pussy while his other hand is bringing San closer to orgasm. You feel your orgasm starting to creep up on you. You place your remaining hand over Wooyoung’s own as you feel yourself about to cum. All it takes is Wooyoung’s mouth on your ear, telling you to “Cum for me baby girl” and he has you come undone on his hand. You bite into your sleeve to hide your moans. You hear slight pants next to you as both San and Wooyoung cum over the hands touching them. Wooyoung takes some tissue from his pocket and passes one to San before handing you the packet to clean up your hand.

As you finish cleaning your hand, the bell rings, reminding you of where you are. Your face flushes red as you hear both boys start to leave. But before they do, they both turn around, giving you a wink as they walk out of the door. Maths lessons may not be that bad after all.

#ateez smut #ateez #choi san #jung wooyoung #smut

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junpito · 3 years

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A Beginning

I’ve been thinking about starting a fic surrounding what might have happened if Mahito had realised that killing Junpei wouldn’t have worked. This part works within canon, but I intend it to be the opening to something longer.

It’s basically just a brief character study, exploring how they learned a little more about one another, set just before episode 10.

No content warnings besides what already applies to canon. AO3 link here.

The rope creaks a little against the gentle rocking of the hammock. The sound echoes down the tunnels, accompanied only by the soft sounds of running water. It’s quiet down here, peaceful. Like a private bubble, a whole other world separate from the loud, aggressive, ugly world above.

Junpei’s eyelids feel heavy. Between the soothing sounds, the rhythmic motion, and the delicate threading of long fingers through the hair at the back of his neck, he felt wonderfully at peace, teetering dangerously close to falling asleep. His head is pillowed on a well-muscled chest, and he can’t help but find himself listening for a heartbeat. Mahito isn’t human, he knows that, and he has no idea if curses have internal organs, if they need working innards to be functional like humans do. Maybe the reason he can’t pick one out is because underneath his skin, Mahito runs on nothing but energy and raw human emotion. He told Junpei that that was what birthed him: the collection and manifestation of all of humanity’s hatred and fear and anger for one another, a conglomeration of all the negative feelings humans hold towards each other.

It feels almost dangerously on-the-nose that Junpei should have found him. After all, Junpei never feels as alive and real as he does when he’s staring into the eyes of his bullies, his every nerve alight with the desire to hurt them. When he’s not angry he feels like he’s floating, untethered. Maybe that’s why he likes movies so much, because through them he can experience artificial emotion, he can explore the fantasies that would otherwise remain behind locked doors for good. He understands, he thinks, what it must be like for that anger, that spark of hatred to be the sole reason for one’s existence. Him and Mahito are two of a kind, in that way.

Then again, this feels pretty real. Short fingernails scritch gently at the nape of his neck and he shivers a little, unable to hold in the prickle of pleasure down his spine. He doesn’t think anyone’s ever done this to him before, at least not since he was a child, and it feels amazing. He would quite happily die here, in this curse’s arms.

“Mahito…” He murmurs, his voice heavy with sleep. Mahito hums a quiet query, his own mismatched eyes closed too, though Junpei is pretty sure he doesn’t sleep. “Do you have a heartbeat?”

His eyes open then, filled with mirth, and he laughs. “How should I know? I’ve never cut myself open.”

Junpei props himself up on his elbows on Mahito’s chest, regrettably disrupting his slow petting. “How old are you?”

Mahito’s eyes flick up to the ceiling, and he thinks. “Hm… I don’t really know. I know parts of me existed before I formed consciousness, but… I’ve been me for a good few months now, I think.”

“Months? That’s it?” Junpei’s eyes widen. Mahito definitely looked older than him, though he didn’t behave like most of the adults in Junpei’s life. Then again, he could control his appearance. Junpei wondered to what extent he could really do that, and chasing that thought was another, much more dangerous one: what if he could change my body? What if he could give me the body I want without driving me crazy?

He put a stopper in that one, at least for the time being.

Mahito laughs again. “You expected longer, right? Like I’m… some kind of immortal spirit that’s always been floating around this world, as old as humanity itself, hm?”

“Well… You told me you were made of humanity’s feelings of hatred towards each other, right? Haven’t humans hated each other forever?” Junpei couldn’t imagine ancient humans had been any better than they were now.

“I’m not the first, and I won’t be the last.” Mahito’s smile relaxes into something softer, darker. He tucks Junpei’s fringe back behind his ear delicately, uncovering his scarred, ugly forehead. Junpei blushes in embarrassment and looks away. “And it’s not just hatred, you know. Humans feel all sorts of ways towards one another that create cursed energy. Humans are disgusting, vile creatures.”

“Do you think I’m disgusting?” Junpei asks quietly, suddenly self-conscious, and Mahito chuckles, a slow rumble from the back of his throat.

“Did I ever say that was a bad thing? Without people like you, I wouldn’t exist, would I?” He reaches forward and pulls Junpei against him, strong arms like a cage holding him in place. “Junpei…” Those fingers are threading through his hair again, his voice a soft cooing. “You’re justified, you know that, right?”

Junpei pauses at that, his fingers curling in the fabric of Mahito’s shawl.

“Those people I killed were empty. They had no flavour at all.”

“…Flavour?” Junpei asks hesitantly.

“They didn’t hate you. They barely even considered you.”

Junpei frowns, a familiar anger bubbling in his gut. “But they wanted to make me hurt…”

“That’s the fun part, isn’t it?” Mahito’s voice is laced with giddy excitement. “Some humans cause pain just because they can, because it’s fun to them. It makes me feel almost human, myself.”

Junpei swallows. “You like hurting people for fun?”

“Hm… Sort of.” Mahito tilts his head to one side. “I like picking fights. I like it when fights are a challenge. Small fry like those trash in the cinema aren’t much fun at all. That was more… taking out the garbage, you know?”

“Oh.” Junpei relaxes a little. Then he frowns again. “I think I’m different to you in that way.”

Mahito’s eyes drift down to him, alight with curious amusement. “Oh?”

Junpei’s jaw clenches for a moment, he sits on the secret he’s been holding in for years, that he thought he’d never be able to share with anyone. But then, no one else he knew was a literal murderer. “I think I want to hurt them.” Saying it feels like throwing an ex’s engagement ring in a lake. He immediately feels lighter, and yet at the same time, at a loss.

“Oh?” Mahito repeats, and Junpei can practically feel his excitement. His grip tightens.

“I know I shouldn’t. It’s better if… I can just turn away. Ignore them. But they don’t ignore me, so… why should I?” Sometimes, Junpei thinks his rage is like one of those underground rivers. On the surface it flows, but it seems calm, little more than a fast-flowing stream. You don’t know just how deep, winding, and violent it is until you’re already submerged in it. Then he remembers that he’s small and weak and powerless, and that his rage is a useless emotion.

His jaw unclenches, and his shoulders relax. His voice settles into its usual quiet, almost despondent tone. “I wish I could ignore them.”

Mahito is quiet for a moment, two, three. He taps Junpei’s spine gently. “Get down. There’s something I want to show you.”

Junpei clumsily clambers out of the hammock, the impact as he meets the concrete floor jarring his ankles. Mahito follows, much more delicately. He fumbles in his pockets, and Junpei watches the water in the channel flow. Dirty rainwater, carrying away the filth of the streets. His thoughts wander, remembering an old saying, one he’d thought about before.

“Here. Hold this.” Mahito holds something out to him, and Junpei takes it, turning it over in his hand. It looks… ugly, whatever it is. Small and shrivelled, a texture that reminds him of beef jerky. It looks like it’s got some kind of hollow face carved into it. He looks up to ask Mahito what it is, but Mahito is already walking away. He follows, and Mahito glances back at him.

“Tell me more about yourself, won’t you?”

“…Yeah.” Junpei murmurs, and for the first time in his life, he begins to speak his mind.

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#mahito #yoshino junpei #junpito #jay writes #bad end (2)

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years

Text

Mystery Science Theater 6000: The 1992 Screenplay

In the not-too-distant future, an angel and a demon sit down to watch a movie that probably shouldn't exist.

While they start out happily mocking the out-of-character moments and strange plot twists, one character in particular may be more than they can handle...

NOTE: Yup, this is formatted as a screenplay, originally written to be as close in style to Neil Gaiman’s original script...though the format actually turned out to be Tumblr-incompatible, so I’ve done my best to “recover” it.

FADE IN:

EXT. DEVIL’S DYKE – EVENING

Snow falls gently around a very comfortable COTTAGE. It is old-fashioned looking, perhaps Victorian; two-story, stone, with peaked dormer windows. It is nestled among the trees. The light from the windows is warm and orange.

Camera closes in on the window. We can see, through the TARTAN curtains, a very comfortable if eclectic LIVING ROOM. The furnishings are a mix of modern and old-fashioned, with everything appearing very lived-in and loved.

A figure in white and tartan sits on the sofa. This is AZIRAPHALE. He looks as comfortable and as loved as the sofa he sits on.

Camera pushes through the window and cut to –

INT. SOUTHDOWNS COTTAGE LIVING ROOM – EVENING

As we pan through the room we can see in more detail: angel figurines, potted plants, a few larger statues that probably have some story behind them, and many shelves of books.

There is a brick or stone FIREPLACE with a cheerful fire inside. Above the mantel is a large flatscreen TELEVISION. A figure dressed all in black with red hair is attempting to get a movie to play but such technology is baffling to everyone, including demons. This is CROWLEY.

Between CROWLEY and AZIRAPHALE is a large coffee table, also covered in books and a small green succulent. There is a bowl of popcorn, though AZIRAPHALE has already eaten more than half.

We can see the living room extend behind them into an open-concept KITCHEN and DINING ROOM. All three rooms appear to be made on different designs that do not blend together; perhaps the kitchen is silver, sleek and modern while the dining room has rustic knotty pine beams. The COTTAGE appears somewhat larger on the inside than it did outside.

More bookcases can be seen in every corner, potted plants in every window, and tartan accents throughout.

CROWLEY finally steps back from the television, remote control in hand. When he turns, we can see he has golden eyes with narrow pupils. A pair of SUNGLASSES is folded in a pocket of his jacket.

CROWLEY: Right, I think it will play now. Are you sure this is a good idea?

AZIRAPHALE: Certainly, my dear fellow. Over the past few months I have read many stories inspired by us. They are quite delightful fun!

CROWLEY: But how can they exist? How can people know the details? And how can there be a movie – based on what happened just this past summer – that’s older than Adam is?

CROWLEY walks back to the sofa, and drops more than sits next to AZIRAPHALE. He sprawls to AZIRAPHALE’s left.

AZIRAPHALE smiles at him softly.

AZIRAPHALE: Perhaps the events echoed through the time stream, inspiring humans in the past and the future. Such things are certainly possible.

CROWLEY: (Very sarcastic and scornful) Sounds ineffable.

AZIRAPHALE: Perhaps. Try to simply relax and enjoy the film, my dear.

Rolling his eyes, CROWLEY presses a button on the remote. The television comes to life.

As they watch, the screen fades to a PAINTING of the Garden of Eden, featuring traditional Renaissance depictions of ADAM and EVE and the apple tree; there is also an ANGEL in a white robe with flaming sword and a GREEN SERPENT wearing SUNGLASSES.

AZIRAPHALE: Well who are they supposed to be?

CROWLEY: That’s us in Eden, isn’t it?

AZIRAPHALE: Don’t be absurd. Why would you be green? Who are those – they look nothing like Adam and Eve.

CROWELY rolls his eyes, but there is no anger in it.

CROWLEY: That’s you with the flaming sword, isn’t it? So that has to be me. Garden, apple…

AZIRAPHALE: Sunglasses. Do you suppose you’ll have green hair in this film?

As they talk, the screen changes. As opening credits roll, we see more traditional artworks – a cave painting, an Egyptian fresco, the death of Julius Caesar, the discovery of America, a Victorian etching, and finally a 1920s photograph. In each, at the edge of the action, can be seen two figures – one in white, one in black and wearing sunglasses.

In the background can be heard the slide-click noise of a game of CHECKERS (or draughts) being played.

CROWLEY: Look, we don’t have to watch it. I certainly don’t. It got very bad reviews. We can just -

AZIRAPHALE: Oh, hush. Look, more paintings.

CROWLEY: (Disdainful) I did not go around Egypt dressed like that!

AZIRAPHALE: Yes, your outfit does seem to be rather lacking in gold. Is this supposed to be a museum? And what is that infernal clacking noise?

CROWLEY: Search me. Still trying to figure out why we’re photobombing history.

AZIRAPHALE: That isn’t how Caesar’s assassination went at all! And I was certainly nowhere near any ships sailed by that horrible Columbo fellow.

Despite his words, AZIRAPHALE appears to be enjoying the film. CROWLEY gives an occasional indulgent smile.

CROWLEY: The 19th century one almost looks like us. If I lowered my fashion standards -

AZIRAPHALE: Shh! It’s starting!

Despite this, neither shows any sign of ceasing to talk.

The title “GOOD OMENS” appears above two men playing checkers – one in white, the other in black and wearing sunglasses. They sit in an artwork-filled office at the BRITISH MUSEUM.

CROWLEY: Eh, not bad I guess. At least I look…almost cool. Trying way too hard.

AZIRAPHALE: Well, what are you doing at the British Museum?

CROWLEY: Playing draughts with you, obviously.

AZIRAPHALE: No you aren’t. That can’t be me.

CROWLEY: Of course it is. Look at those clothes -

AZIRAPHALE: Precisely. That jacket is absolutely filthy. Tsk. Besides, if I was at the British Museum, I would be eating that lovely cake from the café.

The first line of dialogue in the film goes to SCRIPT!CROWLEY, who is looking cool and angsty: “IT’S ALL GOING TOO WELL.” Dialogue continues as they talk.

CROWLEY: What sort of opening line is that? “…going too well.” Do I sound like that?

AZIRAPHALE: You do like to complain.

CROWLEY: About real, valid things. And not in clichés.

SCRIPT!CROWLEY realizes he is about to lose the game, and pulls the “what is that thing behind you trick.” When SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE falls for it, SCRIPT!CROWLEY moves a few pieces.

AZIRAPHALE: (Gasps with mock offense) Did you just cheat?

CROWLEY: You fell for it.

AZIRAPHALE:I told you, that isn’t me. You did! You cheated that poor fellow in a game of draughts. The cheek!

CROWLEY: Angel, who else would I have been playing against every week for six thousand years?

AZIRAPHALE: Certainly not me. I would have noticed you cheating.

CROWLEY opens his mouth, possibly to object.

AZIRAPHALE (CONT.): Don’t think I don’t know about how you cheat at coin tosses. And knucklebones. And Nine-Men’s Morris.

CROWLEY: (Scowling) Only because you cheated first.

AZIRAPHALE: It isn’t cheating to ensure the righteous triumph of good over evil. Oh, what are you complaining about now?

CROWLEY: Everything, I think. Boring? Did he say Earth is boring? Oy, get over yourself, you useless git. If you think you’ve got a better planet you’re welcome to it!

AZIRAPHALE: (Stepping over CROWLEY’s complaints without any real concern) Oh, who is this young lady?

Onscreen, the new arrival POLLY has addressed SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE as “Professor Aziraphale.” The real AZIRAPHALE’s face immediately falls, and he gives his double a scrutinizing look.

AZIRAPHALE: Well! I suppose not everything translated through accurately.

CROWLEY: Told you that was you. I can recognize genuine angelic smugness anywhere.

AZIRAPHALE: Oh, she appears to be my assistant! Though in that case she should be back at my shop arranging the cobwebs to keep people out of the poetry section.

CROWLEY: (With the air of one about to deliver some very distressing news) I think you…work at the Museum.

AZIRAPHALE: Crowley, you’re being absurd. How can I work here? How could this be my office? There isn’t a single book in sight. Just a bunch of paintings and you – you’re flirting with my assistant! Right in front of me!

CROWLEY: (Angry, muttered as a threat) He really does need to get over himself.

AZIRAPHALE: (A little alarmed at CROWLEY’s tone) Now, dear, try to remember this is all good fun. I promise not to take offense.

CROWLEY: I just… I don’t like his attitude.

AZIRAPHALE: Yes, this…character does seem to be in a perpetually sour mood. Pessimistic. Brooding, even. I can’t put my finger on it, but he seems a little familiar…

CROWLEY: A little – you take that back, Angel!

AZIRAPHALE: (Grinning like a bastard) They certainly have the scowl down. Now I just need to hear you say “it’s all going too well.”

CROWLEY: I’m not playing your sick mind games. And I’m certainly not going to say –

Onscreen, SCRIPT!CROWLEY says “It’s all going too well!” Our CROWLEY does a full-body cringe, while AZIRAPHALE laughs as hard as he ever has.

CROWLEY (CONT.): (To the screen) Could you – just – STOP?! No one wants to hear your pathetic complaints – oh NOW what is he doing?

Onscreen, SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE and POLLY have continued through the back offices of the Museum, while SCRIPT!CROWLEY saunters through the galleries towards the exit.

SCRIPT!CROWLEY pickpockets a Museum patron, and tosses the stolen wallet into an unsuspecting passerby’s bag. A fight ensues.

AZIRAPHALE: (Still giggling) Oh, dear. It would appear he’s much more demonic than you. Cheating at draughts. Petty crime. Starting fights.

CROWLEY: He barely inconvenienced four people. That’s not clever - (To the screen) You’re not clever!

AZIRAPHALE: It think it was very neatly done. Better than that time you glued a coin…

CROWLEY: What is this a trial?

SCRIPT!CROWLEY, now speaking to himself, repeats “It’s all going to well.” This is at least the fourth time the phrase has been uttered. CROWLEY continues to cringe every time it is said.

CROWLEY: What is that, his catchphrase? (To the screen) Catchphrases aren’t cool, you self-absorbed toadstool!

AZIRAPHALE: (Pointing happily) Finally, something familiar! Look, dear!

SCRIPT!CROWLEY is ranting about the Garden of Eden as he approaches a beautiful black vintage Bentely. A TRAFFIC WARDEN stands nearby, writing a ticket.

CROWLEY: (Smiling) Yes! You, know, it’s actually nice that even in this weird, upside-down reality I still – NAKED BIMBO?! He called Eve -

AZIRAPHALE: (For the first time, distinctly uncomfortable) Er, I suppose…sexism is…demonic?

CROWLEY is temporarily at a loss for words, hands bunching into fists on his knees. Onscreen, SCRIPT!CROWLEY crumbles up the TICKET and throws it into the back of the Bentley, where several hundred more litter the floor.

Our CROWLEY leaps half-off the sofa, clutching at the sofa arm to hold himself back. AZIRAPHALE is rather alarmed.

CROWLEY: You disgusting excuse for a – don’t throw trash in my Bentley! Take some blessed pride in – oh, for SOMEONE’s sake!

CROWLEY drops back into his seat as angrily as possible, while SCRIPT!CROWLEY races off, leaving the traffic warden with a burning notepad.

AZIRAPHALE: At least he…drives like you?

CROWLEY is not amused.

AZIRAPHALE: Oh. Er. They’re back to me now. I’m sure this will be. Um. Entertaining?

CROWLEY is not playing along.

Onscreen, several WEALTHY MUSEUM DONOR TYPES are discussing a Renaissance painting that needs to be authenticated. They appear incapable of doing so without stating repeatedly that SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE is as intelligent as he is mad.

SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE takes one look at the painting and declares it a fake, as he is sure he would remember it if it were real.

AZIRAPHALE: That scene was…entirely superfluous! What on Earth was the point of – of any of that?

CROWLEY: (Still not happy) At least you sounded like yourself.

AZIRAPHALE: I didn’t sound intelligent at all! I sounded silly and…and mad, like some doddering old – oooh, don’t you START.

Onscreen, we see SCRIPT!CROWLEY park the Bentley and begin walking towards “THE HELLFIRE CLUB (Anthony Crowley Proprietor)”

CROWLEY: And this git again. Now where is he?

AZIRAPHALE: Is that a shop? Why do YOU get a shop while I wander around a Museum making unfounded proclamations about art?

CROWLEY: Angel, nothing in this movie makes any… The Hellfire Club?!

AZIRAPHALE: (Gleeful) Oh ho! That brings back memories.

CROWLEY: I don’t know what you -

AZIRAPHALE: Fais ce que tu voudras, my dear fellow.

CROWLEY: (Blushing furiously) I swear, I never once – wait, you DID?

AZIRAPHALE: (Realizing he’s overplayed) Oh dear.

CROWLEY: What were you doing at Sir Francis Dashwood’s little get-togethers?

AZIRAPHALE: I. Er. I had a perfectly reasonable – oh, look, you own a disco!

CROWLEY is in no way interested in the bar and dance club, which has black walls accented with red-painted flames; nor in SCRIPT!CROWLEY making more comments about hating humans. CROWLEY is, however, smiling again.

CROWLEY: Don’t try to distract me with that tacky monstrosity. I know what kind of reputation that Abbey had. I think you owe me a nice long story about –

SCRIPT!CROWLEY says his catchphrase again.

CROWLEY (CONT.): (Glaring glarefully at the television) STOP. SAYING. THAT.

AZIRAPHALE: Another time.

Desperate for a distraction, AZIRAPHALE leans forward, studying the film. It now shows the club at night, filled with intense music and dancing patrons, as well as scantily-clad waitresses in red with fake horns and tails.

AZIRAPHALE (CONT.): Good Lord, what are those young ladies wearing? And the music! Positively atrocious!

CROWLEY: I will definitely be asking you more questions later. Lots of questions.

CROWLEY glances at the screen. He shifts uncomfortably, pulling a little more into the corner of the sofa.

CROWLEY: Ugh. What is this place? Why would anyone think I would spend one minute in a hole like that?

AZIRAPHALE: As I said, it would appear you own it.

CROWLEY: It’s ridiculous. Cheap and tasteless, dark, crowded, everyone pressed against each other with no room to move…

All the time he is talking, CROWLEY’s voice gets lower, his shoulders more hunched.

AZIRAPHALE quietly reaches over to squeeze his hand. After a moment, SCRIPT!CROWLEY leaves the crowded dance floor, and the camera follows him to his office.

CROWLEY begins to relax, nods to AZIRAPHALE. AZIRAPHALE releases his hand, but does not move further away.

CROWLEY: (Clearly trying to steady himself) At least this office isn’t bad. This was the nineties right? Or maybe the eighties? I was pretty into the bland hotel look then. Can’t really remember why.

CROWLEY glances fondly around the COTTAGE, no part of which can be described as bland or minimalist.

SCRIPT!CROWLEY sets up several candles, lights them, and begins talking to the empty air.

AZIRAPHALE: Reporting to head office…by candle?

CROWLEY: Lucky bastard. (Shrugs) The ways Hell contacted me were more… intrusive, usually.

AZIRAPHALE: (Catching some of the dialogue) Ah, this is more like it. I believe you actually DID take credit for sitcom laugh tracks.

CROWLEY: Made that one up. The airline meals were actually me, though. Ugh. Backwards messages? Definitely the eighties. Worst decade since the fourteenth century.

Onscreen, SCRIPT!CROWLEY has just been told something that the audience cannot hear, but which makes him very nervous.

CROWLEY: Nh. Looks like we’re getting to it now.

Once again, SCRIPT!CROWLEY says “all going to well.” CROWLEY! Clenches his teeth and growls with frustration

AZIRAPHALE: (With a sort of desperate cheerfulness) Look! No more club! We’re at the park. That’s good, isn’t it?

CROWLEY: You’re in a good mood at least.

Onscreen, SCRIPT!CROWLEY and SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE wander through Hyde Park. It is a warm sunny day with children eating ice cream and people smiling.

The ANGEL and DEMON discuss morality. It is rather more simplified than the discussions CROWLEY and AZIRAPHALE usually have. SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE attempts to use the example of a young woman giving her ice cream to a child as an example of spreading happiness as the ultimate form of goodness. SCRIPT!CROWLEY has a few things to say about the young woman’s motivations.

AZIRAPHALE listens in horrified disbelief, until CROWLEY bursts into laughter, head thrown back.

AZIRAPHALE: I am an idiot.

CROWLEY: She dropped an ice cream – had a dog lick it clean – then gave it to a kid?

AZIRAPHALE: He said it was a good deed. In what universe does that constitute a good deed?

CROWLEY: That’s just – cartoonish, that is!

AZIRAPHALE: “The child was happy” – utilitarian nonsense. As if happiness alone were a measure of -

CROWLEY: What’s next? Is she going to burn down a kitten orphanage?

AZIRAPHALE: (Snapping at the screen) There is nuance to this, you naïve fool! You must consider the motive, the available choices, the ultimate ramifications of -

CROWLEY: (Gleeful) Ducks!

SCRIPT!CROWLEY and SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE stop to feed the ducks in the pond.

AZIRAPHALE: Oh, no, don’t talk about that pointless painting again. (Angrily at the television) We don’t know it was a forgery! It might have been misattributed!

CROWLEY: Yes. Or our Angel might have just wandered off from the painter he was supposed to be observing and joined a cult for a decade.

AZIRAPHALE: I told you there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for that which I will divulge at a later time.

CROWLEY: When you’ve had time to make it up, you mean. Oops, there goes the duck.

Onscreen, SCRIPT!CROWLEY has fed bread to a DUCK, and the DUCK has promptly been submerged.

AZIRAPHALE: (At the same time as SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE, in precisely the same tone) Really!

CROWLEY: Oh, what? They hold their breath and I like it when they pop back up.

AZIRAPHALE glares at CROWLEY, folding his arms sullenly. He turns his glare back to the television as SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE says “It’s all going too well.”

AZIRAPHALE: Don’t you start.

As they walk out of the park, SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE asks what is bothering SCRIPT!CROWLEY.

SCRIPT!CROWLEY refuses to explain, giving the angel the brush-off.

SCRIPT!CROWLEY dismissively says “I can’t tell you that.”

CROWLEY: Tell him.

SCRIPT!CROWLEY calls SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE “the opposition.”

CROWLEY: Tell him!

AZIRAPHALE: Crowley dear…

SCRIPT!CROWLEY angrily states “You’re an angel, I’m a demon…” CROWLEY immediately leaps from his seat, preparing to charge the screen in a rage.

CROWLEY: Don’t you bloody start with that you piece of shit! Who the Heaven do you think you’re talking to? He actually wants to help you, and you shut him out? Get off your fucking ego trip and tell him -

AZIRAPHALE: (Alarmed) Crowley!

Onscreen, SCRIPT!CROWLEY says they’ve known each other a long time, and SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE reminds him, in a hurt voice, “six thousand years.”

AZIRAPHALE is visibly pained by these words, but they seem to freeze CROWLEY in place. AZIRAPHALE reaches for CROWLEY’s hand, pulls him back towards the sofa.

AZIRAPHALE (CONT.): My dear… It’s alright. You don’t need to be upset. It’s just a film.

CROWLEY: It isn’t -

AZIRAPHALE: Yes. It is. The story may sound like us, the lines are certainly uncanny. But this never happened. We never said these things, not like this. It isn’t real.

With great reluctance, CROWLEY sits again. He can’t quite meet AZIRAPHALE’s eyes, but holds AZIRAPHALE’s hand in both of his.

AZIRAPHALE (CONT.): And…I’m sorry. That I wasn’t always honest with you when -

CROWLEY: (Finally looks up) No. This isn’t about you, Aziraphale. I mean it is, but. You needed to keep yourself safe. If that meant lying to yourself, even lying to me – I don’t care. You did what you had to do, and you never have to apologize for that.

AZIRAPHALE: Trust is a two-way street, and I -

CROWLEY: No. I know what Heaven does to angels who – who ask questions or have doubts. You told me what you could and that was enough. But it was different for me. And I always told you everything.

AZIRAPHALE: Perhaps it’s different for him? Perhaps he needs to keep secrets to be safe?

CROWLEY: Now you sound naïve. Trying to find the good in everyone.

AZIRAPHALE: Not everyone.

Onscreen, SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE’s wounded puppy-dog look has done its job, and SCRIPT!CROWLEY promises to tell everything the following night. Our AZIRAPHALE smiles.

AZIRAPHALE (CONT.): See? He is going to tell me. Maybe there’s some hope for him yet.

The film abruptly cuts to club again, music and dancing in full swing. CROWLEY releases AZIRAPHALE’s hand, retreating into the corner of the sofa again, arms crossed tightly.

Onscreen, a fabulous if flaky red-haired woman is celebrating riotously with a group of friends. There is something undeniably familiar about her sense of style.

AZIRAPHALE: Oh, who is this, er, charming lady?

CROWLEY: I think that’s Madame Tracy.

AZIRAPHALE: No! Well. Perhaps she’ll liven up his grumpy face a little.

MADAME TRACY and her friends are loudly drunk, in a bar full of loud drunks. SCRIPT!CROWLEY approaches to ask some questions. MADAME TRACY drunkenly explains that her crowd mostly have come because they think she’s rich, that she has just been paid by her “very important friend” who thinks she is “getting too old.” She was paid in cash.

CROWLEY: (Setting new records for sour expression) Why is he bothering her, anyway? Nosy git.

AZIRAPHALE: (Completely innocent) Perhaps he thought their party was going to well.

CROWLEY: Don’t you even –

Onscreen, a DRUNK MAN WITH TOO MUCH MONEY attempts to grab MARJORIE THE SCANTILY CLAD WAITRESS in an inappropriate way. She immediately trips, breaking glasses and spilling drinks. Possibly the music pauses in a dramatic way.

SCRIPT!CROWLEY leaps into action.

AZIRAPHALE: Sensing what is coming) Ooooooooooh!

CROWLEY: Oh no. No. I am not going to believe he’s nice just because he helps a waitress. Don’t even try to do that now because -

AZIRAPHALE: (Slapping CROWLEY’s arm in excitement) Look! He waved the muscle-bound bouncer away! He’s standing up to the drunk man!

CROWLEY: No.

AZIRAPHALE: He’s turning down a bribe!

As SCRIPT!CROWLEY confronts the unruly customer, CROWLEY hides behind his hand.

The CUSTOMER turns away, and SCRIPT!CROWLEY addresses him as “Sunshine.” At this point, AZIRAPHALE can no longer hold it in, and laughs until he falls off the sofa.

The CUSTOMER attempts to punch SCRIPT!CROWLEY, who easily catches his hand and squeezes it under crushing pressure.

CROWLEY: Oh, what the fuck?

The CUSTOMER completely subdued, SCRIPT!CROWLEY instructs the MUSCLE-BOUND BOUNCER to “show the gentleman out.”

AZIRAPHALE: (Still on the ground, laughing) My hero!

CROWLEY: Was that supposed to make us like him? Or make us think humans are arseholes? I honestly can’t tell.

AZIRAPHALE climbs back onto the couch, still giggling. Onscreen, SCRIPT!CROWLEY has gone into the restroom to stare moodily at the mirror.

AZIRAPHALE: Ah, but we were able to see the power of your fisticuffs!

CROWLEY: Shut up. See if I ever stand up for you again.

AZIRAPHALE: Oooh, next time I’m in trouble, you can come out swinging like a –

Onscreen, SATAN’s eyes suddenly fill the mirror in front of SCRIPT!CROWLEY, and an echoing, menacing voice calls, “CROWLEY.”

On the sofa, our CROWLEY flinches, and goes very still. His jaw is clenched. One fist has grabbed the pocket where he keeps his SUNGLASSES.

AZIRAPHALE slides closer on the sofa, until his shoulder is pressed into CROWLEY’s. The demon does not relax. AZIRAPHALE is watching CROWLEY, not the television.

AZIRAPHALE: Is this…what it was like?

CROWLEY: Close enough.

The scene is very brief. SATAN tells SCRIPT!CROWLEY to meet him in half an hour, at a location exactly half an hour away. A map briefly flashes on the screen to show the location.

AZIRAPHALE considers making a Google Quest joke, but senses this is not the time.

CROWLEY does not move, blink, or breathe until the eyes fade.

CROWLEY: I know it isn’t real. But it’s just…

AZIRAPHALE: I understand.

CROWLEY stands, runs his fingers through his hair, circles behind the sofa.

CROWLEY: Look, I’ll just. Popcorn. Do you want more popcorn?

AZIRAPHALE: Crowley. We don’t have to watch this.

SCRIPT!CROWLEY has run into MADAME TRACY, who is either asking for financial advice, or hitting on him. It is unclear. CROWLEY cannot bring himself to make a joke.

CROWLEY: This is…no. I’ll be fine. Just. I need a minute. What do you want? Popcorn? Ice Cream? Sushi?

AZIRAPHALE pauses the film just as SCRIPT!CROWLEY reaches the Bentley.

AZIRAPHALE: Probably not all three. Do you need me to come with you?

CROWLEY: (Trying to sound dismissive) Only if you want to.

AZIRAPHALE follows CROWLEY to the kitchen, taking the popcorn bowl, which is still about one quarter full.

The camera lingers near the sofa, so we only see them from a distance, speaking in hushed voices. As the popcorn pops, AZIRAPHALE places a hand on CROWLEY’s cheek, saying something indistinct.

CROWLEY covers the hand with his own and nods. Impulsively, he reaches out and pulls AZIRAPHALE into a tight embrace, and just as suddenly lets go, turning back to the popcorn as if to cook it by sheer force of will.

AZIRAPHALE bites his lips and reaches for CROWLEY’s shoulder, hand hovering for a moment, then lets it fall.

When the bowl of popcorn is ready, they return to the sofa. CROWLEY holds the popcorn while AZIRAPHALE tucks a tartan blanket over their laps. CROWLEY then places the popcorn bowl between them.

Throughout the next scene, AZIRAPHALE eats popcorn almost continuously, while CROWLEY picks at a few pieces.

CROWLEY: Right. Whiny git version of me meeting actual Satan. Let’s go.

The movie starts: the Bentley racing towards its destination through dark London streets.

CROWLEY (CONT.): At least there’s no Hastur and Ligur, right?

AZIRAPHALE: No Gabriel either. Count our blessings, I suppose.

SCRIPT!CROWLEY puts a cassette into the player. Instead of Queen, it plays a hard rock version of “Every Day” by Buddy Holly.

AZIRAPHALE: Oh! I like this song! Though it’s usually less…abrasive.

CROWLEY: You like – you are full of surprises today, Aziraphale. Where did you ever hear “Every Day”?

AZIRAPHALE: On a radio.

Onscreen, a POLICE CAR spots the Bentley and gives chase.

AZIRAPHALE: Aha, now your other self will face the consequences of his actions.

CROWLEY: Does he really seem the type to obey traffic cops?

Onscreen, the POLICE CAR’s engine gurgles, forcing it to come to an emergency stop. SCRIPT!CROWLEY is seen doing some ABSURDLY FLASHY MAGIC that was probably intended to look impressive, but the special effects have likely not aged well.

CROWLEY: As I said. He is not a nice demon.

AZIRAPHALE: Didn’t you once fill a police car’s engine with hedgehogs?

CROWLEY: I did nothing of the sort! I made the driver hallucinate hedgehogs in the engine. Same effect, no animals hurt.

The song fades out as the Bentley reaches its destination.

CROWLEY: Ah. Here it comes.

AZIRAPHALE: Are you sure…?

CROWLEY: I’m sure. Keep talking. It helps.

The Bentley arrives at an abandoned Abbey, walls broken and collapsed, ivy growing up the sides. It is as dark and spooky as a location can be.

AZIRAPHALE: Well. If the goal was to find the most cliché possible location, I believe they succeeded. All that’s missing is –

A swarm of bats flies out of the bell tower.

AZIRAPHALE (CONT.): - nothing, apparently.

CROWLEY nods. He holds a single piece of popcorn between finger and thumb, but doesn’t eat it. The other hand clutches his SUNGLASSES tightly.

Onscreen, SCRIPT!CROWLEY bursts out of the Bentley, terrified. His is late to his meeting, and his superior does not like to be kept waiting. SCRIPT!CROWLEY stumbles and falls as he runs, and from his sprawl on the ground looks up in terror at –

SATAN, a very attractive, confident businessman in a dark, fashionable suit.

AZIRAPHALE: Ah and there’s…does he really look like that?

CROWLEY: (Shrugs. Does not relax his grip) When he wants to. Something like that.

AZIRAPHALE: Ah. He looks… You know, he looks rather like Gabriel. Only darker clothes.

Everything SATAN says is intended to keep SCRIPT!CROWLEY off balance. He makes threats disguised as jokes. He is dismissive of everything around him. He gaslights. He moves in ways that leave SCRIPT!CROWLEY struggling to keep up.

From the sofa, CROWLEY is trying to find something to say, but the words escape him.

AZIRAPHALE: (Softly) He… Well. He sounds rather like Gabriel, too. It’s very…

AZIRAPHALE stops reaching for the popcorn. His hands twist in front of him, pulling at the well-worn edge of his waistcoat. He seems to sit straighter and shrink at the same time.

Then SCRIPT!CROWLEY blurts out “If you were thinking of transferring me somewhere a little more interesting, I wouldn’t say no.” This breaks the spell.

CROWLEY: What?

AZIRAPHALE: (Tentatively) Well, it would appear he truly is bored -

CROWLEY: No. No.

Onscreen, SATAN says “It’ll all be over soon.” SCRIPT!CROWLEY is delighted.

CROWLEY: (Throws his popcorn at the screen) You cowardly little shit! You brainless toady!

AZIRAPHALE: Crowley! We must make allowances for -

CROWLEY: No, we do not! How can you defend him? He wants the world to end!

AZIRAPHALE: He doesn’t. He wants to be somewhere more exciting, and his…superior is not being clear on what that means.

CROWLEY: (This has only made him more upset) More exciting? Where else could he want to go? What other planet has anything worth a damn? Wines or motorways or those – those stupid little robots that vacuum your house while the cat rides on it?

AZIRAPHALE: Or duck ponds. Or dinners at the Ritz.

CROWLEY: Exactly! But this – this fake Crowley…

Onscreen, SATAN mentions Alpha Centauri, and SCRIPT!CROWLEY eagerly jumps in to say “I’ve always wanted to go there.”

CROWLEY growls, and squeezes his SUNGLASSES so hard they break, pieces of metal and glass tumbling to the floor beside the sofa.

AZIRAPHALE: (Trying to soothe him) Come now, dear. When you thought it was over, you wanted to run to that same system.

CROWLEY: No. I wanted us to run. Not the same thing.

CROWLEY reaches out, gently cradling AZIRAPHALE’s face with his hand.

CROWLEY (CONT.): There’s only one…one reason I would want to leave this stupid, brilliant planet and all the terrible, clever beings that live on it. Not because I’m bored. Not even to save myself.

AZIRAPHALE: (Not sure what to make of this confession) Ah. That’s…I…(Glances at the screen) Oh, we��re missing Adam’s introduction!

CROWLEY: Hm?

CROWLEY turns to look at the television, his hand falling away. AZIRAPHALE’s eyes linger on him a moment longer, filing away what he’s heard to process later.

Onscreen, SATAN has manifested a basket that can only contain THE INFANT ANTICHRIST ADAM. He solemnly informs SCRIPT!CROWLEY: “Your job, Crowley, is to raise my son.”

CROWLEY: What?

AZIRAPHALE: (Genuinely excited) Oh! Is this one of the stories where we raise the Antichrist together? I love those!

CROWLEY: Wh – That’s – That’s a thing?

AZIRAPHALE: Oh, indeed! You’re always so good with children. It’s utterly charming!

CROWLEY: (This is all news to him) People think – what is that based on?

AZIRAPHALE: You being such a good nanny to Warlock, I believe.

CROWLEY: Eh, fair point.

AZIRAPHALE: (Practically giddy with anticipation) One look at the baby and he will melt, mark my words.

CROWLEY: Just because I get on with older kids doesn’t mean –

Once again, SATAN has offered SCRIPT!CROWLEY a promotion off Earth in return for his service, which the demon welcomes delightedly.

CROWLEY: And again. This absolute coat hanger has no appreciation for –

SATAN: (Said in the calm, matter-of-fact voice of one stating a fact, not making a threat) But mess up on this, Crowley. Mess up on this and the most pitiable pus-choked damned soul in Hell, in the deepest, fieriest pit of the inferno, undergoing the vilest torments ever devised will be laughing down his leprous nose at you. Because I’ll create a whole new pit, just for you. And no matter how bad anyone’s ever suffered in the past… You’ll have it worse. Do I make myself clear?

As soon as the speech began, CROWLEY’s mouth shut with a click. From the change in his posture and the way his eyes go wide, it is very clear that in his mind he is no longer sitting in a comfortable living room watching a movie.

At the end of the speech, CROWLEY nods, in exactly the same way that SCRIPT!CROWLEY does.

AZIRAPHALE: My dear…Crowley…are you – quite alright?

CROWLEY: ‘S’fine.

AZIRAPHALE: Crowley –

CROWLEY shakes himself, clearly trying to pull himself back together. He looks at the shattered pieces of his glasses, seriously considering putting them back on for the first time since moving into the cottage.

Realizing that AZIRAPHALE is studying his face, Crowley redoubles his efforts to look unaffected.

CROWLEY: No. Really. So – melodramatic. The – the “leprous” thing just – just put it all over the top. Nh. Far too wordy. Trying too hard to – to scare the audience.

AZIRAPHALE: We don’t have to -

CROWLEY: (Totally unconvincing) Look, baby Adam. Isn’t he just a precious little Lord of Darkness.

AZIRAPHALE: (Totally unconvinced) Yes. Very sweet.

CROWLEY: I bet stodgy Museum-You goes absolutely gaga for him. Probably says “toesy-woesies.” Or something even worse.

AZIRAPHALE: You think he’ll call, er, me?

CROWLEY: I would. First chance I got.

Onscreen, we cut to a CHILD’S BEDROOM, where a young girl is asleep in bed. Her room is almost painfully occult.

CROWLEY (CONT.): Oh, now who is this?

AZIRAPHALE: Stuffed alligator on the ceiling – witch doll – pentacles everywhere – oh, I know this one! This must be young Anathema! I do hope they explain about Agnes Nutter and the Witchfinders.

CROWLEY: Seems a bit complicated for this film.

AZIRAPHALE: Well. Obviously they will simplify a bit, but it’s all necessary to understand the Book.

CROWLEY: They’ll probably just have it show up without explanation. Seems more this movie’s style. Maybe a prophecy comic book or something.

ANATHEMA wakes up screaming. CROWLEY and AZIRAPHALE jump, spilling half the popcorn. They are more confused than afraid.

AZIRAPHALE: Did – did I miss something?

CROWLEY: Why is she screaming?

AZIRAPHALE: Did something bite her? A rat? A caterpillar?

CROWLEY: Did she realize what movie she was in?

ANATHEMA’S MOTHER comes in to try and soothe ANATHEMA, assuring her it was just a dream. ANATHEMA begins sobbing about the end of the world.

AZIRAPHALE: A…dream?

CROWLEY: Just…dreams? No book?

AZIRAPHALE: What does this film have against books? I haven’t seen a single book in nearly half an hour.

CROWLEY: Hold on. This is too weird.

CROWLEY pulls out his MOBILE PHONE – it is a sleek new smart phone, with more bells and whistles than he could ever use. He taps the speed dial and waits for it to pick up.

CROWLEY (CONT.): (Over the phone) Hello? Book Girl? It’s me. You’re not going to believe this…

CROWLEY tosses the blanket aside, circling around behind the couch towards the DINING ROOM as he talks.

We stay with AZIRAPHALE, who is gathering the spilled popcorn into a pile.

AZIRAPHALE: (Glaring at the television) I want you to know, I’m not mad, just disappointed.

CROWLEY: (Returning from the dining room)…right. Talk to you later.

CROWLEY hangs up his MOBILE and leans against the back of the sofa. He is too anxious to sit again just yet.

AZIRAPHALE: What did she say?

CROWLEY: “Stop calling me on my honeymoon.” What did I miss?

AZIRAPHALE: Madame Tracy – if that is Tracy – is upset because. Er. Her friends took a taxi without her?

Onscreen, MADAME TRACY is quite drunk, babbling to the BARTENDER about her past “I’ve slept with princes. I’ve bathed in champagne.”

CROWLEY: Good for her. The friends, not so much. Are these the friends that thought she was rich?

AZIRAPHALE: Yes? Most likely?

CROWLEY: Is she rich?

AZIRAPHALE: I’m not actually clear on any part of her story so far.

Scenes of MADAME TRACY gathering her bag and being escorted out by the BARTENDER are intercut with scenes of SCRIPT!CROWLEY racing his Bentley back towards the bar. ADAM’s basket sits on the front seat.

CROWLEY: Still hasn’t called, I see.

AZIRAPHALE: What is he doing, just leaving the child in a basket on the front seat! That is criminally negligent!

CROWLEY: I know! The basket goes on the back seat.

AZIRAPHALE: I beg your pardon?

CROWLEY: Yeah, if you have to swerve to avoid a lorry or whatever, the basket might flip over. On the back seat it has room to slide around.

AZIRAPHALE: (His parent!AU fantasies have taken a hit) Crowley! Are you telling me you drove around with a baby in an unsecured basket in your back seat?

CROWLEY: They only gave me a basket! What else was I supposed to do?

AZIRAPHALE: Miracle up a car seat!

CROWLEY: I – ah – nnh – glk – er…yeah.

AZIRAPHALE: And why is Tracy carrying a large bag of money?

CROWLEY: She did say she just got paid.

AZIRAPHALE: With a duffle bag full of…of ten pound notes?

CROWLEY: Is that a lot of money?

AZIRAPHALE: Quarter of a million, I should think. Ah, no, only half full. A hundred thousand, absolute minimum.

CROWLEY: And she said she wasn’t rich.

AZIRAPHALE: That bag must weigh at least two stone!

CROWLEY: At least we know she’s strong.

CROWLEY begins dialing his MOBILE PHONE again.

Meanwhile, onscreen, MADAME TRACY is trying to unsuccessfully to hail a cab, and has wandered away from the now-closed bar.

AZIRAPHALE: And now she’s leaving the money behind!

CROWLEY: Tracy! You’ll never guess. We’re watching a movie, and you’re in it!

Seeming to have finally relaxed, CROWLEY circles the sofa again, and drops back into the corner he had abandoned. AZIRAPHALE immediately begins settling the blanket over him, though he appears not to notice.

CROWLEY (CONT.): What do you…Oh, do tell. (To AZIRAPHALE, with a wicked grin) She says she was in several movies back in her 20s.

AZIRAPHALE: (Unphased) Yes, I know. She showed me some. Oh, here comes you again!

CROWLEY: Not that prick. (To TRACY, over the mobile) Not you. Ignore that. So this character that’s supposed to be you was paid a big pile of cash to…I dunno…wear diamonds and travel the world with some bloke?...Ooooooh. That makes sense…A hundred thousand? Mh. (To AZIRAPHALE) Sounds like she was underpaid.

Onscreen, SCRIPT!CROWLEY has picked up BABY ADAM to walk him into the club. It is incredibly awkward looking.

CROWLEY (CONT.): (Shouted at the screen) That is not how you hold a newborn! Support the head, you turnip!

AZIRAPHALE beams, having recovered some of his parent!AU joy.

CROWLEY (CONT.): (To TRACY over the mobile) No, this is supposed to be me, I guess. He’s holding baby Adam the way Aziraphale holds birds in his magic act.

AZIRAPHALE: (Annoyed) Look at that, he made the baby disappear.

Onscreen, SCRIPT!CROWLEY is now holding BABY ADAM behind his back as a surge of BAR EMPLOYEES make their way to their cars.

CROWLEY: Behind his back?! (To TRACY over the mobile) Look, I need to go. This is getting out of hand…I’ll text you any updates.

CROWLEY drops the MOBILE onto the arm of the sofa, where it will be in easy reach.

CROWLEY (CONT.): Shadwell says hello.

AZIRAPHALE: That seems unlikely.

CROWLEY: It was more like angry shouting from another room, but I think it was a greeting. How many people have walked past that bag of money without taking it?

AZIRAPHALE: Three? No, four. He must pay his employees very well.

CROWLEY: Did they say why he’s hiding the baby behind his back?

AZIRAPHALE: Er. It would seem he doesn’t want his employees to know about the child for some reason.

CROWLEY: Then why take him out of the basket? Wait, is he planning to keep Adam behind his back for eleven years?

AZIRAPHALE: My dear, I feel I am forced to concede that this alternate version of you is exceedingly stupid.

As they watch, SCRIPT!CROWLEY puts BABY ADAM into the bag of money left behind by MADAME TRACY before he rushes into the bar to take care of business.

CROWLEY: No arguments here.

AZIRAPHALE: Oh dear.

CROWLEY: He…just left the baby.

AZIRAPHALE: Oh dear.

CROWLEY: He put the Antichrist in a sack full of money on the street and then he walked away?

AZIRAPHALE: That would appear to be the case, yes.

CROWLEY: Why not take the bag with him? Or –

Onscreen, a TAXI returns, and MADAME TRACY rushes out to grab her SACK OF CASH faster than SCRIPT!CROWLEY can react.

AZIRAPHALE and CROWLEY can only watch in horror as MADAME TRACY quickly picks up the bag and returns to the taxi.

AZIRAPHALE: (Immensely disappointed) Well. That settles that.

CROWLEY: Oh, that kid is going to be dead in a week.

CROWLEY picks up his mobile and quickly texts TRACY: “CONGRATS UR A MUM NOW”

AZIRAPHALE: Well. I suppose that gives us our lost Antichrist.

Onscreen, MADAME TRACY is trying to get the TAXI DRIVER to bring her home, but realizes she doesn’t know what country she lives in. Finally settles for “One of those nice little seaside towns. With a pier.” She then falls asleep.

CROWLEY: Somehow this is even more unlikely than what actually happened.

CROWLEY texts ADAM next: “TRACY IS UR MUM NOW I DONT MAKE THE RULES”

CROWLEY: Speaking of, why was Hell’s best plan to have the Antichrist raised in a bar by this smoldering trash fire? Satan said – repeatedly – he wanted the boy to be extremely but nonspecifically evil, but Turd-face there is just whiney and…mean.

Onscreen, SCRIPT!CROWLEY is pacing in a clear panic. CROWLEY is unimpressed, but AZIRAPHALE softens.

AZIRAPHALE: Look at him. Poor dear is so distressed.

AZIRAPHALE glances over to CROWLEY, remembering how he reacted to SATAN’s threat. CROWLEY scowls at his mobile phone, though he has run out of people to text.

AZIRAPHALE (CONT.): Well. I’m sure he’ll think of something. Or call me and we’ll think of something together. As we always do.

CROWLEY: (Looks up with a fond smile) With you resisting every step of the way.

AZIRAPHALE: It keeps things interesting.

They look back at the television in time to see SCRIPT!CROWLEY begin systematically drinking everything in the bar.

CROWLEY: What? That’s it? He’s already giving up?

AZIRAPHALE: (Rapidly running out of optimism) He’s had rather a frightful day…

CROWLEY: Stop defending him. We’ve all had hard days – all he’s got to do is track down a bloody taxi.

SCRIPT!CROWLEY summons a bottle of alcohol and pours himself a glass.

CROWLEY (CONT.): (At the television, tensed to jump up again) That’s not going to help! Get your head out of your ass, call Aziraphale, get to work!

AZIRAPHALE: I’m sure…one drink first won’t hurt…or two…or…oh, dear.

CROWLEY glances at his MOBILE to see a new text from ADAM: “im not sposed 2 talk t u when ur drunk”

CROWLEY texts back: “NOT DRUNK. WISH I WAS.”

AZIRAPHALE’s mobile phone dings. He pulls out a very small, old-fashioned FLIP PHONE to find a text from ADAM: “how drunk is Crwly?”

AZIRAPHALE looks at the television, where SCRIPT!CROWLEY has drunk nearly ¾ of the bar’s contents. AZIRAPHALE texts ADAM: “svrl butts worth”

CROWLEY: I do not sing when I’m drunk.

AZIRAPHALE: No, you shriek off-key. And rant about marine biology and philosophy.

CROWLEY: I don’t rant, Angel, those are finely tuned arguments.

CROWLEY’s mobile buzzes as a new text arrives from ADAM: “how drunk is azriaphle???”

AZIRAPHALE: Well, whatever you wish to – oh, finally.

SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE comes into the bar. He has miracled the door unlocked and is confronting SCRIPT!CROWLEY about the extreme amounts of alcohol he has drunk.

AZIRAPHALE (CONT.): Here’s someone who will stop all your nonsense and get you back on track. Practically my job, really.

CROWLEY: When have I ever needed you to drag me out of a bar when there was work to do?

AZIRAPHALE: I seem to recall a certain occasion, on a Saturday, right before visiting an airbase…?

CROWLEY considers this quietly.

CROWLEY: I take it back. ‘S absolutely your job. Which is why this dipshit should have called you the second he got that baby.

AZIRAPHALE smiles and pats CROWLEY’s hand.

SCRIPT!CROWLEY attempts to tell off SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE for breaking into his bar, gets confused, and winds up saying “Can I tempt you to have a little drink with me?”

AZIRAPHALE: Good Lord! Is that how he tempts me to drink?

CROWLEY: To be fair, it doesn’t usually take much.

Onscreen, SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE gives the “evil always contains the seeds of its own destruction” speech.

AZIRAPHALE: Oh, I sound like a self-righteous fool!

CROWLEY: Aziraphale, you once gave me this exact speech, almost word-for-word.

AZIRAPHALE: (Genuinely worried) Context, my dear boy. It isn’t fair to say such things when you’re too, well, addled to defend yourself. Did I come all that way just to insult you?

SCRIPT!CROWLEY has finally spilled the whole story to SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE, who has yet to say anything comforting.

CROWLEY: (Growling at the screen) You wouldn’t be in this bloody predicament if you hadn’t tried to be so blasted clever and aloof.

AZIRAPHALE: (Still quite distracted) I really think that version of me could be a little more sympathetic.

CROWLEY: No, this baboon’s ass is getting exactly what he deserves.

SCRIPT!CROWLEY knocks a table over in his excitement to offer to defect and rejoin Heaven.

CROWLEY (CONT.): Defect? Go back?

AZIRAPHALE: It’s a fair question. (SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE disagrees) Well it is! I can’t imagine this version of you has done anything more evil than tie his own shoelaces together.

CROWLEY: (Disgusted) I don’t go crawling back to Heaven. Not for anything. That’s not how I do things.

Just as they are both getting distressed, SCRIPT!CROWLEY announces that he put down THE INFANT ANTICHRIST for a second “and voom.”

SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE responds “Babies don’t voom.”

AZIRAPHALE and CROWLEY share a look

AZIRAPHALE: Voom?

CROWLEY: Voom.

AZIRAPHALE and CROWLEY pull out their phones and text ADAM at the same time: “VOOOOOOOOOOOM.”

They laugh, though not as openly or warmly as at the beginning of the film. There is still tension.

Onscreen SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE convinces SCRIPT!CROWLEY to accept his help in finding the INFANT ANTICHRIST in return for a chance to exert a good influence on the child.

AZIRAPHALE: There, see? I’m offering to help. Everything is back as it should be.

CROWLEY: Except why are you asking me? It’s just…weird is all.

AZIRAPHALE: Perhaps in this universe, you are always in trouble, and I am the one always saving you.

CROWLEY: Is that how this works?

AZIRAPHALE: Must be. I’ve read stories where we are…reversed in different ways but I must admit, this is the strangest reversal I’ve yet seen. Look, I’m the one suggesting influencing Adam, not you.

CROWLEY: And that’s another thing – do we not know this is about the end of the world? You never even mention it.

AZIRAPHALE: That…would make sense. Although we also seem less attached to Earth. But, no, billions of people, I wouldn’t be calm about all that death.

CROWLEY raises his eyebrows, but does not remind AZIRAPHALE of how he reacted eleven years ago when AZIRAPHALE first received the news.

CROWLEY: But we’re talking about the Antichrist – what else do we think it means? What’s the point of influencing Adam to be good if not to avoid the end of the world?

AZIRAPHALE: My motivations do seem rather shallow. Have I no concern for the danger this plan would put us in? How would we even hide such a thing from our head offices?

CROWLEY: Angel. We’re just going to have to admit – they’re both idiots.

Despite having no plan for finding the INFANT ANTICHRIST, SCRIPT!CROWLEY says “how hard can it be?” Both CROWLEY and AZIRAPHALE groan at this.

AZIRAPHALE: No argument here.

The screen fades to black, preparing for a time skip. CROWLEY pauses the movie.

CROWLEY: I mean just…that arsemonger, that absolute walnut – how is that supposed to be me?

AZIRAPHALE: I hardly feel any better about that angel from the Museum. He’s daft as a bush and mad as…as…

CROWLEY: As an angel in an art museum?

AZIRAPHALE: “The child was happy” indeed. As if all of morality could be brought down to what feels good in the moment.

CROWLEY: Sounds more like something my side would have said.

AZIRAPHALE: Precisely! Oh, I know I shouldn’t expect nuance in a silly little film, but to make good seem so, so foolish -

CROWLEY: Probably just want that prick to look cool and clever by comparison.

AZIRAPHALE has been gauging CROWLEY’s levels of self-loathing throughout, and is not pleased with what he sees.

AZIRAPHALE: Really, dear, I know you dislike him, but he’s not so bad.

CROWLEY: Not bad? He’s sullen, and rude, and arrogant…

AZIRAPHALE: (Voice soft) That doesn’t sound like anyone we know.

CROWLEY: (Scowling) He cheats, he makes bloody moronic mistakes…

AZIRAPHALE: Still doesn’t sound familiar?

CROWLEY: And he doesn’t even try to fix those mistakes – blessed coward just gives up!

CROWLEY bunches his hands on his legs and stares at his fists. He knows perfectly well what AZIRAPHALE is getting at.

CROWLEY (CONT.): (Sighs) He’s…the worst possible version of me. All I can think is how much I must have hurt you, over and over, because I didn’t know how to just – be – nice.

AZIRAPHALE slowly runs a hand through CROWLEY’s hair. CROWLEY turns, leaning into it, but doesn’t meet AZIRAPHALE’s eyes.

AZIRAPHALE: My dear, my darling Crowley. Don’t even think such things. I know you would never hurt me, not on purpose, no more than I would hurt you. We’ve both made mistakes, yes. I had my turn as a self-righteous fool. I never knew how to trust you until it was almost too late. But that’s behind us now. We’re here, together. That’s what’s important.

CROWLEY: I can’t stand to look at him. How can you?

AZIRAPHALE reaches for CROWLEY’s hand, takes it in both of his, and uncurls it, laying fingers and palm bare. As he speaks, he punctuates each sentence with a gentle kiss on CROWLEY’s palm.

AZIRAPHALE: Because I love you. Even at your worst, I love you. Even when you cannot love yourself, I love you. And for the sake of that, I can tolerate a ridiculous parody of you without much pain.

AZIRAPHALE folds CROWLEY’s hand closed, as if to keep the kisses safe inside. He guides CROWLEY’s fist back to rest against CROWLEY’s heart.

With his free hand, CROWLEY cradles the back of AZIRAPHALE’s head and pulls him into a kiss, slow and infinitely tender. When they part, AZIRAPHALE rests his head on CROWLEY's shoulder.

CROWLEY: (Softly) I don’t deserve you.

AZIRAPHALE: Yes. You do.

CROWLEY: I love you. So much.

AZIRAPHALE: As do I, dear. As do I.

The camera pulls away, returning to the darkened window in a reverse of the shot we came in with.

EXT. DEVIL’S DYKE – NIGHT

It is fully dark now. The snow has begun to pile up all around the COTTAGE, but the warm orange light from the windows spills across the nearby snowbanks. In the sky above, brilliant stars are blazing.

FADE OUT.

THE END

#good omens prime #good omens fanfiction #good omens crack #aziraphale and crowley #ineffable husbands #good omens screenplay #1992 screenplay #mst6k #south downs cottage #my writing #aethelflaed attempts to be funny #with mixed results

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hypnoticwinter · 4 years

Text

Down the Rabbit Hole part 7

“Fuck,” I say, and Peter stretches, regards me evenly.

“There’s more,” he tells me.

“I want to hear it,” I tell him, “but I’m out of SD cards. I need to put all this shit on my laptop and clear these, make more room.”

“Alright,” Peter shrugs. “Are you going to come back later tonight, or…”

I glance at my phone; it’s already two in the morning. I wince. “Tomorrow?”

“I get off early tomorrow. I’m taking some other people to the Pit.”

“I still don’t get why you do that.”

“It’ll make more sense once I’m done with the story.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” I tell him. I look at him and he looks at me. It’s hard to reconcile the Peter I know with the one he’s been telling me about. This one, sitting behind the 7-11 counter, just looks tired.

“You know,” he says after a moment, “you’re more persistent than I thought you would be when I first met you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. When you followed us out there to the fence, I mean, when I found out you weren’t a fed - I thought you’d get scared. Or at least, when you found out you wouldn’t be able to use this in a story, you’d lose interest.”

“Let’s just say that now I’m personally interested.”

“Personally?”

“Sure. Or perhaps ‘invested’ is a better word.”

I can see his eyes narrow. He looks at me appraisingly. “You haven’t been feeling it calling to you, have you?”

“I don’t even know what that would feel like. What the hell does that even mean?”

Peter’s silent for a while. “After the disaster, once I was out and convalescing and everything, I started having these dreams. Almost like lucid dreaming, if you know what that is. The most vivid dreams I’ve ever had, and ones where I could actually control what I was doing. You know how in most dreams, you just sort of do what your subconscious wants you to? Well, in these it was almost like being awake. I’d be in these ordinary situations, I’d be in my house or in the hospital or whatever, walking down the street, and I’d turn a corner or open the door and there would just be the Pit, right there.”

“What, the whole thing?”

“No, no, I mean, I’d open the door and all of a sudden it’d be an alveolar passage or the Organ Trail or something. And I’d feel – I’d feel this pull, almost physical, to go down there, to go into the Pit in these dreams. Like where I was before, it wasn’t right, there was something wrong about it, but when I got to the Pit, it’d be right. It’d be okay.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t just, you know, trauma?”

“I started missing time.”

“Missing time?”

“I’d wake up and it’d be one or two in the afternoon and I’d be standing on the porch having a smoke, fully dressed, staring out across the desert to where the pit ought to be. I was back in Lubbock with my sister at the time and I’d be pointed straight where Gumption would be, I checked it on a map and everything. Like, one moment I’d be asleep having one of those dreams and the next I’d be in the middle of doing something else.”

“Christ.”

“Yeah. So my sister got worried about me. She thought I was getting into drugs, actually, and when I tried to explain to her what was going on she didn’t buy it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I mean, it’s reasonable, right? I don’t really blame her for it. Well, I did at the time but now, looking back on…hindsight is 20/20, you know?”

“I feel that,” I murmur.

“Anyway, it got so bad that she had me committed, and from there I sort of ping-ponged around the system for a while until I got to somebody who’d heard of other people who were having the same trouble, who’d all been involved in the Flesh Pit disaster. He managed to get me transferred to a facility over in Dallas that was handling that issue. It was…”

He trails off. I hold my tongue, though I’m dying to know. He’ll tell me when he’s ready.

“It was rough,” he finishes. “There were a lot of people there and they were all in bad shape. I was still only losing a couple of hours a day but there were people who were losing three, four, five. You could tell because they’d walk around just sort of staring blankly, you could tell they were off somewhere else. You could talk to them and they’d just grunt at you or give you short little one-word answers that usually didn’t make a lot of sense. For me, though, what happened was that sensation of things not feeling right, that got worse. I started feeling that all the time.”

“What exactly does that mean, ‘not feeling right?’ Like, how did that feel?”

“Like, okay. Did you ever see one of those optical illusions where it’s supposed to be a three-dimensional object and then the camera moves and it’s actually two-dimensional and just really stretched out so that from one perspective it looks three-d?”

“Yeah.”

“Like that, kind of, but with everything. I’d get afraid that if I’d move, everything would sort of warp out of shape. And then I started to see it actually happen, just for a moment. Or have you ever been really tired and your eyes started having trouble focusing on moving objects or if you moved your head too quickly or whatever? It was like that but all the time. It’s hard to explain.”

“I think I understand.”

“You can see how that might be concerning. How that might affect you.”

“Yes,” I agree. I start to wonder if I’ve felt like that before, over the past couple of days, but I stamp down on the rising head of paranoia before it can get started.

“Anyway. Once the first couple of people tried to escape they really stepped up their efforts. Then there were the suicides.”

I wish, briefly, that I were still recording.

“Once those started,” Peter continues, “they didn’t know what to do. It’s not like they were really giving us very much freedom to begin with. A bunch of people swallowed their own tongues in their sleep, choked to death that way. I mean, can you imagine the determination it’d take to do that? You’d have to be…you’d have to be crazy.”

“You must have been scared,” I say gently.

“Yeah. So when they had an experimental treatment they wanted to try, I jumped for it.”

“What was it?”

“Some sort of drug, I never knew the name. It was still in trials, I heard. That plus electroconvulsive.”

“Christ.”

“It was rough, but it helped.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Whatever part of me that was still stuck in the Pit and wanting to get back there, that killed it.”

Something in the way he says it makes me shudder. “So that’s it? You’re all better now?”

“I guess. I haven’t had a dream in four years. My imagination’s suffered, I can feel it. You tell me to picture an apple in my head, I can’t do it. I can see a little cartoon apple, maybe, like a scribble.”

“Did your personality change?”

“I guess. My sister said it did. Said I wasn’t as…I dunno. Said I wasn’t ‘me’ any more.”

“Did you feel like you weren’t you?”

“I felt the same. A little less energetic, maybe.”

“Did you resent her?”

“I did at first. When I got an offer from the Containment Company out there, to come back and work in the Pit, I thought about it for a long time but eventually I took it. That’s how I came back here. I was scared to begin with, I thought it might start up again, but it was alright. That and I wanted to just get a little space, a little breathing room. Every now and then I think about trying to explain what happened to her but I don’t think she’d understand.”

“Right.”

“I ended up working for the Company for a while and then me and the Head of Security there, we, ah – we had it out and ever since there’s been a bit of bad blood. I resigned but I couldn’t bring myself to leave the town.”

I think about that for a moment. “You’ve been letting people in for a long time, haven’t you?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “Me and – and the Head of Sec, she knew about it, but when I explained it to her she was willing to turn a blind eye. Eventually when that grew…impossible, I left.”

I think about that pronoun for a moment but I don’t ask. It seems like it’s still a fresh wound and I don’t want to prod.

“Why do you let them in?” I ask.

“If you’re at the point that you’re coming down here and practically climbing the fence trying to get to the Pit, you don’t come back from that,” he says. “I’ve seen the reports, the analysis they’ve done on some of those people. There’s a point of no return. I saw a little glimpse of it myself but I got pulled away from that abyss. You fall in, you don’t come out. At that point they’re dead either way but I think it’s a mercy to let them in, to let them die somewhere that they, you know…that doesn’t cause them the same level of pain to exist in. Or maybe to give them a chance to – find whatever they’re looking for.”

He watches me carefully as he says it, but I nod after a moment. It makes sense, at least to me it does. Of course it relies on assumptions, on the assumption that these people can’t be rehabilitated, that the mind is a fragile thing and once broken can’t be fixed, but aren’t those reasonable assumptions? I realize, thinking to myself, that I don’t blame him, I don’t…I don’t know, feel nervous around him, I don’t feel like he’s killing people… at least not purposely.

If he’s telling me the truth. I look at him; he looks at me. His eyes are sunken but bright. He’s got bags under them but he looks alert, watchful, keen. “Are you telling me the truth?” I ask him, and he smiles, spreads his hands. He has an innocent smile.

“I’m telling you everything,” he says. “It feels good to get it off my chest.”

“Okay,” I tell him, and worry no more.

* * *

We make plans to meet the next day for breakfast, at the little diner a few streets down. It’d looked pretty dead when I’d rolled into town and driven past it but apparently it’s only open until noon. Then I leave the 7-11, the little bell tinkling behind me as I push the door open, and the night air puts its arms around me and I realize just how tired I am.

I blow a breath out. “I have got to stop pushing myself so hard,” I say, and I feel a little twinge of fear in my stomach, because a year ago I wouldn’t have felt like this was even in the same ballpark as ‘pushing myself hard.’

I don’t feel any different, not yet. I don’t feel sick. I suppose I won’t until my immune system deteriorates enough that I’m catching illnesses off of pigeons or something like that. I’d had about fifty tabs worth of frenzied research left on my laptop that I’d impulsively closed when I was packing a few days ago. Now I regret it. I could go into my history, get them back, but I won’t. I already know I won’t.

Ignorance really is bliss. If you can lie to yourself you can say ‘but I didn’t know! Nobody told me!’ and have it be honest. And if it’s honest then it stops being a lie.

I feel like I’m tearing in pieces, a little bit there when I get caught in a doorjamb, a little bit here when someone takes ahold of me and pulls.

Maybe if I make myself empty enough I can just fill myself up with Peter’s story, fill myself up with the Pit, and I won’t have to think.

I smoke a cigarette and then get in the car, drive back to the hotel. I take my clothes off and don’t bother to put any underthings on. I have some night clothes in my bag but I’m too exhausted to bother. Housekeeping’s come by and made the bed so I unmake it, toss the big heavy blanket on the floor, and then I fall in and fall asleep and let no dreams trouble my anxious mind.

* * *

My eyes fly open and then flash over to my watch, and then my lip curls. “I am getting so fucking tired,” I say out loud, “of being woken up by goddam phone calls.”

It’s the hotel phone this time. I don’t recognize the number. I consider letting it ring but then sigh and pick it up. “Hello?” I ask, hoping my voice is aggressively drowsy enough to make whoever is on the other end reconsider.

“Hello, Miss Dzilenski,” says the voice, low, cool, feminine. It sounds familiar. “This is Erica Walken.”

Oh.

“Well,” I say, “you pronounced my name correctly, so I suppose I ought to at least hear you out.”

I can hear her smiling when she speaks. “My grandmother was Polish,” she says. “Doesn’t it mean something like ‘one who comes from the green place?’”

I open my mouth, then shut it again. “Yes,” I say finally. “That’s true. I never learned any Polish but I remember my father telling me that’s what it meant.”

“I’m afraid you might have gotten the wrong impression of me,” she says. I grunt.

“I suppose you could say that.”

“I’m calling to warn you.”

I roll my eyes. “Please,” I say, “it’s way, way too early for the melodrama.”

Erica pauses for a moment. “I don’t know what Peter’s told you about me,” she says, “but you have to realize, the…trips he organizes wouldn’t be possible without cooperation between the two of us.”

“You mean the – “

Erica clears her throat, interrupting me. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I think we cut out for a moment. The phone lines here can be unreliable.”

I stop for a moment and think about that, think about what I might be getting myself into. “Alright,” I say. “I get it. What’s your warning?”

“When you meet him for breakfast, Peter’s going to offer you something.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t accept it.”

“Okay, can you like, go a little more in depth with the –“

The line clicks dead. I look at the receiver for a while before I put it down and walk, still naked, into the bathroom, to piss and bathe, to shave my legs, if I can bring myself to, and to smoke another five cigarettes in the shower again.

* * *

“She said not to accept, huh?”

“Yeah,” I nod. Peter shakes his head. His pancakes are getting cold so I reach over, cut myself a slice of one of them, pull it back over to my plate. He stares at me and I shrug. “What?” I ask. “You’re obviously not going to eat them.”

“Erica and I have a…complicated relationship.”

I put the voice recorder on the table, click it on. Up until now we’ve been making small talk while I’ve been wondering what goes on inside his head, while I’ve been wondering just how much of him the doctors killed in that psychiatric ward four years ago. He certainly seems like a person. He doesn’t seem dull or slow. If he hadn’t told me all that had happened I would never have suspected that there were anything different. Perhaps the worst I’d say was that he was boring. But plenty of people are boring.

“Tell me about the cult,” I say.

“I don’t even think ‘cult’ is really the right word for it. They just get together, have some pseudo-mystical rituals and habits, and then, you know, the whole thing about having to go down to the Pit and stay for a while as an initiation. But basically they think that the Pit is God, or just a god, or just a higher power. You ever go to Al-anon?”

“Alcoholics Anonymous?”

“No, Al-anon. It’s different. Don’t ask me to explain how, I don’t know. Never went myself. I knew a guy who led a group, one time. One of the things they do as part of their process is you have to acknowledge a higher power. Not god necessarily, just a higher power. ‘God as you understand him,’ I think is the phrasing. You could see god in a tornado, or a hurricane, or even something like a snake. If a snake bites you and you don’t get to a hospital, you’re dead. Well, okay, I guess it depends on the kind of snake. You get what I’m saying?”

“Yes. I guess so.”

“I’ve been to a few of their meetings. They have them in the gym of the local high school.”

“There’s a high school?”

“Not much of one, but it’s there. Believe it or not, Gumption isn’t completely dead.”

“Guess I didn’t pass it on the way in.”

“Probably not. It’s on the outskirts of town.”

“Anyway. The meetings.”

“There’s nothing really creepy about them. Just a bunch of people who’ve gone through trauma of some kind and are coping by using the Pit as an example of a higher power. I guess it’s just more tangible than whatever the real Al-anon uses.”

“Really? It’s nothing…” I wave my hand. “Nothing creepy?”

“Really. The only trouble is, they’ve gotten a little…protective of the Pit. We do occasionally get tourists who want to gawk and some determined people occasionally who want to get in. Not the ones who’re compelled to, I mean, people who want to see what it’s like, for the thrill, or because they want to hurt the Pit, damage it or whatever. Lots of motivations. You can understand how a cult like that might feel. They think they’re the real devotees and everyone else is to be regarded with suspicion.”

“So that’s it?”

“Well, there’s also all the weird sex stuff, but I think that’s just because Erica’s into it.”

“What?”

He waves his hand dismissively. “It’s nothing strange, really. They take a field trip down to the ballast bulbs every now and then. They have to be very careful cause it’s so close to the new control center they - the Company - put in there, but I keep track of things for them, coordinate it so they go in and out during a shift change or on a weekend when there’s a skeleton crew. You, uh…”

He trails off and I look at him. His eyes flick up to mine and then away again. “When I told you what ballast was before I could tell you…knew what it does. I don’t know what your experience was but I guess it was something formative. I –“

“I lost my virginity cause of a Coke Heartthrob.”

Something about the way he blushes when I say it makes me want to smile. “Okay. Well, there were studies suggesting that some of the Indian tribes around here a long time ago, the ballast was a pretty important part of their rituals. Fertility, rite of passage, all that stuff. Erica just kind of cribbed off of them, I guess.”

“They knew about the Pit?”

“Oh yeah. There were ritual grounds there when it was discovered that dated back a very long time, least that’s what I heard. Got almost entirely obliterated in the initial excavations. They didn’t care as much about that kind of thing in the 70s.”

“That’s sad.”

“Erica’s of the opinion,” Peter says, “that the exploitation of the Pit is a perversion of the way people used to live with it. She thinks that people used to live in harmony with it, and that turning it into a theme park was…crass. And that Anodyne got what it deserved.”

I think about that for a moment. “She must not really think of the Pit as a god, then,” I reason. “A god you can exploit by definition isn’t one.”

“You’d have to take that up with her.”

“Are they dangerous?”

He thinks about that one for a moment. “I think there are one or two individuals among them who could be, some of the newer crop who really drink the kool-aid. I don’t think Erica would be, though, not personally at least. I think she thinks the Pit can take care of itself, it’s really the newer members who’re the most zealous.”

“Alright. So what’s the offer I’m supposed to be turning down?”

Peter’s mouth quirks up in an irrepressible smile. “Want to come to the Pit tonight?”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Dead serious. I can get you in. The group I’m taking is small, just three other people. One more won’t make a difference. And I can get you back out again.”

I realize that I’ve opened my mouth to say no automatically. I think about it for a moment, then shut my mouth. “You’ve been doing this for how long?”

“Three years. Give or take.”

“Ever gotten caught?”

He shrugs. “If I had, you think I’d be sitting here?”

“What if tonight’s the night, then?”

“I thought you wanted this scoop.”

I laugh at that. “Can I bring my camcorder, then?”

“Sure. Don’t know how useful it’ll be at night, though.”

“It has a night vision mode. Not a very good one but better than nothing.”

“So you’re in?”

This is it, Roan. Last chance to back out. You could get back in your rental car and turn around and drive back to Lubbock, catch a plane home tonight.

“I’m in,” I tell him. He grins at me and I feel for a moment like I’m back in high school, making a plan to do some dumb shit with Joe and Mac and Lou and all the rest. Christ, I haven’t thought about them in ages. I – wait a minute.

“Hey,” I ask, “what about Erica, though?”

“What about her?”

“What’s she going to do if I do go with?”

“Nothing,” Peter tells me. He seems confident enough. “What can she do? Rat us out? Then she and the cult won’t be able to get to the Pit any more. I do more than just lift up a fake rock, you know, I’ve still got a couple of friends on the inside, and they let me know about patrols, shift changes, all that stuff. That’s the reason they can’t do it without me.”

“You really don’t take any money from the people you let in?”

“I don’t take money from the people who’re drawn to it,” he elaborates. “They get in for free. The cult has to pay.”

“Ah,” I say. “That’s your angle.”

“I’m not making a ton of money from it,” he says. “But it’s still a risk, you know, and I really don’t want to take money from the other people I let in.”

“I’m not judging you,” I assure him. “You don’t have to justify yourself to me.”

“I just don’t want to give you the wrong impression.”

“How much do I have to pay, then?”

“What? You don’t have to –“

“I’m serious. Pretend I’m with the cult, or I’m a thrillseeker who managed to convince you to let me in with my feminine wiles and my good looks,” I say, batting my eyelashes at him. I manage, very narrowly, not to feel silly while doing it. He’s looking at me very closely and I realize, perhaps belatedly, that the shirt I wore today does show rather a lot of my meager cleavage. What if…no, forget it. “How much would you charge me? Be honest, no friends and family discount.”

I can see his eyes flick upwards and meet mine. He was staring at them, he must have been. It was only for the briefest of moments but he must have been.

I bite my lip. Stop it, Roan. “How much?” I ask again. He takes a long sip of his coffee. “Maybe seventy-five bucks.”

“Maybe?”

“Price depends on how much of a liability I think you are. You seem pretty solid to me so you get a lower price.”

“Cash only, I assume?”

“Does it look like I carry a card reader?”

“I’ll have to go by an ATM but I’ll have it for tonight. When should I meet you? And where?”

“You don’t have to –“

“If you’re going to take me in there, I’m paying.”

He looks like he’s going to argue with me and I raise my eyebrows at him. “Don’t start,” I warn him, and he puts his hands up and relents.

I order another plate of eggs and while we’re waiting he tells me where and when to meet him. I can feel a little ratty knot of excitement in my belly, and despite everything, despite how I’ve been feeling the past couple of days, I grin at him like I can’t contain myself.

“You look excited,” he observes.

“I am excited,” I tell him. “Do you have enough time to finish your story?”

He checks his watch, glances at my voice recorder. “Did you bring enough memory cards this time?”

“I’ve got plenty.”

So he tells me.

* * *

“Mak, it isn’t your fault,” Peter tells her, and though he can’t see, Makado rolls her eyes at him, still hunched over on the ground. She curls upright, wipes her eyes, sniffs loudly. Tyler and Fitzroy still look like they’re in shock.

“I know it isn’t my fault,” she says softly. “I’m not sad, I’m pissed. Okay, yeah, I’m sad, but I’m more pissed than sad.”

Peter looks at her, at the long wet streaks still there on her cheeks, at her wide eyes, reddened from crying. He watches her blush and as she starts to say something, starts to turn away and wipe at her cheeks again, he reaches out to her and folds her into his arms and after a moment she puts her arms around him as well and breathes there against his chest. He can feel her take a long, shuddering breath and blow it out, and then her fingernails curl inwards and dig at his back lightly, sending a delicious tingle up his spine, even though he tries to will it away, tries to tell himself that now isn’t the time.

He feels Makado’s lips come together and press a soft kiss into the space just between his pectorals and his heart makes a funny soaring motion like it’s going to leap out of his chest. He looks down at Makado and she looks up at him. “Let’s go back down and kill that fucking thing,” she says.

“Mak, no.”

“You and me could do it,” she breathes. There is a fire in her eyes that he’s never seen before, not even the time when she locked that rapist out in the depths of the Pit and let him disappear. There’s something different, something about Eileen that’s making her blood boil and choke and singe her as it throbs through her veins. “We could go down to the LVC, get one of those big slug guns, get back into Gastro –“

“Gastro’s a wreck,” Peter tells her. “That copepod is probably long gone by now. And even if it wasn’t, how would we be able to tell it was the same one?”

“It’ll have scoring on its exoskeleton, from the acid. It’ll look mottled.”

“And what about them?” he asks, nodding to Tyler and Fitzroy. He hasn’t seen Fitzroy crying but his eyes are red, so he must have been. Tyler’s lip keeps trembling. Makado looks over at them and as Peter watches he can see the tears come rising again and watches as she swallows them back down. “We have to get them out, Mak,” he tells her, reaching down and, greatly daring, taking her hand in his. Her hand is small and warm and soft, and he holds it delicately, as though it were a butterfly he’d caught by the wing and instead of panicking and fluttering madly to get away, it had held still and let him examine it. Then Makado grins at him through her tears and knots her fingers in his, running her thumb along the fleshy heel of his palm in a series of quick circles before she breaks from him, leaving him a little dazed and smelling of peaches. She reaches out and thumps her fist into Peter’s chest.

“You’re awful,” she tells him.

“Me?”

“Yes,” she says. “I’m trying to feel sad and angry, and you’re making that difficult.”

“That’s what you keep me around for.”

“Alright,” she says. “We’ll get them out first, and then come back down.”

“Mak…”

“I know,” she says, making a face. “I promised these kids I would get them out. What about Eileen?”

“You cannot blame yourself for that.”

“I don’t, I blame the copepod.”

“And killing it is going to make things even?”

Makado is silent for a long time. “No,” she says finally. “But it’ll make me feel better.”

“Mak, please.”

She looks at him again, her gaze oddly calculating, and then, after what feels like forever, smiles. “Okay,” she says.

* * *

Getting out is easier than Peter had thought it would be. Bronchial is practically deserted; very few creatures live up here, and the passageways are twisting and confusing, making it a seldom-visited spot for tourists, meaning the main traffic was mostly rangers taking shortcuts and maintenance crews doing spot work. The central passageway, though, a relic of the old Anodyne days of the 70s, was their ticket out – a vast bloody hallway carving through the twisting alveolar passages of the Pit’s enormous lungs, without any regard for the damage it might have been doing to the Pit, large enough to drive a utility vehicle down and long enough to span almost the entirety of the Park’s sizable width. There had long been talks about closing the passageway and removing its supports and retaining stents and allowing the Pit to heal, but after a series of studies in the late 90s, Anodyne decided to keep the passage open, as the Pit had already grown around it and over it, covering the hallway in a living tube of flesh that flexed and squeezed with the Pit’s labored breathing.

The Pit’s lungs don’t work like those of a mammal. Some of the principles are the same – maximum surface area for maximum oxygen absorption. But just like the Pit’s circulatory system, the lungs draw in a constant influx of air, and expel a constant outflow of carbon dioxide and other waste chemicals – no regular pulse of breathing. More efficient that way, or so a scientist had told Peter at some point. The air comes in, through the gullet and through other smaller orifices dotted here and there across the Texas plains, and the air vents out likewise through other orifices entirely. And one of these orifices, a small, puckered, fleshy hole, protruding through meters of rock and earth, clenching down to roughly eight feet in diameter at its smallest, is located just on the other side of what most tourists consider to be the Pit – the low sloping depression in the earth with the excavated surface of the Permian Basin Superorganism laid bare to the sun, with the vast cabled dilating paddles holding it open, with the gondola lift from the Upper Visitor Center to the elevator in the center of the Gullet, and from there down to the Lower Visitor Center.

It takes them an agonizing half-hour in the bronchial canals, following barely-legible signs that were never really intended to be used. The breathing orifice was nominally listed as an emergency exit but as a cost-cutting measure, it was never actually used as one. That means no running lights, no flooring or stents, just plain raw Pit tissue and Makado’s flashlight beam passing over wet, pale, veined bronchial folds. It takes them an agonizing half-hour, pausing every few minutes to wait for the breeze, make sure it’s still blowing in the direction they’re going, doubling back and forth and over again, pressing in and out gently as though the Pit were sucking at them, trying to keep them inside, but they make it. Makado bursts out of the orifice as though she were never happier to see a night sky and fresh air, pulling Peter out after her, tugging him by the arm as though she wants to pull it from its socket. He clambers, stumbling, out of the orifice, and then realizes that Makado has dropped his hand and is standing, mouth agape, fingers twined in the chain-link fence around the breathing hole, staring down at the chaos below them.

The Upper Visitor Center has been cracked open and the entire western half of it has collapsed into a pile of rubble. Helicopters, at least a dozen, are circling above, and a convoy of military and police vehicles is still streaming into the park; from their vantage point Peter can see the line stretching out along the main road for at least a mile. They can smell the stench of gastric ejecta, sharp and acrid, they can see great green smears of it along with vast piles of off-white pale chyma, frilled and bulbous and disgusting, scattered here and there as though they’d been dropped from the sky.

Amid the piles and the streaming swarms of paramedics and rangers and police and National Guard troopers, scurrying back and forth on nameless errands amid the sheer destruction of the surface, Peter can make out three enormous blobs of flesh, recessed and raw and red and rugose, mounds as enormous as buildings, clawed and jawed and multilegged and chitinous, their thoraxes blown open from forty-mill fire. People are taking photographs, loading bodies onto stretchers, people are performing CPR, guests are wandering around, dazed and confused, until someone in some sort of uniform collars them and pushes them towards one of the great hospital tents they’ve set up here and there, their white cloth shining like beacons in the moonlight.

Peter looks at Makado and she looks at Peter, and then she reaches out and takes his hand, and they open the gate in the fence and make their way down amid the chaos towards the nearest hospital tent.

* * *

Peter’s seen a dozen people he knows but they’ve all looked busy and, all things considered, it doesn’t look like there’s any sort of roll call or place to check in, so he’s just let them rush past on whatever errands they’re set to do. He saw Bruce getting wheeled past in a stretcher, acid burns down his side, screaming; he saw a guest, a girl, probably about the same age as Eileen, pale as a ghost, staring into nothing while a paramedic zipped her into a body bag. All these visions and more flicker past like something out of a dream. He loses hold of Makado’s hand at some point, but he doesn’t notice; everywhere he looks he sees something awful so he stops looking. He fixes his eyes on the field hospital and puts his arms around Fitzroy and Tyler’s shoulders and keeps them with him, holds them tight so they don’t get buffeted away from him in the crowd.

When they’re almost there he turns. “Hey, Mak,” he starts, and then he stops.

Makado isn’t behind them. Fitzroy and Tyler turn with him and Peter can feel his heart thumping in his chest and he realizes he’s afraid. He cranes his neck and looks for her but he can’t see her anywhere, but there are so many people and she’s short enough that he wouldn’t be able to to begin with. Fitzroy looks at Tyler and then nudges Peter. “We’re just going to go get checked out at the hospital,” he says. Peter glances over at them, and then over at the hospital. Fitzroy takes Tyler and walks away, walks towards the tent. Before they make it to the entrance, they turn back. Peter watches Tyler’s mouth move, sees him mouth the words ‘thank you.’ Fitzroy waves and Peter waves back, and then a man in a National Guard uniform leans in and blocks the kids from view, and then ushers them into the hospital, and Peter is alone.

When he turns back around he looks out, past the crowd, and up along the hilly expanse they’d come from. A helicopter whizzes by, its spotlight drawing a bright trace along the ground, and Peter sees someone in a dirty ranger uniform climbing back up the hill, no helmet covering her curly brown hair, still pulled back in a ponytail, her gloves held between her teeth as she reaches up barehanded to steady herself on the face of the hill above her.

When Peter finally makes it back there he finds the gate to the breathing orifice ajar, and no trace of Makado. He shakes his head and, with one final glance back down at the chaos below, plunges back into the Pit, hoping he hasn’t let her get too much of a head start.

Continue with Part 8

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#mystery flesh pit #novel #fiction #writing #caving #disaster #michael crichton #romance #cults

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ariainstars · 4 years

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Rey Palpatine, Kylo Ren or Ben Solo: Who’s Got the Button?

Warning: longer post.

Who Is Rey?

Sigh. I can’t believe I was this naïve. Really, I can’t.

There are narrative parallels between The Force Awakens and A New Hope, of course. But apart from desert planet and droid, the parallels between Rey and Luke, which many fans took for a sign that she might be a secret daughter of his, are few.

Rey is a slave on a desert planet who collects and repairs spare parts. Her parents were nobodies. She doesn’t want to leave because it would make her lose the tenuous link she has with her family.

She saves someone she just met in a brave, crazy stunt where she proves that she is a very good pilot even with hardly any training.

She meets a kind elderly man who tells her about the Force. He is a father figure for her because she doesn’t have one, but he gets killed about a day after she met him.

She had barely known about the Jedi but finds out she has talent in the Force, so instead of going home she is sent to train with someone whom she doesn’t know and who is not very willing to do so, and not capable of being a father figure for her either.

This is Anakin to a T! And Anakin ended up being the bad guy in the end. I’m sure that watching the PT, no one who was unfamiliar with the saga would have believed he would be.

It is not a coincidence that Ben’s light sabre looked like a cross and Rey’s like a fork: that was another dead giveaway announcing that he would be the victim in this story, and she the perpetrator.

„Show me again the power of the darkness, and I will let nothing stand in our way. Show me, grandfather, and I will finish what you started.” Kylo Ren in The Force Awakens

Ben and Rey are a dyad, meaning that in one way or another, their destinies parallel one another. It was he who wanted to “finish what his grandfather started”: but it was she who actually finished what her grandfather had started. Jedi and Skywalker family are extinct; Finn may or may not be Force-sensitive, but he’s not trained. All of this leaves Rey solely in charge. And everybody cheers her, the way Palpatine was cheered when he ended the clone wars. But the dirty work had been done by Anakin; same goes for his grandson.

It all fits together too well: Rey was always meant to turn out evil, while the “bad guy” in truth was the hero all along. If you watch the Sequel Trilogy again and feel annoyed by their development, try to look at it from this perspective.

“Now, fulfill your destiny and take your father’s place at my side!” Palpatine in Return of the Jedi

Palpatine always needed someone young and fresh by his side to give him strength; which could be explained by the fact, finally addressed in The Rise of Skywalker, that he is some kind of clone. Not being capable of living on his own, he wanted Rey to kill him so that all of the darkness inside him would possess her, and he managed. Now he is reborn, and the young woman stepping into his shoes believes that the worst is behind her. The truth is that the Enemy is now an inherent part of her.

The good news is that by this time, Rey has also made the experience of unconditional love: Kylo / Ben saw her at her worst, but he still cared about her. Some viewers thought that Rey would be the key to Ben’s redemption, but honestly: that story had already been told with Luke and his father. The alleged bad guy saving the alleged heroine from herself is a new message in Star Wars; a message so powerful that I still didn’t get over it.

The Heir of Sheev Palpatine

Palpatine’s role in the saga tends to be downplayed although he is the mastermind behind it all: in the PT he is literally one of the first characters we see. It is easy to say that he was the devil incarnate who wanted absolute power - he also was a sly and influential politician, and after the clone wars he did bring peace to the galaxy reuniting the Republic and the separatists under the roof of the Empire. Anakin and his heirs could not make up for his sins because they were busy with their own and the Jedi’s.

As the audience, we want to see our heroes happy; yet their failures and unhappiness are often necessary.

Anakin and Padmé had to die so their children could grow up the way they did, two idealistic souls untainted by the Jedi’s sins.

Leia had to lose Alderaan, else the princess would hardly have had a chance to marry the scoundrel.

Luke had to lose his home with his uncle and aunt, else he wouldn’t have agreed to come with Obi-Wan in the first place; and he had to go through the trauma with his father’s revelation to become the wise and strong hero of Return of the Jedi.

And sad as it is, Ben had to spend almost all of his life in a dark place. The few moments of understanding he had with Rey in TLJ were probably the few rays of lights in his whole adult life; no wonder he fell so deeply for her that he would literally have done anything for her; he had to become a besotted idiot who saved the girl he loved although she had literally killed him and usurped his whole heritage.

Meaning: Rey was always meant to take over.

This is not only the story of the Skywalker family, it’s also the story of a galaxy in desperate want of balance and peace. And if you want to tell how that is accomplished, you can’t erase Palpatine from the equation. Palpatine is a “clone”, i.e. he is not wholly human; which makes him a parallel to Anakin who ostensibly had been generated without a father. Rey, flawed as she is, is a young woman of flesh and blood.

The Prequel Trilogy humanized Darth Vader; the Sequel Trilogy did the same with Palpatine. Few viewers expected this because one hardly gets interested in the villain’s bloodline. Vader’s portrayal as Anakin Skywalker in the prequels was also largely disliked because the young man was everything but cold and sardonic like the villain he became later. And as many viewers did not like to see “their” Darth Vader humanized (portrayed as a good little boy and then an ardent, stormy young man), now we don’t like Palpatine coming back in form of a young woman, who for sure is deeply flawed but not by far the monster he was. Palpatine always wanted to use Anakin’s, the Chosen One’s, power for himself; and with his final plan he managed to blend his heritage with the soul of the last Skywalker scion.

The Heir of Anakin Skywalker

Vader had to become Palpatine’s ally and to serve him loyally to make the old devil let his guard down enough for him to kill him at last, just like Kylo had to fool Snoke that he was still on his side while in the Throne Room he was silently plotting his demise. Anakin always was the hero of the Skywalker saga, a fact that is largely overlooked. His son pushed him to do the right thing, but the decision was his own, and he paid with his life.

Many fans of the Original Trilogy and also of the prequels dislike the sequels heartily because to them it “retconned” or “cancelled” what had happened before. Which is not quite true; the original heroes did find their happy ending. We witnessed what came after that, which irritates us because it’s something we usually never face once the credits roll or the book covers are closed. That does not mean that the heroes’ accomplishments are obliterated.

My guess: these fans might be right and the Skywalker saga is indeed at its end with Return of the Jedi. The saga was Anakin Skywalker’s story, and he died.

What did not die was his heritage - his sins, his excruciating pain, but also his heroism, and his prophecy as the one who would “bring Balance to the Force.” The mistake of his heirs was having wanted to go back to what once had been. Their links to the past were tenuous, e.g. we never learn how Luke came to know what had made the Jedi fail (the content of his second lesson to Rey); in any case, he must have learned it only after the fall of his own temple, in order to explain why he wanted to give up on the Jedi. Obi-Wan never told about his own faults, the clone wars, the Republic, the creation of Darth Vader; most importantly, he never mentioned to Luke that his father actually was the Chosen One, and that the Force wants Balance. It is not surprising that Luke and his friends could not build lasting peace, not knowing what had caused the conflicts. They had to fail; “failure is the greatest teacher” means that only from understanding and moving away from those failures the galaxy will (hopefully) finally learn to avoid repeating the Empire, the First Order, the Final Order etc. over and over again.

I also did not like very much what the sequels did to the heroes of the original trilogy, honestly. But had they survived, found together again, and or proven more heroic and less flawed than they were this time around, the general audience would never have stopped pestering the studios with wanting more of Han, Luke and Leia. And that’s not how it’s supposed to be. They’ve done their time; they had their happy ending. They had their hero’s journey. They ended the Empire the way they wanted, their achievements were completed. It is up to the next generation to learn from the past and build something new and better. We, in our everyday life, also have to bring the people we once looked up to (parents, teachers, mentors etc.) down from their pedestal and to acknowledge the good they did but also see their failures and limitations, if we ever want to get on with our own lives.

In this light, the Sequel Trilogy is indeed not part of Anakin Skywalker’ story. If Ben is brought back and stands good on his promise of finishing the Chosen One’s work, then it will be a new saga - his. Not his grandfather’s any more.

Though a Palpatine, I believe Rey does have the potential for finding balance and unite the galaxy. If Ben, her dyad, comes back to do his part, the galaxy will be again under the rule of two powerful Force users the way it was when the OT begin; but this time they need a chance on something united and positive.

Balance At Last?

The authors repeatedly stated that the sequels would be “very much like the prequels”: not incidentally. The prequels also were the story of a usurpation, where at the end everything that was good seemed forgotten or turned into the hand of the wrong person.

This sheds an interesting light on the next trilogy: by this logic, it ought to mirror the original trilogy.

Whatever you can say about the Star Wars saga, it never repeated itself. It has recurring themes, which do not run in circles but in spirals; like in any family, or political system, the lessons not learned always demand their price.

All of this is not to say that I like this ending. The Rise of Skywalker mostly is so dissatisfying because being Episode IX it ought to have been a definite ending, but it does not feel like an end. It feels more like a new beginning, or an interruption of a story that was largely not yet explored. The new heroes have wrapped up the past, but what about the galaxy’s future? A future that has maybe already begun with the Mandalorian’s mysterious adopted Child, who symbolizes faith where Yoda was all about (avoiding) fear?

Rey and Baby Yoda both are two younger and more innocent versions of someone we are very familiar with; and they are both paired off with someone who becomes a redeemed version of a familiar villain - Rey with Kylo Ren / Ben Solo, who is reminiscent of Darth Vader, and the Child with the Mandalorian, reminiscent of Boba Fett. Also, the Child knows Force healing, the way Rey does.

It seems to me that this must be announcing a continuation that fits to it all and brings the loose strands together. If the Force is at work, then it knows what it’s doing.

Luke was always one to give people a second chance: in A New Hope, we see him befriend literally anyone who is willing to go along. Star Wars is all about getting another chance. Are we really supposed to believe that Ben Solo is gone forever, and worse, that he deserved no better than dying after sacrificing himself for the girl he loved? Did Luke Skywalker in person come to Crait, sacrificing his life in the process, to give his nephew a second chance only for him to disappear never to be seen again?

Ben and Rey being a dyad means that they mirror one another, in every way: what happened to one will happen to the other too, eventually. The iconic “You’re not alone” is so powerful because it comes from a person who knows damn well what loneliness means. If Rey finished what her grandfather started, then so must he. When the Republic fell everybody also believed Anakin to be dead; he wasn’t. and when Han left Luke and Leia towards the end of A New Hope, they did not count on him coming back; but he did.

The next trilogy is not yet announced but it has been known for years that it’s in the cards; thankfully it’s in the hands of Rian Johnson, who already proved that he can tell a masterful Star Wars story; and who reintroduced the subject of Balance again. I still hope that this image was a foreshadowing, not an empty promise.

The ST doesn’t really make sense - not yet. That doesn’t mean it won’t make sense when the rest of Rian’s story is told.

“Hope is like the sun… If you only believe in it when you see it, you will never make it through the night”. Let’s keep our hopes up, fellow Reylos and ST fans. 😉

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blueroseblaze · 4 years

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Wreck: Chapter 5

You were practically bouncing in your seat with excitement as Nero pushed your wheelchair down the hospital corridors towards the front entrance. Your arm rested in its sling, and your leg was propped up in front of you in your chair, making Nero have to navigate the halls more carefully as to not bump you into anything and risk further damage. On your lap rested the stuffed ‘get well soon’ bear that Patty had gotten for you during your stay.

You looked around happily smiling at the nurses that you passed by, one of them jokingly telling you, “I mean this in the best possible way, but I hope I never see you again.”

Your time spent in the hospital was long and grueling and painful, but your friends and the nurses helped you through it. You were thankful to have so many supportive people around you helping you through your trauma. They had made many visits throughout your time, short but sweet. They all led busy lives and couldn’t spend much time with you but that they took the time when they could to show up just to say hi and check on you was enough. And even then, you still had Nero who had all but physically attached himself to you.

You soon reached the front of the hospital, you looked at the big glass doors and windows, so close to freedom. Well, as free as you could be in a wheelchair for the next six weeks. Nero had parked you near the doors, telling you he was going to check with the front desk to make sure everything was good to go. You nodded at him and watched him walk away. You were eager to go home, your duration in the hospital has been extended because of your collapsed lung. The doctor reasoned that since your ribs were still broken it would be safer to let your lung fully heal before leaving the hospital.

You took in a deep breath, the soreness in your chest not nearly as bad as it had been thanks to the fresh pain meds you had taken earlier. You squeezed the bears arm to resist the little bit of pain that you felt.

You closed your eyes, and let your thoughts wander away from your pain. You focused on home. You own bed -probably messy and unmade-, the worn out couch in the living room in front of the TV where you shared many movie nights with Nico and Nero, the subtle smell of tobacco wafting from the garage whenever Nico forgot to close the door, even the leaky faucet in the kitchen sounded inviting now.

You felt a gentle hand rest on your shoulder, jogging you out of your thoughts. You looked up and saw Nero smiling down at you, no doubt as happy as you were to be out of this place, no mater how nice the staff were. He gave your shoulder a light squeeze and moved his hand to lightly caress your back before returning to his previous spot behind you to continue pushing.

“Everything good?” you asked, craning your neck to look at him.

“Everything’s great,” he responded, his voice laced with a genuine contentment, “We’re just missing one thing.”

“And what’s that?” you asked inquisitively.

“Our ride home.”

On cue you heard the rumble of a massive vehicle pull up to the front drive of the building. You turned your head away from Nero and through the sliding automatic doors you saw the all too familiar tan van pull to a stop.

The van was immaculate, as good as new, no visible damage to speak of. The passenger side was facing you and you saw the door was perfectly intact. No gashes through the frame, no broken window, no remnants of what had happened.

When the van had stopped you and Nero watched as Nico climbed out and made her way around the front and through the hospital doors. You felt a smile pull at your lips. It felt like forever since you last seen her. You had spoken to her on the phone, but this was the first time you had actually seen her since the accident. And you were so thankful to see it was the exact same Nico you knew. She was sporting her normal attire, ink on full display, red framed glasses resting on her freckled nose and her big hair puffed up as per usual. You were glad to see her put together after the description Nero had given you.

She walked up to you both, that big toothy smile she wore shining through, the bullet belts on her boots jingled as she approached you.

As if she forgot Nero even existed, she stopped in front of you, bent down, and wrapped her arms around you. As tightly as she could muster without causing you harm. You wrapped your free arm around her back held her close, noting the scent of her shampoo melding with her usual sent of oil, cigarettes, and iron. The hug lasted for quite a while until she eventually pulled away, smiling down at you.

“It’s good to see you, darlin,” she said, “How you feeling?”

“It’s so good to see you too Nico. And I’m feeling as good as I can,” you replied.

“That’s good.”

Nico finally greeted Nero, throwing a few insults and expletives his way. Nero just shrugged them off happy that at least Nico was a little bit back to normal.

“Well what are we waiting for?” you asked looking between Nico and Nero, “Let’s go home.”

“Yeah,” Nero responded, “Let’s go home.”

After a few more goodbyes to the hospital staff, you three made your way towards the door. Nero continued pushing your chair as Nico kept pace beside you.

The closer you got to the van, despite your eagerness to go home, you felt a sense of dread pool into your stomach. As Nero pushed your chair towards the vehicle you noticed your uninjured leg twitch and bounce anxiously. Nico kept your attention by talking to you, but you couldn’t shake the feeling of uncertainty and anxiety that crept up your nerves.

Nero parked your chair beside the side door of the van and opened it as Nico walked around back to the driver’s side door. The same sense of dread was getting stronger and stronger, but you kept the excited smile on your face s not to worry them.

Then Nero asked, “You ready?”

You looked to him and nodded, your grip on the bear in your lap turning into a vice.

Nero stepped to you, wrapping his arm around your back underneath you free arm, his other arm snaked underneath your leg as he effortlessly lifted you from your chair. Your left hand gripped his shoulder as he cradled you, sidestepping through the narrow threshold of the van door.

You felt your breath hitch as you looked around the inside of the van, all the loose knickknacks thrown about the carpeted floor, the worn leather couch and the small dining table nearby. It should have invoked a familiar homey feel, but you just couldn’t shake the dread in your gut. You noticed the van was surprisingly clean, even Nico’s familiar sent of tobacco was shockingly subtle compared to when you had last set foot in the van. Her workstation was uncharacteristically organized, and the jukebox seemed to actually be functioning.

Nero gently walked over to the leather couch and gingerly placed you on it, propping your leg up and leaning you against the arm, like he had been in your hospital room. He grabbed a random pillow from the other side and placed it behind you back.

“You okay?” he asked as he adjusted the pillow, fluffing it a bit before you relaxed against it.

“Yeah,” you said, less confidently than you intended.

“Okay. I’ll make sure it’s a smooth ride. If you need anything, I’m right over there.”

He subtly gestured to the driver and passenger seats. You nodded trying to swallow the lump in your throat. He walked away and your eyes lingered on him for a moment longer as he spoke quietly to Nico before she started up the engine.

As the van shook to life you felt your whole-body tense, your muscles tightened, and your breath caught in your throat. Your nails dug into the couch and your bear and you tried to breathe again. You inhaled and exhaled yet you still felt like your lungs were empty, slowly collapsing and suffocating you. You couldn’t stop your body from constricting around your middle, your muscles tensing and cramping as you strained in your seat. You tried your best to calm down, not wanting to worry Nero or Nico. You stole a glance over your shoulder towards the two of them, to see if they noticed you. You must have been extremely subtle, because neither turned. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes and your teeth were tightly clenched, nearly to the point they felt like they would break.

Every pothole Nico wasn’t able to evade shook the entire van, the sound of the vehicle jostling covering up your panicked gasps. You wanted to get off, you didn’t care where, you would hobble the rest of the way home. You just wanted off this ride.

You didn’t even realize the van had come to a complete stop. Your heart still fluttered rapidly in your chest and your lungs still struggled to breath. But you soon felt the stillness of the van, and a pair of strong arms wrapping around you.

“Hey, hey, hey,” a soft voice cut through your panic, “It’s okay, we stopped. We’re home.”

You blinked through your tears, still desperately trying to catch your breath.

“Breathe slowly,” Nero said, “In and out, in and out. Nice and slow. You’re safe.”

You managed to get your breathing under control. You followed Nero’s instructions and you could feel his arms tighten around you as your chest filled with air. You were still scared. Your mind still wracked with sounds of scraping metal and screeching tires. It was deafening in your head.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I should have been with you back here, I wasn’t thinking.”

“I-it’s okay,” you stuttered as you continued your slow breaths.

“Let’s get you out of here,” Nero said as his arms moved from around you to under you. He effortlessly lifted you from the tattered leather couch and gently maneuvered you out of the van. The sunlight immediately warmed your skin, and you had never been so grateful to breathe in city air.

“We’ll get you situated and then we’ll go from there,” he said as he followed Nico to your front door.

#dmc #devil may cry #dmc 5 #devil may cry 5 #nero x reader #dmc nero x reader #reader insert #dmc nero #dmc nico #dmc 5 nero #dmc fanfic #dmc fanfiction #devil may cry fanfic #devil may cry fanfiction #my writing #my fanfic #my post

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seoulsister98 · 4 years

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Dissonance (Ch.1) | jjk (m)

⭄ Pairing: Jungkook x OC

⭄ Genre: Superhero!au / Enemies-to-lovers

⭄ Warnings: explicit language, minor character death, mentions of blood, mentions of violence

⭄ Word Count: 2,955

⭄ Disclaimer: Hi, everyone! This is my first ever attempt at writing a BTS fanfic so please be nice. I’ll probably continue the series even if this doesn’t get many likes. I wrote this based off a dream I had, but it is also inspired by X-Men and the show The Boys. Enjoy! :)

Mutants have been living among humans since the dawn of time. Across all cultures, religions and legends, mutants were seen as gods and miracle-workers. Overall mutants were viewed as benign, altruistic beings, gifted with special abilities. However, in this modern social and political climate, the world now perceives mutants in conflicting ways. Some people feel entitled to their gifts, given to mutants through the alterations in their DNA. They expect mutants to use their powers for good and to protect human-kind from the dangers of the world. However, others consider mutants freaks of nature and even menaces to society. Political leaders spew mutant versus human rhetoric, only fueling the hatred that humans feel towards mutant-kind. This ideology is derived from fear of the unknown. Although most mutants are capable of killing humans, most of them wish to pursue normal lives. Like getting an education, finding a career, blending into the crowd. Most of them. Until recently…

Mutants often face discrimination and even violence from humans because of their fear-derived convictions. This has led to the formation of radical mutant groups, rallying up their bloody masses and promoting the belief that mutants are far superior to humans and should be treated as such. The government has deemed these groups as terrorists and a threat to the general public. Because of the immeasurable powers some mutants possess, human strength nor human weaponry stand a chance to eliminate this threat. With this in mind, the government has initiated a military-trained task force called the Mutant Special-Ops (MSO). They are given mutant-related assignments that would otherwise go unchecked. Government collaboration with mutants is very controversial in the media. Some believe mutants have a duty to fight the bad guys while some think all mutants are inherently evil, and will turn against mankind.

---

☽ Bangtan City. District 7 Railway. 1:42a.m.☾

Nara. ID number 5407. Telekinesis. These were the only three things listed on her MSO portfolio along with the red letter ‘M’ in the corner, signifying her mutant status. She never understood the need for this distinction, as if the word ‘telekinesis’ didn’t give away what she was. She also couldn’t wrap her mind around what had become of her life. It felt like yesterday that she was just 17 years old, disowned by her family, homeless, with no prospects when a government official had approached her. A sleek, black car pulled up beside her as she walked along the sidewalk. The back, tinted window was rolled down. A man wearing a suit peered at her over his sunglasses. “Get in,” he had said. Wanting no trouble with the law, Nara cautiously entered the vehicle. She pressed herself against the leather seat across from him, attempting to put as much space between her and the man, and stared at him warily. “Don’t worry. You’re not in trouble,” he said with a slight smile. Knowing how mutants were systematically killed by law enforcement, Nara still felt doubtful about the man’s intentions. “What is it that you want from me then?” she asked. The man’s smile grew wider, “I have a proposition for you.”

That day had changed Nara’s life for the better. Along with the rigorous 4-year military training and the scientific experiments she had undergone, she had also been given a home, a family, and a purpose in life. Now she sat beside two of her fellow teammates, Jimin and Taehyung, several feet away from the city’s train tracks. It was very dark out sans the lights illuminating the track. Nara looked up at the starless sky; the city lights swallowing up their light. A cool breeze lifted Nara’s midnight hair off her shoulders and she relished in the feeling. Although she had been assigned missions countless times, she still felt on edge.

Taehyung sighed and glanced at his cellphone again for the nth time that evening. “My patience is wearing thin. This train was supposed to be here 10 minutes ago,” he said in annoyance and slipped his phone back into his pocket. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and stared off towards the tracks in the direction the train was supposedly arriving from. Jimin placed a hat over his head in order to cover his silver blue hair, a phenotypic mutation that came along with his powers. Although it wasn’t too strange to see a younger man with unnaturally colored hair in the city, the team was required to look as ordinary as possible. “Complaining about it isn’t going to make the train come any faster, Tae. Besides, where do any of us have to be right now?” Jimin asked. Taehyung shrugged and smirked, “I was hoping we could grab drinks after our mission. Maybe enjoy a night for once.” They were about to kill a man, a fellow mutant, and Taehyung was thinking about grabbing drinks as if they worked in some stuffy office all day. With each completed task, these things became easier and easier to do. The only solace they shared was that all of this was for the good of humanity and the rest of the mutants who didn’t want a bad rep because of a few sour apples.

Nara placed her brown color contacts over her violet eyes. She glanced over at Taehyung who was sporting his signature pedestrian garb, all black clothes topped off with a leather jacket. Mutants often exhibit physical abnormalities like Jimin with his natural blue hair and Nara’s violet eyes. Taehyung, however, was blessed with black hair and brown eyes, making it easy for him to pass as human. He never needed a disguise while on missions or in life for that matter. “Let’s go over the mission one more time,” said Jimin, pulling up the file on his phone. “Target is on board a District 7 high-speed train heading east-bound towards Bangtan City to meet with the mutant terrorist group: Supremus. Target is mutant, but powers are unknown so execute the mission with caution. Target is in possession of top-secret information disclosed in a briefcase. Assassinate the target and retrieve the briefcase without any human casualties. Dispose of the body.” Jimin slips his phone back into his pocket. “Easy enough,” Taehyung said nonchalantly.

The rumble of the approaching train pulled them out of their thoughts, “It’s here.” Taehyung groaned as he stood, “About time.” Jimin and Nara stood as well and they stealthily made their way towards the train. As they approached, the wind from the speed of the train whipped their hair and clothes, making Nara wince. “Which car is he in?” Jimin asked nonchalantly as he began to stretch his limbs. “According to Namjoon, he should be in car sixteen,” Nara replied. Taehyung groaned again, “When is Yoongi gonna stop this train?” Yoongi, the MSO’s hacker and shapeshifter, was tasked to hack the high-speed train’s operating system in order to stop the train instead of letting it take its intended route. A few seconds later the train came to a gradual halt. “We shouldn’t enter car sixteen immediately. We should enter from the back, it’ll give us enough time for a distraction,” Nara said. Jimin nodded in agreement. Taehyung sighed, “We’re just wasting more time by doing this! Why can’t we just kill this guy and get it over with?” Jimin nudged him and gave him a look which seemed to silence him.

Nara approached one of the back cars, most likely empty due to the time of night. She raised her hand towards the train door. Using her power of telekinesis, she forced the door open and stepped inside. Jimin and Taehyung followed closely behind. “How’d you three get on here?” The three whipped their heads around to face a man in a uniform, most likely someone who worked on the train. Dammit, Nara thought to herself. She only considered the possibility of passengers seeing them, not an employee. However, slip ups such as this were easily fixed by Taehyung, possessing the power of memory manipulation. He approached the man and waved his hand in front of the man’s eyes, in a calm voice he said, “You never saw us here. Continue with what you were doing.” The man’s eyes seemed to glaze over as he nodded and turned away from us. Taehyung turned around and smirked at us, “Still got it.” Nara rolled her eyes, “Get serious, Tae. That could’ve blown this whole operation.” Taehyun tsked at her and shook his head, “You have such little faith in me.” Rather than contributing to their bickering, Jimin began making his way towards the sliding doors, separating them from the other cars. Nara and Taehyung followed behind as they all made their way towards car sixteen.

The team finally came upon several confused passengers. Jimin, feigning concern, asked a couple why the train had suddenly stopped. “I don’t know, but someone came back here and told us it would start running again shortly.” They’re window of opportunity was narrowing. “We need a distraction,” Nara whispered to the others. “I have an idea,” Jimin replied, “but let’s get closer to our target.” They continued walking and slipped into car sixteen. Nara scanned the area and noticed a man, sitting by himself, holding a briefcase. He seemed inconspicuous enough, passed as human, except for the gills he was attempting to hide under his shirt collar. He could have the ability to manipulate water or even the ability to swim at inhuman speeds. Either way, he was potentially dangerous and the team needed to execute this perfectly. “Get on with this grand plan of yours Jimin, we don’t have much time,” Taehyung urged. Jimin glanced at Nara, “You got this?” She nodded. Jimin sat down close to a window and the others sat beside him. Jimin placed his hand against the side of the train, shooting volts of electricity from his fingertips. All of the lights on the train sparked and busted, encasing everyone in complete darkness. Passengers screamed and ducked for cover. This was their chance. The man with the briefcase, seeming to know something was off, shuffled out of his seat quickly. Taehyung and Nara followed after him. The man sprayed water from his hand onto the floor, causing Taehyung to slip and fall. Nara easily avoided the water and jumped over Taehyung. “Dammit! Get him, Nara.” The man clutched his briefcase to his chest and ran to the next car. Nara chased after him, shoving away distressed passengers trying to run the opposite direction. Outstretching her hand, she forced him in place. He grunted and struggled in her telekinetic grasp. She approached the man and withdrew her knife from her boot. The man’s eyes widened as if she was squeezing them out of his head. His gills seemed to be gasping for air and sweat dripped down his temple, “P-Please don’t do this. I’m one of you!” Nara felt her stomach churn at his words and grimaced, “You are not one of us,” she said and slit his throat. He made a gurgled sound as blood spurted on her face and chest. Losing her concentration, she released the man from her hold and he fell to the floor with a thump. She wiped her face and looked down at her hands. It was dark on the train, but she could still see the man’s blood on her hands. She felt sick to her stomach from the sight. Taehyung and Jimin finally reached her and lifted his lifeless body. “Let’s go.”

In their hysterics, the passengers had run to the opposite end of the train so thankfully no one had witnessed the man being killed. Nara pried the door open with her power and helped the other two drag the man’s body out. “What should we do with the body?” Nara asked. “Let the train run over him. That should be sufficient enough for disposal,” Taehyung said and shrugged. Jimin grabbed the suitcase, “This is all we need. Let’s get out of here.” As the train began to move again, the team ran away from the tracks and into the city.

---

“Thank god this bar stays open late!” Taehyung exclaimed as he downed his drink. After the mission was completed, the team reported to their leader, Namjoon, and delivered the briefcase they were asked to retrieve. Getting the thumbs up from Namjoon, Tae believed celebratory drinks were in order. Nara glanced at her phone, it was 3 am. Most human bars were closed by then, but mutant nightlife lasted much longer, sometimes into the early hours of the morning. Mutationem, a popular mutant-only bar in the city, was a place the team would frequent after missions. Nara sipped her beer and chuckled as she watched Tae flirt with the bartender. She turned to her left and noticed a fluffy grey cat sitting beside her on one of the barstools. “Hi, Yoongi” In a blink of an eye, he shifted back to his human form, clothes somehow intact, “Hey.” Yoongi preferred walking around as a cat, little chance for any verbal interaction but a lot of chances for petting. “That hacking thing you did was pretty convenient. I thought we might have had to jump on top of the train to get in,” she said with a laugh. Yoongi shrugged, “It wasn’t too hard for a genius like myself. Run into any other problems?” Nara shook her head, “Other than having to listen to Tae complain, it went fine.” Yoongi scoffed, “Figures.” Nara watched as she swirled the contents of her bottle around, curiosity consuming her, “So what was in the suitcase?” Yoongi shrugged, “I don’t know. Namjoon didn’t tell me and I didn’t really care to ask.” Nara thought this was strange; it wasn’t like Namjoon to keep things hush hush from the team. As if Yoongi could read the concern on her face, he said, “I’m sure it’s nothing too important. Probably just some info on their next move.” She nodded. “Anyway, I think I’m gonna go back to the base. I’ll see you later.” And with that, Yoongi transformed back into a cat and jumped down from the barstool. Before leaving, he rubbed his head against her leg, making her smile. Nara looked back at her bottle which was still almost full. Deciding it was time for her to go back to base as well, she chugged it and exited the bar.

She regretted her decision to down her drink so quickly, feeling her head buzzing from the alcohol. Base was only a few minutes away so she decided to walk instead of calling for a government vehicle to pick her up. She shivered as the cold, night air whisked her hair around. Wrapping her arms around herself, she began walking in the direction of the base. As she walked along the sidewalk, Nara could sense someone trailing her. She couldn’t tell if they were actually following her or if her tipsiness was making her paranoid. Deciding to take a shortcut home, she made a b-line to an alley. As soon as she turned the corner, the man following her grabbed her around the waist from behind. Thanks to her military training, Nara easily broke free from his grasp and used her telekinesis to push him back several feet. Stunned, the man fell to the ground and stared at her as if he saw a ghost. “Fucking freak!” he yelled as he scrambled to his feet and ran off. She winced at his words as she watched the man run away. She knew she should be used to this kind of treatment by now, but interactions like that always left a bad taste in her mouth. And these were the people she had sworn to protect, she thought to herself and continued walking back to base.

---

☽ Bangtan City. Supremus HQ. 3a.m.☾

The small room was dark except for the lamp that illuminated the desk. The mastermind behind Supremus, Bang Si-hyuk, sat broodingly behind the desk, a scowl on his face. Jungkook lounged across the leather couch situated in the shadowy corner of the room, watching the other man that just entered the room.

“Intel has just informed us that our assailant from the group outside of the city is dead,” he said to Si-hyuk. “Fish boy?”

“Yes, sir.” The man behind the desk scoffed. “Of course he got himself killed. He was one of the weakest among us. I can’t believe they trusted him with such an important task,” Si-hyuk rubbed his face in exasperation. “What about the supplies?”

“Gone, sir.” Si-hyuk slammed his fist on the desk. Jungkook closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “God dammit! MSO?”

“Yes, sir. Three of them.” Jungkook sneered at the mention of the MSO. He couldn’t comprehend why any mutant would risk their life for the sake of humans. Humans all had unwarranted arrogance about them even though mutants were obviously the more powerful beings. They exploited these mutants for their own personal gain and still treated them like dirt. Jungkook didn’t understand and he never would. That’s why he had decided to join Supremus. They were considered terrorists by the state, but he didn’t see it that way. It wasn’t a question to him who was more superior.

“We need the supplies back. If they figure out exactly what we’re doing, the government is going to crack down on us even harder.”

“What do you suppose we do, sir?” Jungkook stood from his position, “I can get them back.” Si-hyuk eyed Jungkook and shook his head, “No, you’re too valuable of an asset.” Jungkook smirked at him, “You underestimate me.” Si-hyuk considered Jungkook’s words carefully, “I trust you, Jungkook. Do what needs to be done.”

“Yes, sir.”

#BTS #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #bts scenarios #bts smut #bts fluff #superhero!au #jungkook #jeon jungkook #bts x oc #networkbangtan #series

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vateacancameos · 4 years

Text

The Potential of You and Me

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Fandom: Gideon the Ninth - Tamsyn Muir Relationship: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus Words: 2526 Summary: Harrowhark Nonagesimus has watched Gideon Nav since before she can remember. It starts with childish admiration, moves to hate-watching, and ends in heartbreak.

***

Harrowhark Nonagesimus has watched Gideon Nav since before she can remember.

Her earliest memory is watching Griddle throw a tantrum on the nursery floor during a face painting lesson from the nuns, her bright red hair a stark contrast to the dusty gray of the floor and walls, her screams an assault to the silent halls of the Ninth. This is before she is called Griddle, a nickname that Harrow doesn’t precisely remember how it came about. Gideon had done something that annoyed her, and Harrow—young enough to still have a bit of a speech impediment—had screeched out the wrong syllables, and the flub became Griddle. And it stuck. Well, she’s made it stick, just to spite her nemesis, who, at that age, wasn't quite her nemesis yet.

There has always been a bite to their relationship, but during their youngest years, sequestered in the empty and crumbling nursery with only ancient nuns to keep them company, they are friends of a sort. Or, perhaps companions would be the better word. They have no one else.

It’s Griddle who first turns their relationship antagonistic, Harrow knows that much. She looks up to Griddle, being a whole year older and already tall for her age. She follows her around like a shadow, watching her every move. Even when Griddle yells at and pushes her, she keeps following. Keeps watching.

It’s the nuns realizing that Griddle will never be a necromancer that is the death knell to their already fragile relationship. Gideon not only moves to a dorm far from the nursery and is given a new schedule, but she herself changes. She goes from long-suffering acceptance of her shadow to outright contempt. When shouting and shoving does not keep Harrow away, Griddle resorts to silence and locking herself away.

Still, Harrow watches.

She watches her former playmate (in as much as one plays in the Ninth) pick up her first practice sword with a reverence that, if Harrow had been raised with more than a single peer, she would realize is not normal for a child of five. She watches her learn footwork and stances. She watches her grow strong and lean. She’s still a shadow, but now she mingles with the other shadows of their cold and dying home.

***

Keep reading below the cut.

***Harrow is twelve years old the first time she realizes that Griddle is beautiful. Not in the waifish, half-dead way of the Seventh or the robust, golden way of the Third. Definitely not in the beautiful mind way of the Sixth. Never that.

But when Gideon Nav picks up a sword, she blazes. Where in daily life she’s a bit of a klutz, when she holds a sword, her movements are sharp and sure. Perfection.

It’s hateful.

Harrow knows her practice routine by heart. She sees it in her sleep. She’s watched Griddle practice it hundreds of times. But if given a sword of her own, she could never replicate Gideon’s grace or assurance. Not even if she practiced for ten thousand years. Not even if Griddle stood behind her and moved her like a puppet. Especially not then. Just the thought of standing so close …

It’s a foolish thought, anyway. Ever since The Thing with her parents, Gideon won't even look at Harrow, let alone touch her. All she cares about is her sword and pleasing Aiglamene in that grasping, needy way of hers. Harrow might as well be a skeleton drone for all the attention Griddle gives her.

It’s better this way. Gideon is the reason her parents are dead. If she hadn’t been such a nosy sneak, Harrow would have completed the task and been able to show her parents she was almost worth the price they’d paid to create her. She’ll never be able to make up for that horrific act, but if she could have made her parents proud for even a single moment, it might not have been so horrific. But Gideon ruined that, and now nothing will make up for the war crime that is Harrow’s life.

Harrow hates her more than she’s ever loved anything.

***

Harrow abhors that Griddle is a flame amidst the gray shadows of the Ninth. Not just her bright shock of hair that she refuses to cover with a hood. No one in the Ninth glows with health, but she comes the closest; her skin has a pink undertone that no lack of sun or overabundance of snow leeks can dampen. Her eyes are bright as ancient gold coins, especially when she’s angry or mischievous, which is pretty much always. It’s annoying. Why is she so bright when Harrow—the Reverend Daughter, the leader of the Ninth, the heir to two hundred lives—is nothing but a dark shadow, a pit of death?

But even if their coloring was the same, Gideon would still be a flame, and that’s what irks. She isn’t quiet or gentle. She has a mouth as filthy as a toilet, and she overflows with terrible puns. She’s probably never smiled genuinely in her life—though there is a gentle upward curve to her lips during some quiet moments when she holds her sword. Instead, her usual expression is akin to a smirk or feral grin. She lacks a proper education and genteel manners. She falls asleep in the pew on the rare occasions she attends prayers. She hates Harrow with every fiber of her being and would destroy her if Harrow ever relaxed for even a moment. Flames are destructive. One does not let their guard down around them.

Gideon Nav will never be a flower of the Ninth, but the Ninth is dying anyway. Flames, on the other hand, can give new life.

***

Harrow loathes herself for watching Griddle so much. She has much better things to do—a House to run, necromancy to perfect, parents to puppeteer. But she can’t help herself sometimes. Drawn like a powerless moth to that bright flame. And it isn't even girlish fawning. She hate-watches. Every smooth, sharp move Griddle executes, sword in hand, makes Harrow’s fists clench and her blood boil. She gets headaches trying to make herself look away. Bones clatter restlessly in her pockets and around her wrists in sympathy.

They say to keep your enemies closer than your friends. Well, Harrow doesn’t have any friends, but she keeps Gideon closer than she keeps her own cavalier. Thank the Undying Lord that her house is so traditional that she must employ weak Ortus as her primary. It’s bad enough watching Griddle from the shadows or sniping at her when they come within a ten-foot distance of each other. If Gideon had been Harrow’s cav, Harrow would have combusted by now—from anger and frustration, of course—and the House would be ended for good. Cav or not, Harrow must keep a close eye on Griddle. She can’t stop watching.

Know your enemy.

***

Harrow watches from the shadows as Gideon makes her eighty-seventh escape attempt. She’s exhausted and sore from staying up all night digging. She’s covered in blood and dirt—not the best vision of a lady, but the Ninth are scrabblers. They don’t have the freedom to comport themselves with the dignity of the other houses.

She waits for the opportune moment to stalk out onto the field to play her ace, and she wishes she hadn’t let her marshal go out before her. He’s ridiculously long winded, though she supposes it’ll make for a better entrance.

She watches Gideon fight her well-placed skeletons, knocking down one after another, even as more charge her. She can’t win. She’s good with a sword, but Harrow is better with bones. She watches Gideon (unconscious) be dragged into Drearburh, a place Griddle hasn’t set foot in years. She watches her face as she realizes that she’s been stranded on the Ninth (thank you, Ortus, for being the coward you are). A shiver of satisfaction thrills through her at the sight.

She’s won again. Gideon Nav is hers.

***

Harrow is busy mapping Canaan House, but she still manages to find time to watch Griddle. She can’t let her stupid cavalier out of her sight, or the idiot will open her big stupid mouth and their already unstable house of cards will come tumbling down. They can’t afford to lose. Harrow must become Lyctor. Two hundred children died to get her to this point. This is her last chance to ameliorate that heinous act and prove her life isn’t a complete waste.

Griddle does well enough with the not speaking, but her clumsy, galumphing manners still get her in trouble. She becomes the pitiful lapdog to that Seventh twit (but is she a twit? Something about her is odd, beyond her meat-puppet), and she stumbles starry eyed after the Third’s golden twin (not a necro, it’s obvious). She reveals her lack of cavalier training during a match she never should have entered, though apparently everyone is still impressed. Harrow’s never had anyone to compare Gideon’s fighting to except Aiglamene’s, but apparently she’s not as slack as expected. Uncouth and idiotic, yes. But a skilled fighter nonetheless. It gives Harrow some hope. If she becomes Lyctor, she’ll need Gideon by her side.

***

For once, Harrow isn’t watching Gideon. She can’t. If she does, she’ll literally die. Her clothes have disintegrated. Every step is like walking through thick sludge. But even though she can’t see her cavalier, she can hear her. It hurts. Her screams are more painful than Harrow’s steps, more than her head as she tries to concentrate on the theorems needed to get her across the entropy field. She fights every instinct to turn and run back to her cav. She’d ask herself when it became instinct to run toward Griddle rather than away, but she’s always been hatefully aware of the truth. From the beginning. From skinned knees in the nursery to these ridiculous Lyctor trials, Harrow’s instinct has always been to run to Griddle. It’s an instinct she’s fought her whole life, and now she wonders why she ever tried. They belong together. She’s not sure what would happen if they were separated.

Harrow thinks she might die. Luckily, it seems that no matter what she’s put through, Gideon can’t.

***

Saltwater stings her eyes, and though the water is warm like blood, Harrow shivers. Spilling her every secret (well, almost every) and all of her rage to her cavalier drains the tension from her body, and her muscles grasp for something to take its place.

Gideon’s hair and eyes glow in the yellow light. They’re too close. Gideon has hugged her, has pressed her lips to Harrow’s needy skin, and they’re too close. Harrow doesn’t know what to do other than watch the gray-smeared face a hairsbreadth from her own. Gideon’s mouth (her mouth) turns up in that annoying (heart-skipping) smirk and says the last thing Harrow expects her to, after all Harrow has said to her.

“Too many words. How about these: One flesh, one end, bitch.”

How can Gideon still want to be at her side, after everything? After a lifetime of antagonism and hateful words. After being forced into further indentured servitude. After the death of her friends. After she’s learned the dreaded secrets of the Ninth. And still, Harrow’s stupid, galumphing, shades-wearing—fuck it, she has no one to pretend to but herself, and she’s done with that—loyal, strong, amazingly badass cav asks for more. Asks for death.

At Gideon’s prompting, there’s only one thing for Harrow to say in reply, no matter how much it hurts. Her stomach clenches. “One flesh—one end.”

***

For a second time, Harrowhark Nonagesimus isn’t watching Gideon Nav. They fight side-by-side or back-to-back. They give each other what they need to gain the littlest advantage over the horrific bone monster they fight: a hit with a sword, a well-placed skeleton, a yell to watch out. Harrow’s lifetime of watching Gideon has never been more necessary. And for the first time, she allows herself to be grateful for it. They’re a well-oiled machine. They don’t need words. The slightest twitch from one lets the other know what they need. Their years of fighting have come in handy. They know each other’s fighting styles and weaknesses. But instead of exploiting those weaknesses, they help each other.

They may be dead women walking—there's no way they can win—but Harrow has never felt more powerful, and in a quick glance, Gideon’s deathly grin shows her own confidence.

They keep fighting. And fighting. And fighting. She feels the exultation drain from her. She’s becoming exhausted. She’s running out of tricks. She wants to just stop. But she thinks back to Gideon’s words in the pool—one flesh, one end, bitch—and it’s the way she said it, full of cocky bravado and (misplaced) loyalty, that gives Harrow the boost she needs to keep going, to keep fighting, to not let her best friend down.

One flesh. One end. Bitch.

***

Even as she readies herself to fight Cytherea, even as an insubstantial Gideon guides her movements, Harrow watches her cav. She can’t tear her eyes away from the spike and blood and stillness and must rely on Gideon to make sure she survives this fight. She doesn’t want to survive, but Gideon’s resolve powers her. If she doesn’t want the whole galaxy to burn, she has to win. And Gideon has already let her know that she’s not allowed to die. If Harrow dies too, there’s no one left. Gideon is already d–

No! Don’t think. Act. React. Listen to Griddle.

“Pick it up and stop looking at me, dick. Don’t. Don’t you dare look at me.”

Harrow obeys. She has no will to fight—not Gideon, not Cytherea—but she must fight the latter. She must win. Gideon is standing behind her, guiding her, and she briefly thinks back to watching Gideon practice in the Ninth. Back when things were simple, and the worse thing she had to fight was her attraction to Gideon herself. She remembers thinking she wouldn’t be able to handle having Gideon hold her like this, but now that it’s happening, it feels natural, right. They know each other, every little bit, every movement, every snarky remark. They are made to fight together, not against each other. She feels a surge of will, which lasts until she glances back at Gideon’s bo– no, at Gideon again, and the will flees.

But Gideon knows Harrow as well as Harrow knows Gideon, and she says the exact words Harrow needs to fight. The battle takes everything Harrow has, every theorem, every trick, every bit of Gideon’s sword skills—for they are Harrow’s now too—to even come close to Cytherea’s. She’s had ten thousand years, Harrow and Gideon have only had seventeen. Still, thanks to Palamedes’ last act, they are able to triumph.

The sword clatters to the ground, and Harrow rushes to her cavalier’s side. After laying her gently on the ground, Harrow can do only one thing. The thing she’s done her whole life. The thing she’ll never be able to do again.

She watches Gideon Nav.

#gideon the ninth #gtn #harrowhark nonagesimus #fanfic #introspection #harrow pov #meagan writes #f/f #gtn2019exchange

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twistedsinews · 4 years

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Touch of Flame

Unavowed; Protagonist/Eli, Vicki; PG-13 (AO3 Flavor)

“Not like we have much of a choice, right?”

They had to get across, without him if need be.

He could read it on her face. The denial, the comprehension. The boundlessly optimistic“There has to be another way,” that didn’t quite make it out of her throat.

Eli shot her a reassuring smile.

He shed his coat, tossing it on the cave floor behind him. He dropped his hat on top of it, and turned to face the challenge in front of them. Rolling up his sleeves, his gaze skimmed the flow of molten rock as he sought the most practicable part of it with which to work.

What he found was a small eddy in the current, where the magma, catching on the shore, rolled and flowed back on itself before continuing its drift further down the cavern. The friction arrested its progress, bleeding away some of its convection naturally.

It was as good a place to try as any, if not more promising than most.

Closing his eyes, Eli extended a hand towards the river of boiling rock. Grounding himself physically as he tapped into the conduit of energy flowing all around them.

Reaching out from within, focus narrowing to his magic and the sheer infernal force contained within the broiling earth, he pulled. Heat poured off the surface of the river, and he sought to displace it quickly as he humanly could so as to draw out even more.

He then realized, dimly, that estimations might have been off, be it the strength of his ability or the task itself. The magma cut deeper into the rockbed than it looked.

But...

...it wasn’t much of a choice.

Agonizingly slowly, the rock darkened and cooled, at first breaking up the flow before impeding it altogether. He gave it one last drag, for stability sake.

Which might have been the tipping point into too much.

It didn’t hurt, not exactly, it was simply... draining. A little like running a marathon, and a lot like staying awake for days on end – if those days were all crunched into a span of five minutes. The exertion of it kicked him straight into a euphoria. For a moment, his vision dimmed dangerously and he lost track of which way was up.

Melkhiresa caught him before he could hit the floor cold. His hand found her shoulder, and he grunted his surprise as she slipped one of her arms around his chest to help him to the ground and dropped into a crouch by his side.

“Eli?”

“I’ll be okay,” he assured her. “I just... need a few minutes.”

...or a few hours. Days, maybe.

“We’ll wait.”

“You can’t,” he reminded her softly. “I told you, I-...”

“I can’t do this without you.”

Something twisted in Eli’s chest. To say she been through a lot would have been an understatement. And needless to say, they all had.

Worst of all, it was down to the three of them.

...two of them.

“Bad news, but you’re gonna have to.”

Melkhiresa ran her fingers through his hair, dusting free sparks that crackled into ash. The touch felt nice. Soft. ...human.

His eyes drifted closed.

The sound of Vicki’s scuffed, pacing footfalls a few feet away came to an abrupt stop.

“Are you fucking kidding me? We ain’t got time for this shit!”

It was all the warning Eli got. Melkhiresa gave a sharp little gasp of surprise, which surprised Eli less than the kiss itself. He was still running hot, and doubted she would have known that beforehand... but she didn’t flinch away, either, when he tilted his face towards hers.

She held her breath.

Then rasped, quietly, “I love you.”

“Oh.” Eli managed a breathless chuckle. “Is that all?”

She tried to laugh, but it was a strangled sound, choked with tears that she was barely holding back. A few slipped free. He felt one, just barely, as it evaporated before it could splash his skin.

“Look,” he said. “That bridge isn’t going to last long... and I’m still going to have to bring you back across when you get back, right? Go.”

Melkhiresa swallowed. She didn’t move, nor did she answer. Fresh tears cut new paths down her cheeks.

Eli sighed, and tried his damnedest to scrub them away.

For all that he hated to see her hurt, that she could cry at all wasn’t a bad sign.

“You’re more human than she ever was. Whatever it takes in the end, remember that. Don’t let her twist it.”

That seemed to do it. Sitting up a touch straighter, Melkhiresa visibly steeled herself... although the effect was lessened by a soft pout. Eli closed his eyes again as she leaned in once more, and she brushed her lips against his mouth in another, more fleeting touch.

Smiling, he gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and his fingers drifted down her arm.

“We can talk about this later.”

“C’mon, partner; we still got work to do.” Vicki hauled her up by the elbow, away from him. Almost gently. Eli’s gaze flicked towards her.

“Take care of each other.”

Vicki nodded, raising her chin in that absolute defiant – regardless of whether it ever made any sense – manner she held perfected. “Yeah, no sweat; I got it.”

Still, there was a hint of concern the way she looked back, following behind Melkhiresa across the bridge. Melkhiresa looked back only once, once she’d made it to the other side, but Vicki was there to keep her moving forward. Onward, into the dark. Out of sight.

It was only when he could no longer see them in the gloom beyond that Eli let himself fully collapse, falling listlessly back onto cave floor. It wasn’t exactly comfort, but neither was he determined enough about it in the moment to flop completely over into the bed of liquid rock that would have been his alternative option.

Whether he was in any danger or not was a moot point – he couldn’t have done anything about it if he were.

If nothing less, Melkhiresa had given him something bigger to wonder about, rather than worrying himself worthlessly over the fate of the city and the end of the world.

#unavowed #eli beckett #vicki santina #f!cop protagonist #fanfiction #please take this away from me #01 of 04 if I'm lucky.#no in game romances no problem #i will write them all just watch me #i forget how to write #how do characters even work #if you have even the slightest desire to play this game after me raving about it #and you haven't beaten it #do not read the thing - beat the game first

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mightyfineblog · 5 years

Text

‘Stand By Me’ -4-

Ben Hardy x Reader

Ch. 4

Summary: You are moving in your boyfriend’s flat. As you unpack, you remember the long road you two have walked down from when you met to where you are now.

Chapter summary: This chapter brings back a thigh clenching memory from last year, when Ben was on set of Bohemian Rhapsody, and you accidentally called him Roger. Oopps. So embarrassing for sure, but wait a minute. Did he just call you a groupie?

And why is Joe so suspiciously asking you two out to dinner?

Words (this chapter): 2.2k Warnings: fluff, smut, oral, name calling. No angst or tears this time.

So here is. Enjoy:

“Mmm” you snort, as you shuffle around searching to get to the blanket “Mso cold.” You growl, as you try to get it off Ben.

He snorts, turning on his side towards you.

“C’mere baby” he curls his arms around your waist, pulling you in his brace, pulling the blanket over your entangled bodies “Betta?”

“Mhmm” you groan against his chest. The corners of your lips curl into a smile, as you nuzzle into the crook of his neck, while your hand is gently placed behind his neck. You close your eyes once again, feeling the moment.

Morning like these. Nothing in the world compares to the feeling of waking up in your boyfriend’s arms. His flushed cheeks and messy locks.

“I could stay like this forever” you murmur, planting gentle kisses along the side of his neck.

“Then let’s stay for a while longer.” Ben’s deep husky morning voice sends shivers from your head to toe.

“So sexy.” you sigh, biting your lip, at which he only lets a throaty moan.

“You’re the sexy one.” He flutters his eyelids open, rubbing them with his free hand.

You smile and climb onto of him straddling his waist, you lay you head over his chest.

“Your heart is pounding.” You lift your head to give his plump morning lips a chasteful kiss.

“All you baby” his hands brush over your hips.

“Shall we have breakfast and then unpack the rest of my things?” you draw circles on his shoulder.

“Glad you brought it up, I’m so hungry.” He growls, gently stroking your hair.

After another hour of snuggles, kisses and under the warm blankets, kisses and soft caresses, the two of you finally get up.

Opting for bagels with crunchy peanut butter and berry jelly, you get dressed.

Rolling up your sleeves, you open another box labelled ‘Accessories’.

“So I’d say these” you gesture the pile in front of you, “Go into the back of the closet, because I use them less.”

“Sure, baby, put them whatever you see fit. Just be careful with MY stuff.” He waves it off.

You push the box further, but stop at a plastic case at the very back.

“Hmm. What do we have here?” You bring the case into daylight. “A full on Roger Taylor costume. And, oh the wig.” You giggle.

The outfit reminds you of one particular moment from last year. It was the first few weeks of filming Bohemian Rhapsody. The set was just outside London. All crew members were settles in their trailers on the field, right next to where the stage for Live Aid was build.

You hum at the tingling feeling of that memory. Taking a seat on the bed, your hands brush along the shirt that was in the case. Closing your eyes you travel back to that particular day.

…

September 2017

Somewhere outside London, UK

Knock Knock

“I said I’ll be out in 5.”

Knock Knock

“Bloody hell, do you ever” Ben stands up from the couch and opens the door.

“Hope I’m not intruding.” I murmur, stepping back from his forceful gesture.

“Fuck, baby.” He chuckles shaking his head. “Noo. Come on in.” he extends his arm for me.

“Sorry I didn’t announce my visit Mr. Hardy, but the MI5 radio was broken this morning.” I playfully snort with snobby manner.

He chuckles, pulling me in for a hug “I’m glad you came over.”

“Are you now?” I give him a sweet pout with my lips.

“Msorry, I’m just so stressed out with this role.” His hands gesture his outfit.

“That’s why I came over.” I walk backwards pulling him by his vest, until the back of my legs touch the end of the bed. He takes a few steps with a shit eating grin on his face.

“Yeah?” he cocks his head to the side lifting an eyebrow.

“Come here, pretty boy.” I coo as I hop on the bed. He follows, snuggling me in his brace.

“Mmm” I moan nuzzling your head in the crook of his neck “I like these…” my fingers toy with the necklaces hanging on his chest. “Any your random shirt” I trace the collar,

“Opened just perfect” I murmur against his neck.

He hums with a big smirk on his face, as the hand wrapped around my back squeezes tighter, eventually making me throw a leg over his, giving me a half-straddled position.

I just can’t keep my hands off him. Something about this outfit is tingling a little something inside of my stomach. My hand tugs gently at his wig, as I nip on his neck.

His hand keeping my hip secure over him, traveling up and down until he finally slides it under the skirt. Brushing his fingers around my bum, he grabs ahold of it, earning a squeak from me.

“Fuck. Come here, baby.” He growls, as he roughly drags me on top of him. Placing wet and sloppy kisses all around my neck, his hands grind me down onto his lap.

“Aah.” I gasp burying my fingers in his wig keeping him pressed against my showing cleavage.

“You like that? Hm?” his husky voice melting me in his hands. “Grinding down on me?” he quirks a brow.

“Mmm Roger.” You throw your head back as my hips pick up the pace, bringing painfully slowly to the friction I’m craving.

“What?” he pulls away. “You just called me Roger, babe.” He pushes me by the shoulders.

“Shit, I’m so sorry baby.” I chuckle trying to hide down my embarrassment.

“Hmm” he licks his lips “Get over here.” He flips us over, making me lay flat on my back. Hovering between my legs he spreads the apart with his knee. Pressing down his hips he pins me against the bed, making me moan softly, as I stare between our bodies.

“Do you want ‘Roger’ to fuck you, petal?” he coos above my lips, barely touching them.

“Would I be such a bad girlfriend if I said yes?” I wriggle underneath him.

“Not a single bit.” He confides with soft voice. “In fact” he pins my hands above my head “I’ve always dreamed of having a groupie” he coos close enough for me to squirm under his breath.

“We gotta be quick, doll. I ain’t got long.” He grunts, as his free hand roams up and down your body. “And keep it down.”

“Please. I’ve always wanted to be fucked by a rock star, who also happens to play my boyfriend too.” Is all the wit I manage to pull off.

“You’re so fine, love.” His lips tremble on my chest.

“God. You’re squirming little existence is turning me on so much. I’m going to fuck you, and you won’t protest, will ya?”

“No. No it won’t” I shake my head in anticipation. His hand rolls my skirt up.

“So impatient. I love me a cute lil slut today.” He drags a finger on the outside of my knickers, making my head fall back at the new friction. And he does it again, earning a loud moan from my lips.

“Shh” his hand moves from my wrists to my mouth.

He stands up and quickly shoves down his pants and belt.

“Keep your clothes on B-Roger.” I lazily ask with a finger on my lips.

Grabbing my hips, he pulls me over to the edge of the bed. One of his hands glides over my stomach and waist. His hand firmly glides from my throat to my chest, slowing down around my breast. His finger pinches and rolls my nipple, making me squirm even more.

“How does that feel?” he continues to touch me over my t shirt.

“Mmgood” I whine squinting my eyes, as I push my chest up to his grip even more “Please, oh, yes that feels so good.”

“Look at you.” He coos over me. “Poor little thing. So needy.”

He pulls me even closer to him. I achingly look over at his erected shaft, while his hands work my breasts, making my nipples even more sensitive than they already were.

“Get down, love.” He commands, and I know what he wants.

“Suck me. Suck me good.” He smirks with his eyebrows furrowed.

I slip in his feet, the most obedient way I can. I bring my lips to his glistening tip. I place a few soft kisses, before taking as much as I can in my mouth.

He grunts “Fuck, your tiny little mouth! Damn. Made for blowing.” He hand grips at my hair pushing me further, making me groan from deep within my throat.

“A good little groupie you are!” he moans as I bob my head up and down on his hard.

“Easy, easy now.” He stops my head, taking a moment to study my face.

“All drooling and messy. But you don’t get to finish me off yet.” He brings me up and tosses me onto the bed.

Placing my legs over his shoulders, he licks his lips, and lines himself at my entrance.

“Please.” I grunt, but before I can say anything else I feel him slamming inside of me in one harsh move. “Fuck” I cry out, squeezing my eyes shut, while my hands grasp the sheets from each aide. At last, being filled by his cock, stretching me out, it almost hurts.

He hisses at the view underneath him, not spending another still second he starts fucking me mercilessly.

“Fuck. Baby.” I can feel him pooling in my arousal.

“What an amazing cunt.” He grunts. His words only adding to the heat building up inside of me.

“Do you like fucking me? Am I good enough shag for Roger Taylor?” I tilt my head to the side, squirming, trying my best to hold a normal voice from his hard ramming into me.

“So fucking good.” He whimpers picking up the pace. Yanking my hips to the sides, he cradles closer. Hovering over me, his lips find my neck. Nipping and biting over my pulsating veins, he reaches deeper in my core. Hitting one particular spot, giving me a heated burning feeling every time he presses against it. My hands release the sheets, finding their way into his hair, tugging on it, keeping his head on my neck and chest.

“Fuck, I’m so close. I’m so close.” I whine, as he bites on my collarbone.

“I’m almost there.” He growls, as his hand travels down between our bodies. His thumb finds my clit. Just from the pure friction of his dry thumb is enough to send my eyes rolling at the back of my head. I let a poem of cursing while my body is squirming and shaking, back arching, reaching my powerful orgasm.

“Aghh” he growls “You tight pussy convulsing onto my cock, shit, I’m coming.” He releases his long held hot mess with deep groans and toe curling motion. The way he closes his eyes is pure bliss for me, I can come again just from the flushes look on his cheeks.

“Baby. Baby” I pant.

“My personal groupie to fill up.” He gulps, before pressing a kiss onto my lips.

Ben stays still for a while longer, buried inside of me. I stroke the hair on his wig, as he places soft kisses all along my shoulder.

Finally pulling away, he grunts while putting his pants back up.

“Please.” I give him puppy eyes “Cuddle with me.”

“Hmm” he smirks shaking his head.

“Hey. You.” I throw a pillow at him to catch his attention. “I want my boyfriend back.”

He smiles warmly and crawls onto the bed, laying by my side. Stuffing a few pillows he rests his back against the wall. Pulling me in his arms, I sigh from exhaustion.

“I didn’t know shagging a rock star could be so…” I lift my shoulders.

“So, what?” he moves a few strands of hair off my face.

“Exciting. It was like, a stranger was screwing me.” I bury my head in his arm feeling the tiniest bit of embarrassment.

“Hey, it’s alright baby girl.” He lifts my chin up “We don’t have to do it again if you don’t want to.” He kisses my nose, helping me relax my tensed muscles.

“I think I liked it.” I bite my lip, trying to avoid eye contact. he chuckles and kisses my cheek.

…

“Love?” you hear Ben shouting from the living room.

“Baby?” you hear him again, quickly flicking your eyelashes open.

“Huh? What? Did you say something?” you shake your head.

“Joe is inviting us for dinner. You wanna go?” he lifts a brow as his graze traces from you to the case and back.

“Yeah, sure. Be there.” You nod.

“Oh and uuh, he said to wear something fancier, we’re going to the Clos Maggiore.”

“Okay…. S a bit weird. Joe isn’t into such posh places.”

“I know” he makes a grimace “something ‘bout a surprise, idk” he places his hand over the speaker of the phone.

“Alight, cool. Tell him we’ll be there.” You leave the case aside and stand up. Passing by Ben you place a kiss on his cheek and skip to the bathroom to get ready.

_____

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poisxnyouth · 5 years

Text

neighbors. chapter two. (d.d)

A/N: whew! Sorry this took so long, I've had such a long week and wrote myself into a corner for a little bit. I hoooooope this is okay. Let me know if anything seems out of character, if you like something, if you don’t, etc etc! All criticism is always appreciated (: Let me knooooow! - hailey

Warnings: drinking & cussing

Word Count: 3.2k on the dot!

Chapter 1

“Wait, like DAVID David? Like, neighbor David?” Francine’s jaw dropped on your phone screen, the rest of the girls mimicking her.

“Yes, Francine. David Dobrik. Oh my god, I don’t even know how it happened, it all went so quick!”

“What happened?” Tessa scrunched her eyebrows together. She was on her way home from work, walking with headphones in as she sipped on her iced coffee, eyes flickering between the sidewalk and her phone.

“Natalie, his assistant, invited me over for drinks and obviously, like, I couldn’t say no, right?” They nodded in sync, “So I went over there, and it was fine for like 45 minutes, David wasn’t around, Natalie and I were just talking, having a few drinks, and I was telling her about my job and you guys and vice versa. I was having a good time! David comes out and things immediately get weird. It’s like he flipped a fucking switch in me! Like, I couldn’t think of anything remotely cool to say.”

“You’re still not spilling how this ended with you coming to New York with him?” Sienna inquires.

“Well, Natalie was listening to me talking about you and she kind of brought it up?”

“Didn’t you meet her, like, today?” Tessa chimes in, confused as she still walks her way through Manhattan.

“I know! That’s what I was thinking! She was hearing me talk about you guys and how much I miss New York. She just asked out of the blue. David had said something about being her boss and she just told him to come with. Did I mention she’s trying to hook us up too? AND HE PAID FOR ALL OF THREE OF US! Ugh!” You’re going back and forth between your closet exasperatedly, folding random items of clothing and tossing it in your suitcase (way too much for a weekend trip, but you know it’s because you want to look good for him). You stop in between the story to make sure outfits match, wanting their approval before you make yourself look foolish in front of the man. He probably won’t even notice, but it’s the little things that count.

“Wait, he paid?” They ask in unison. You nod your head quickly.

“Yeah! I tried to tell him I can afford to pay for my own ticket and he just said, ‘I didn’t ask if you could afford it, I’m paying,’” you roll your eyes, mocking him.

“Y/N, you know what this means….” Francine says, feigning nervousness, “you need to go on a date with him when you get here. Like, it’s an absolute need. You’ll die if you don’t.”

“I don’t know if I even want to date anyone! I just got here in LA, I need to settle down with my job first-“

“Y/N. No. You remember whatshisface from high school? You cheated yourself out of him, too-“

“Sienna, I just met the guy today. I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves!”

“You may have met him today, but he bought you a ticket to come home for the weekend! Like, he’s either a really nice stranger or he’s into you, Y/N,” Sienna offers. She seems to be at home in her pajamas. Respectable.

“Okay, and what if he is into me? Then what?”

They all groan, “You get a boyfriend, Y/N!”

“I don’t need one!”

“Uh, yes, you do. You’re so lonely in LA! Like, all you do is go to work and post pictures of what you’re eating or what you’re watching on Netflix. You work so hard to have a good life and you don’t even get to appreciate it! Just go on one date with him while you’re here. Russian Tea Room? Butter? Go shopping afterwards? Literally anything. It’d be nice! One date and see what happens, Y/N! Plus, it’s kind of chilly here right now…you can borrow his jacket!” Francine is really pushing this whole boyfriend idea. You don’t say anything, sighing halfheartedly before taking your phone in your bathroom to speak to them while you bag up toiletries.

“Fine. I’ll ask, I guess. What about Natalie?” You’re going through your shampoos and conditioners, having difficulty determining what makes your hair the softest. You suddenly realize how much of a try hard you are.

“We’ve got you, bitch. I wanna pick her brain about David,” Francine admits. Of course, she would.

“I can’t believe you guys are making me do this.”

“It’s for your own good,” says Tessa. You can only roll your eyes in response.

“I’ve gotta go. I’ll call when I land.”

“See you soon, Y/N! One of us will be there to pick you up. When do you land?”

“Like, 10:30? He wanted to get there in the morning.” They ooo’ed as you told them you loved them and hung up.

The flight was painstakingly awkward. You were stuck in between David and Natalie (Natalie’s doing), and while you wanted to speak to him, he was editing the entire time. Natalie was passed out, quietly snoring. She remained that way for the rest of the flight. He had opted for a late plane, taking off at 5:00 AM, insisting it was easier for him because he would be up all night anyway. You didn’t mind, you would have been up all night either way, but he does give you a few questioning looks as you order more than a couple rum and cokes.

He takes a brief break, turning and saying to you, “Aren’t you tired?”

“Not really. I stay up often. Hey, while you’re not busy, can I ask you a question?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“So, uh, I’m gonna be honest, we’re going to meet my friends, right? Like, they’re one of the reasons we’re here?”

“I guess? Natalie wanted to come, I don’t really know anything about them.” His implication of not wanting to come kind of offends you. If he didn’t want to make the trip, he didn’t have to, and he certainly didn’t have to pay.

“I mean – okay, I’ll just let them introduce themselves, but anyways, you moved in a few months ago and I had also just moved in, I’d been in my house for like, two weeks, right? I noticed you, not gonna lie, because you were really fucking loud and an annoying neighbor, but it’s fine, that’s not the point!”

“Are you drunk?”

Your eyes widen, “Oh my gosh, what? No! I had a few drinks, but I’m pretty much a heavyweight. Yale was a wack party school. Taught me in more ways than one. Anyway, so I noticed you, and I told my friends about you.”

“Is this bad? Like, you told them I’m annoying so now they’re gonna act all weird when I meet them?”

“Oh my god, David, just let me finish. I told them about you, and I was like, ‘Oh, guys, he’s really cute and he must be fucking rich because he’s my neighbor but he’s so young, so I don’t know? Trust fund baby, maybe? I don’t know, but he’s hot.’ Anyway, long story short, they really wanted me to ask you out on a date while we’re here.”

“Okay?”

“What do you mean, ‘Okay?’ Like, do you want to or not?”

“Sure, I guess,” he shrugs.

“I really do not appreciate the nonchalance!” You jokingly shove, but you feel your hand stay on his shoulder for a moment too long when you meet his eyes. He doesn’t laugh as you quickly remove your hand, almost as though you had gotten burnt.

“I’ll pay,” he says, not acknowledging what had happened as he turns back to his computer.

“No, you’re not! You paid for me to come here. Plus, I don’t even know you and I’m the one who asked. You don’t get to pay!”

“I’m paying, it’s fine,” he insists, now absentmindedly editing with one earbud in.

“No, you’re not. You wanna go tonight, or…?” He only nods in response, murmuring a small sure. Even with his adamance about paying, he’s kind of acting like an asshole. You wish you could put your finger on it. You know the body language of someone who’s getting distracted while they’re trying to work, and that is definitely not what he’s doing. The only thing you’re reading from him is unwillingness. You’re not stupid; you know when to end a conversation. You turn away from him and put your earbuds in, quickly typing out a text to you and your friends’ group chat, writing, He said yes. You end up falling asleep, elbow on the arm rest, supporting your head. You wake at the end of the flight, David giving you a soft nudge with the lift of his shoulder. You fucking fell asleep on him.

“Oh, fuck, holy shit. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to-“ He waves you off, not worrying about it as he starts packing up his belongings.

“You were slowly leaning over for like 30 minutes, so I just put your elbow down. It’s fine. Can you wake Nat?” He did what now? You don’t allow yourself to mentally trip over it as you turn to softly shake Natalie’s shoulder. She grumbles softly, stretching her arms out in front of her before sliding her glasses on.

“Y/N asked me out on a date,” David whispers to Natalie, smile playing at his lips while he fidgets with the straps on his backpack. You’re preoccupied at baggage claim, foot tapping impatiently as you scan the bags coming out of the conveyor belt. Theirs had come before yours.

“And you said….?”

“I mean, I said yes, duh. I just don’t know if it’s a good idea.”

“Jesus Christ, David,” her eyes roll, “Don’t be stupid. Why can’t you do anything good for yourself? You know you want to, and you never would have gotten the balls to ask her, let alone any girl. Liza asked you on your first date, too. Just look at it as a good thing. You’re a pussy, anyways.”

“I am not a pussy!” he exclaims before bringing his voice lower, “And don’t compare her to Liza.”

“You are too, and why not? Like, obviously we know Liza better, but if you look at what’s on paper aren’t they almost the same?”

“We don’t know Y/N.”

“And yet here we are. Don’t be an asshole because you’re still waiting on Liza. You forget she was basically your first relationship. You’re only hurting yourself, David.”

“She seems desperate,” he offers in retaliation. He’s getting annoyed and he fucking hates it.

“She literally doesn’t. She thinks you’re cute. That’s not desperate. You know what’s desperate? Waiting on an ex when it’s been a whole year since you’ve broken up-“

“You know our break up wasn’t like that!”

“Yes, I do, Dave,” Natalie has turned to him now, not afraid to look him in the eye, “But I’m serious. You need to fucking move on.”

“I have moved on.”

“If you’ve moved on, why are we having this conversation?” He can only huff in response, aware of how correct Natalie is. She turns away and takes his exasperation as a victory, eyeing you as you spot your luggage and turn around, making your way back to them.

“Francine, you need to fucking cool it,” you warn, no real anger in your voice as you both walk ahead of Natalie and David. “He’s been sending mixed signals ever since I had drinks with Natalie at his house. Like, who the fuck says, ‘I guess,’ to being asked out on a date?”

“Oh, so he’s an asshole?” She whispers, leading you to your Uber. You reassure her he’s not, that he’s not an asshole asshole, but he’s also not trying his best to be friendly. Natalie had asked where Sienna and Tessa were before you had explained they were working, but would be free later that night and the next day. You and David didn’t speak for the rest of the morning, even through the car ride, hotel check in, luggage drop off at their hotel and Francine’s apartment, and breakfast. You don’t know how to take it and Francine doesn’t either. She pulls you aside in the bathroom at the restaurant, whispering to you about how cute he is and how you need to try harder. You reiterate to her that you are trying, very hard actually, but he isn’t being responsive. You even consider cancelling the date altogether, but Francine’s frantic “no, no, no, no” swayed you.

You and Francine are in the bathroom, Francine attempting to hype you up in the mirror while Natalie makes the effort to do the same to David at the table. She’s fixing his hoodie and pushing his hair to where it should be while calling him stupid for not flirting with you. Her reprimands go in one ear and out the other, denying that there’s any chemistry at all. There isn’t, not really; it’s mostly just a spectacle, and you both know it.

Breakfast and lunch go (mostly) smoothly, a few moments of awkward shared words between you two. You eventually David off to yourself behind the two girls while walking to give him Francine’s address and discuss the date details. You maintain eye contact with him during the exchange, deciding on a time he’d pick you up and where you’d go. He insists on Per Se, pointing it out as you pass it, laughing through your protests about it being too expensive and still not wanting him to pay.

“David, I’ve lived in New York my entire life and I think I’ve only been a handful of times. Like, you don’t get how expensive it is-“

“Y/N! It’s fine! I swear. I give people money to let me shoot them with paintball guns. I can take you to dinner.”

“Okay, but it’s not like we’re going to Chili’s! It’s one of the most expensive restaurants in all of Manhattan.”

“It’s fine. I’m taking you. End of!” You sulk as you tell Francine you should split up with David and Natalie, explaining that due to his expensive taste, you now must go shopping and recommend he goes as well.

“Now, explain to me, David, how in the fuck are you going to act like you don’t want to go on a date with her when you’re going to take her to a dinner that’s probably going to cost you over a grand? Plus, what she’s going to wear, what you’re going to wear, and whatever you guys do afterwards? Sounds like you’re in denial.” Natalie is filing through racks at Saks, doing all the work while David stands there.

“Natalie, there’s like, nothing between us,” he promises, “The girl deserves a good first date. If I can afford it, I’ll do it. And I can, so what’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is: you’re jumping through all of these hoops-“

“PLEASE remember that I literally did not know her name 24 hours ago!” She mutters a small whatever, tired of him. She can only hope you two will hit it off, so she won’t have to deal with him for the rest of the weekend. Natalie throws the hangers in her arms into his passive aggressively, telling him to go try the articles on and show her after each one. She might just kill him.

You and Francine’s conversation in the Saks dressing room mirrored David and Natalie’s almost exactly.

The date goes well, to put it bluntly. Almost too well. He did indeed pay a fixed price of three hundred and fifty dollars for the two of you, even insisting on buying an entire bottle of the most expensive Merlot they had, much to your dismay. You explained your job in further detail to him and him, almost tipsy after half a glass of wine, essentially told you his life story about Slovakia, Chicago, Natalie, high school, Vine, and YouTube. You let him and listened very intently as you snuck sips from his glass, knowing he’d be unable to finish it. It hit you how stupid he may be when the waitress ordered him to not touch his plate quite yet, as it was too hot, and he looked you in the eyes and touched the side of his plate with his index finger. He had too much money for his own good.

The check eventually came, his eyes widening as he told you how expensive of a date you were. The joke immediately went over your head, reaching for your wallet to pull out your card. He let you, knowing he was going to let it stay in your hand. You reached across the table to force it into his palm; instead, he dropped it back on the table, taking your hand in his as he flagged down the waitress.

“Ugh, you’re so annoying! Just let me pay.”

“You can get the milkshakes later,” he promises, quickly removing his hand from yours, able to tell you don’t know what quite to say. You kind of thought this would have been the entire date, and now he wants to extend it? A mere 12 hours ago he was giving you the cold shoulder on the plane and now he’s paying for a thousand-dollar dinner and essentially telling you he doesn’t want the date to end? He’s very talented at sending mixed signals. He’s sobered up now, sliding your card back to you as he places his own in his wallet.

After you leave, you somehow find the room in your stomachs to split a milkshake on 9th, two straws and all. You make sure to call him a liar as he pays for it (you knew he would). You wander through the city together, hand in hand, showing him where you went to school, your childhood apartment building, where you ate breakfast with your friends before school, your favorite bookstore, almost too much. You almost felt like you were being excessive, but the thumb rubbing the back of your hand told you otherwise. If it had been any other guy, you think you might be confident of their reciprocated feelings, but his mixed signals from earlier threw you off. You don’t know whether to take him legitimately or not, so you try not to get your hopes up…until you find yourself in the hallway of Francine’s apartment building, pressed up against her door, a soft thud emerging, as his lips land on yours. His hands on your waist, pulling you closer to him as he deepened the slow kisses immediately changed your mind. You pulled away from him, placing a final kiss on his lips and pushing slightly at his chest before anything more occurred (especially with Francine, Natalie, Sienna, and Tessa laughing on the other side of the door).

“Wait, Y/N,” he leaned in again, kissing you once more before leaning out and apologizing softly, murmuring a ‘Sorry, wanted it,’ and knocking on Francine’s door for you. You hear the feet shuffling to the door and give him a kiss on the cheek, as quick and wet as you can, before Natalie opens the door to two attempts at hiding smiles.

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