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seiya-starsniper · 18 days

Text

Rating: Teen || Chapters: 2/5 || Word Count 3.5k/??

Summary: The Dead Boy Detectives run into a familiar pub while out on a case, and Crystal has to contend with an unfortunate event from her past.

AO3 Tags: POV Multiple, Hob Gadling gives live advice to a bunch of teenagers, while helping them solve cases, that's it that's the fic, also he maybe plays matchmaker for his hot mess bestie

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 2 below, or using the link above on AO3!

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Hob Gadling considers himself to be a rather open minded man. He's lived hundreds of years, and seen thousands of strange and unusual things in that same amount of time, so the chances of something catching him completely off guard are rather slim in the year 2024.

The last few days, however, have proven that there are still many, many things that can surprise him.

One of those things being one Charles Rowland, who is currently waving at Hob from the entryway of the New Inn.

Hob normally doesn't like to get involved in anything having to do with the supernatural, and especially not anything related to the type of work that Edwin and Charles do. He'd met them purely by chance after some asshole with delusions of grandeur had tried to frame him for a series of murders. He’d sent Edwin and Charles on a wild goose chase in a poor attempt to cover his own tracks.

Hob thought that once they caught the real murderer together and cleared things up, that would be the end of things. But then, Hob kept getting involved in their cases over the years, all of them entirely on accident. Eventually, somewhere between the fourth and fifth poltergeist, Hob decided he might as well figure out how to defend himself against supernatural entities, and maybe make himself useful for these poor boys too. They certainly needed all the help they could get.

Hob had been glad to hear that Edwin and Charles had recently gotten some sort of amnesty in exchange for continuing to help ghosts and other souls move on. It was good work, what these boys did. Hob has seen ghosts that haunted the same places for centuries finally be to pass on into the afterlife thanks to them. And now, they not only had permission to keep going, but had gotten more help to do it too.

The addition of Crystal to their little crew had been a surprise, and Jenny an even bigger surprise, though the latter seems less interested in solving cases, and more in making sure Crystal doesn't get herself killed in the process.

Still, Hob's only ever seen the teens all together in some sort of group, never alone, and he's definitely never seen Charles without Edwin. From the moment Hob had first met the two ghost boys, they’d always been a singular unit in his mind. And yet here Charles was, alone and looking strangely expectant while trying to appear casual as he waits for Hob to close out the tabs on the last remaining lunch hour patrons.

“Everything all right?” Hob asks when Charles approaches him once his last customer leaves.

“Of course!” Charles answers, his signature smile bright on display. “I was just in the neighborhood and wanted to say hello. And to thank you again for the assist the other day.”

As a ghost, Charles is technically always in the neighborhood, so Hob knows that that’s not all that there is to his visit. It also hasn't escaped Hob's notice that Charles specifically picked the one day Jenny wasn't working the kitchen this week to drop by the pub. He clearly doesn’t want anyone to know that he’s here.

But Hob knows by now how to deal with skittish teenagers. Even dead ones.

“Well I'm almost done here and then I'm gonna head upstairs for a cuppa,” Hob says. Mark’s going to be here soon to relieve me of duty. Happy to have some company if you have the time to spare for an old man.”

“Oh! Yeah sure, I'm not busy,” Charles says, and cute that he’s still trying to pretend that he hadn’t come here with a purpose, when his eagerness is so clearly written all over his face. “Don't need any food though, as you know.”

“Sure, sure,” Hob replies, waving his hand dismissively so Charles can head upstairs ahead of him. He's going to make a cup of tea for Charles anyways. The boy always seemed to love the steam that came out of the mugs, even though he’d never admit it out loud.

Mark comes in exactly at 2:00pm, and Hob chats with him for a few minutes, before he clocks out and heads upstairs to his flat above the pub. Charles is already waiting for him in the living room, and Hob immediately sets to the task of warming up some hot water in the kettle and grabbing some mugs for tea.

“So how are things at the agency?” Hob asks as he waits for the water to heat. “Busy as ever, or more so now that you’ve got yourselves a psychic?”

“Definitely busier,” Charles says. “Crystal’s been a massive help with our cases, we're solving them even faster than before.”

“Good,” Hob replies, just as the kettle clicks, letting him know the water is done. “I’m glad she’s using her powers for good nowadays,” he adds as he brings the two mugs over to the couch. Charles looks surprised by the extra mug, but accepts it without a word. Hob doesn’t expect him to drink any of the tea, of course, but as predicted, Charles seems to fall into a trance watching the steam rise out of the cup.

“Thanks for not giving her too much of a hard time,” Charles says when Hob sits down in the recliner across from him. “She’s been really down on herself lately for everything in her past.”

“I can only imagine,” Hob agrees. He knew a thing or two about wanting to reinvent oneself and burning away the past. He’s had hundreds of years to do so after all. In fact, it could even be argued that Crystal was far ahead of where Hob would’ve been had he been in her shoes. The girl he’d met a few nights ago was so different from the one he’d met a year ago in court that Hob would’ve thought she had a twin instead.

“Seems like you two get along well,” Hob notes after a brief silence has passed. Charles perks up immediately, taking the opening in the conversation.

“We do,” Charles replies, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She’s amazing.”

“Yeah? So are the two of you a thing then?” Hob asks, and would you look at that, turns out ghosts can blush after all.

“I—maybe?” Charles says, his voice pitched higher with uncertainty. “I don’t know, actually. I mean, it's, well…complicated I guess?”

“How so?” Hob asks. He’d suspected there had been something going on between them, it was obvious in their body language, and how they gently teased one another throughout the night after the banshee had gone. Now Charles is talking like a man newly in love and completely besotted.

“Is she giving you mixed signals?” Hob follows up when Charles doesn't answer.

“No!” Charles exclaims, shaking his head. “It’s me really, I’m—I don’t know.” He sighs in frustration and runs a hand through his hair. “I thought for a while that’s what I wanted and then Edwin—” he suddenly cuts himself off, a small amount of panic now crossing his features.

Ah. Now the reason for Charles' visit suddenly makes itself clear. Crystal clear even, but Hob keeps that terrible pun to himself.

“So Edwin finally told you how he felt about you?” Hob asks, deciding to rip the bandage off now and quell the strange awkwardness in the room. Charles’ head whips up so fast Hob feels his own neck start to cramp up in sympathy.

“You knew ?” Charles asks. “But Edwin said he’d only figured it out when we were in Port Townsend!”

Hob shrugs. “Sometimes, things are easier to spot when you’re not in the middle of them,” he replies. “But it was pretty clear that, at the very least, Edwin considered you the most important person to him. It's not surprising he fell in love with you too.”

“You really think so?” Charles asks. “Because I don't—I’d never really thought about it before, you know? He's my most important person too, but I never thought that we would be more than that. But now that he's said it, I can't stop thinking about it.”

“Yeah?” Hob asks. “Does it bother you that he feels that way?” A shake of the head. Good. “Do you ever think you could return those feelings?”

“I don’t know, and that’s the problem!” Charles cries, his voice pitching near to a whine. He stands and paces around Hob’s living room, and Hob has to try not to laugh into his tea. Teenage problems were always the same, whether a live or dead.

“To be honest, I’m still really into Crystal,” Charles starts, “...but then after everything with Edwin, and what happened to Niko, I started thinking, well, how long will that really last? Crystal’s alive, I’m not. She’s going to—she won’t—she’ll eventually—”

“Grow up?” Hob offers when the teen can’t find the right words. “Grow old, hopefully? Live a fulfilling life with someone else that’s flesh and blood?”

“I—yeah. Ideally yes,” Charles replies, though it's clear the thought bothers him by the way he scrunches his features. “But also, what if us being together puts her in too much danger? What if she—if what happened to Niko happens to her, I couldn't bear it, Mr. Gadling.”

“Hob,” Hob corrects the boy gently. “I've told you before that you don't need to call me Mister anything, makes me feel way older than I already feel,” he adds with a laugh. Charles gives him a half smile and just shrugs helplessly. Some habits were impossible to break, it seemed.

“And those are perfectly reasonable fears to have,” Hob continues. “Crystal is her own person though, and you need to take into account that she might find the risk worth it. And to be honest, I feel like the risk to her life is the same, whether you two are romantically involved or not.”

“Yeah, I suppose you're right,” Charles agrees, flopping back down onto Hob’s couch and staring back into the still steaming mug of tea. “So do you think we should give it a go, then?”

Hob shrugs. “I think you two like each other,” he replies, “but whether you think a relationship is worth it is up to you. Does Edwin know about you two?”

“He knows—some stuff yeah,” Charles replies sheepishly. “I had told him I liked her way before he, you know, confessed to me and all. And like, even afterwards, it seems like he’s fine, but I really don’t know if it’s all actually fine, or if he’s just trying to act like he’s fine just because I look fine but he’s not really fine and what if I’ve mucked everything up or—”

“Hey, slow down, Charles,” Hob interjects, and the boy’s mouth clicks shut immediately. “From what I can see, nothing has changed between you, so I wouldn't worry about it,” he adds, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. “Besides, you and Edwin have been together this long now, you've got more than enough time to sort things out, one way or the other.”

“Yeah,” Charles agrees, his voice now wistfully soft and clearly full of affection. “When we were in Hell, I said that to him,you know. That we have eternity to figure it all out.”

“Did you now?” Hob asks, now smiling himself. “Sounds like you two are on the same page then, as per usual. Now you just need to make a decision yourself and Crystal.”

“Yeah…yeah you're right,” Charles says, seeming to come to a decision. His back straightens and he sits up, his signature smile back on his face. “Edwin and I may have forever, but Crystal doesn't and it's rude to keep a lady waiting right?”

“Absolutely," Hob replies.

Charles leaves shortly after, promising not to overthink everything and let his feelings come naturally to him. Hob is fairly certain he knows where things will land eventually, and he's sure Charles does too. It doesn't make the journey to get there any less worthwhile.

#dead boy detectives #dead boy detectives fanfic #the sandman #payneland #dreamling #charles rowland #edwin payne #crystal palace #hob gadling #seiya writes #seiya writes dbda #chapter 2 let's go friends whooooo

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thefirstknife · 1 year

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I do genuinely like Crow but putting him in the season mixed with the Amanda stuff took away from what was advertised as a Mara focused season. She was the only one on the banner.

Usually other NPCs are on it too if they're involved.

I'm worried they think that if Mara is involved then Crow is a must. We essentially wrapped up his arc relating to his past in Haunted.

Yeah, pretty much. Or, if Crow is kind of a given with Mara, why not focus just on them? Probably not enough content to fill the whole season and they do tend to have 4-5 characters in a season.

I'm really happy we got to see Devrim again and I love the whole story of Mara immediately pledging to help us with the invasion. That's what her entire goal has been the whole time! She DIED to protect Earth and the solar system! Seeing her actively helping us again is really good. But I expected more from that, something similar to Lost?

Speaking of Devrim, I thought we'd get Suraya, not Amanda. I am just very sad about this perfect opportunity to involve Suraya and nothing happening. Not even a mention in lore? Devrim didn't ask for Suraya at all? Marc either? That's their daughter. Suraya didn't ask about Devrim, her dad, working in the field actively? If they couldn't get the VA back in time, at least a lore tab?

But yeah, some gripes about the season now that the main bulk of it is over. We're definitely getting some sort of epilogue because we need 1 more lore tab of the seasonal lore book AND Amanda's lore book. The fact that we're missing one page of Amanda's lore book has recently been bothering me because it sort of implies Amanda's story isn't done. Like, why didn't we get the final page yet? Her story should be over now. Unless it isn't. Which is, hm.

This ties into Crow and Amanda stuff as well, because if she isn't done and if she really is coming back as a Guardian, then Crow will also have to take more time to deal with that and the new storyline between Crow and Amanda. Which will also necessitates Mara but it won't be ABOUT Mara. Or about Mara and Crow.

Definitely some odd setups happening, but we can't really know anything in advance currently. No clue what plotlines they might have planned out, maybe it will be really interesting and important. Still, I definitely would've preferred something less disjointed.

#destiny 2 #season of defiance #ask

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wtfevenismypage · 4 years

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Observer, not Profiler PT.2

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!reader

Summary: You’re similar to a profiler, but you can tell almost anything about a person just from a single glance. What they had for dinner, if they took a bath or shower, their name, favorite color, if they lie, even if they’re good in bed. You’ve been running from the government ever since you got caught hacking into their systems and since then you have been diagnosed with Extreme anxiety, anxious tics, and paranoia. But now the BAU need you’re help in Identifying killers.

Warnings: mentions of murder, mentions of child porn(for the case, doesn’t go into detail), mentions of corpses, probably a few curse words.

You watch as everyone separates, and you follow The three agents to a room with a round table and a board of pictures with dead women.

“what can you tell us about this man?”

Agent Aaron sets a file down on the table as Spencer gestures for you to sit down.

You open the file, looking at pictures of a man with short hair and a muscly build.

“His name is Maxwell, He’s thirty four. In this picture he had just finished... killing a woman. He probably had to force her away from a crowd because his social skills are lacking, he treats women like toys and men like competition. He’s a severe liar. He won’t just lie when it’s essential he’ll lie about anything for no reason. He’s killed before, but this time was for fun. He was bored.”

Agent Prentiss stares at you with her jaw on the floor, and your gaze drops to the floor.

“Okay that’s awesome. How do you do that?”

You shrug shyly before meeting her eyes.

“I’ve been able to do it ever since I was a little girl. I’m not sure why though. Don’t think I really want to know either...”

“He killed for fun?”

You nod at Aaron’s question, looking back down to avoid his steel cold stare.

“Okay, that got us much further than we could have gotten by ourselves, thank you Y/n.”

The scary agent says, returning to the victim board and analyzing everything.

It’s been hours. You’ve sat in this room for hours and they have nothing else.

To say you’re tired was an extreme understatement. You’ve gone three days without sleep and another three days without eating. You’re body is screaming at you to go to sleep, to just pass out right then and there, but you know you can’t.

“Y/n, are you alright?”

You nod, staring at the pictures of the dead, mutilated women. You didn’t understand how someone could do this.

“I don’t understand how you guys do this job... Staring at dead bodies all the time... You guys gotta have some sort of super power to be able to stomach this...”

Emily stifles a laugh before setting a hand on your shoulder, squeezing it gently before patting it twice.

“You get over it eventually, but it always haunts you.”

You let out a quiet yawn before closing your eyes and turning away from the board, the dead body sticking on your eyelids.

“Hey, I’m going out to get food, what do you all want?”

JJ says, standing in the doorway as Spencer, Aaron and Emily request their food.

“What do you want Y/n?”

You look up shocked, not expecting the offer of food.

“Umm... I’ll uh... Anything is fine I guess... Thank you.”

She smiles and nods before walking out. You sit down on a chair, your feet screaming hallelujah at the feeling of finally resting.

Spencer sits down next to you, handing you a bottle of water which you accept gratefully.

“You need to sleep, how long has it been since you last slept?”

You let out a chuckle, rubbing your sore eyes.

“I don’t know...Maybe, two, three days?”

Aaron- Hotch, turns to you with furrowed brows and mock concern.

“You need to rest. Reid, set up a cot for her in an empty office.”

You shake your head with lidded eyes.

“No no, I’m fine I’m-”

You’re cut off by your own yawn. A faint blush creeps up on your cheeks while you rest your head on the table.

“M’ fine.”

The world slowly fades out as they call out your name again, but you’re already out cold.

When you wake up, you’re in a small sleeping bag on the floor, a pillow comforting your head. You’re up in a bolt, looking around warily before remembering what had happened withing the last twenty four hours.

Oh yeah... The FBI is using me..

You walk to the door with a sigh, looking around at the somewhat empty police station, a few officers working the stations, but it’s practically empty.

A blonde woman in colorful clothes walks by, pausing when she sees you.

“You, with me, now.”

She continues speed-walking on after that, and you run after her, following right on her heels.

“The team went out on a wild goose chase after the unsub, I need you and your magic hands to help me get into this guy’s computer, it’s blocked like nothing I’ve seen before, together we should be able to get in.”

You cringe at the thought of hacking, you haven't since the incident, but this woman is in the FBI and you’re pretty sure it’s unwise to disobey her.

“Yes ma’am.”

She smirks and turns to you, but doesn’t say anything as she leads you into a room with five computers.

“Alright, we have to be quick. This guy is gonna kill again in ten minutes. I have the team on the line, anything you find, anything at all, tell them.”

You nod and sit at one of the two wheely chairs, looking at the database of the killers computer.

“A hash tree data structure, this dude likes things in groups. He has a NoSQL object oriented database and heavy protection on everything, he’s spent a lot of time protecting his files. This isn’t gonna be easy and I’m really rusty.”

You begin typing in every word combo you can think of, typing as fast as possible.

“Just do the best you can.”

Hotchner says over the speaker, you listen, continuing with any word combo you can think of when remembering his face.

Six minutes pass and you and Penelope still have nothing.

“Can I see another picture of him?”

She tosses a file to you, which you yank open, looking at the photo’s of him.

“Try anything star wars related, specifically characters, maybe a villain of the series.”

You tell her before tossing the folder aside and using your own advice.

Finally, you hear that satisfying noise of success from Penelope’s computer.

“We’re in.”

She enter’s the password into the computer you’re manning, which leads you to a killer’s screen.

A mutilated woman is the background, and you flinch away.

“Oh god...”

You click onto google, but it’s no better, every tab is war and chaos and horrible things. Child porn seems to be popular with him.

“Go through his stuff, look for anywhere he might be.”

You ignore all of the destruction on his desk top, clicking through everything before discovering a location.

“Got it! Go to the daycare at the Starrmole mall!”

“Copy that, all units to the Starrmole mall.”

You close the computer tabs, looking away and turning to Penelope.

“We did it my wonder girl!”

You smile as she holds her hand out for a high five, and you happily smack her hand before sitting back.

“Y’know, you would be really helpful around the office, specifically our offices?”

You look at her, shocked. Was she really recommending that you join the FBI? You couldn’t even say the word without spiraling into a tic attack.

“W-what? You... You want me to... To...”

“I think you would be great at it. You could help me out here, You don’t have to go on the field, you and I could do some serious damage together. The job pays fairly well too!”

At seeing your conflicted face, she sighs before setting a hand on your shoulder.

“Just think about it, okay?”

You nod with furrowed brows before the two of you walk out, waiting for the rest of the station to arrive.

It could be a smart Idea, working for the government instead of against it. Plus, you could do what you love again without fear of being locked up, but then again, you would have to get over looking at dead bodies everyday, you had to be ready to see them at any time.

Instead of thinking about it any longer, you direct your focus to something, or someone, else.

How the hell am I not able to read him?

You think to yourself when the image of the young Doctor fills your brain. You didn’t understand how he managed to avoid your reading, but it made you incredibly curious.

“So, what can you tell me about Dr. Reid?”

You ask Penelope with a slight blush on your cheeks. She looks at you, eyes wide and Jaw on the floor.

“Do you like him?”

You shake your head no, you had just met him! Yeah sure, maybe he was cute, but you didn’t like him like that!

“No way! Not like that! I was just confused at why I couldn’t read him! I don’t like him like that!”

“Like who like what?”

You jump in the air at the new voice, the tall Reid apologizing before sitting down across you and Penelope.

“No one! Like no one like nothing!”

You say rather aggressively, making Reid raise his hands in faux surrender, a smile plastered on his face as he laughs.

“Sorry I asked. So are you thinking of joining the Bureau?”

Your head tilts in confusion as you look at him, how the hell did he know that? As if he could hear your thoughts, he gives an answer.

“Garcia forgot to hang up, so we heard the conversation. Well I heard, everyone else shut their devices off, but I was pretty far away so I just turned around and came back.”

You and Penelope nod, but you look away.

“I’m not sure... I just... I spent my entire life running, but you guys found me, and now I’m supposed to join the forces of good and fight crime? I’m just having a difficult time deciding.”

They look at you with an understanding look, they know you’re having a difficult time with all of this, suddenly being pushed to let down all of your walls now. They knew you hated being center of attention.

Damn profilers...

You almost laugh at your thoughts, but you can’t, because the rest of the profilers and the Police just walked in with a serial killer.

“Well, you might want to choose quickly. We leave first thing in the morning. If you want to join the Bureau, I can talk to Hotch about bringing you with us on the jet, if not, we’ll arrange another jet to take you to any city you want, and you can start living there.”

Your mouth hangs open, it was already ten p.m, and you only had until morning to figure this out? Fucking perfect.

“I’ll go talk to Hotch about it. Spencer, give the girl some space to think, alright?”

The two nod at each other before walking off, Garcia going to inform Hotch and Spencer going to talk to the killer.

“This is a fucking mess.”

You’ve spent the entire night thinking your options over, but you were still no closer to a choice than you were four hours ago.

The night is silent. The entire office is asleep and you’re sipping on a cup of coffee, watching the stars as your debate marches on in your brain.

“Hey.”

It’s a deep voice, Derek, he sits in a chair next to you, plopping an arm on the back of your chair.

“Can’t sleep huh?”

You chuckle.

“That’s an oversimplification. I’m just trying to decide what the hell I’m going to do. If I join you, there are so many good things that’ll come out of it, but if I don’t-”

“You aren’t joining the FBI because you’re scared. You think you’re betraying yourself. I’ll tell you right now you aren’t betraying anyone. This is a chance to help yourself. To try something new. It’s a great job believe it or not, and I think you’ll fit right in with the team. Reid, Garcia, Emily, and I already think you’re great, but if you really don’t want to, nobodies making you okay?”

You nod, tears in your eyes as Derek brings you to a realization. You never even thought of it that way, but it made complete sense. Of course you held back because you didn’t want to betray yourself, you always did everything for your past self.

“Thank you Derek...”

Reid already thinks you’re great.

A smile crawls onto your face at the friendships that could be made. Just imagining working late nights with Dr. Reid made you happy.

“Does... Does Dr. Reid really think I’m great?”

He laughs before standing up and walking away.

That didn’t answer my question...

You think to yourself before returning your gaze to the sky. It was so bright, the stars were so easily seen at night. It was gorgeous, the way that the night sky was illuminated with constellations.

The rest of the night is quiet, you let yourself forget about the debate of the FBI job and you let yourself relax, listening to the hum of quiet jazz playing on the speakers.

When the rest of the police department wakes up, the FBI profilers included, they’re saying goodbye to the team and writing in their files.

The team walks over to where you sit, looking at the sky as you sip on coffee.

“Well, have you made a decision?”

Hotch asks, you look down and spin around to face them, glancing at their shoes nervously before speaking.

“Well, I have decided... And my decision is that...”

A/N: I gotta be honest, I didn't expect that many people to enjoy this story! Just so ya’ll know, Requests are open! If you would like to request a fic for Reid, hotch, morgan, emily, dad!rossi (No romance for rossi, sorry) or any marvel character, just go ahead and ask! Keep me busy guys!

Taglist:

@imsuperawkward @ithinkilovetruecrimetoomuch @l0ve-0f-my-life @hopebaker @spencerreidisbootiful @thatsonezesty13 @nightlygiggless @holybatflapexpert @aberrant-annie @wasabiwitteks

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mooncat457writing · 3 years

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Fic Writer Interview

Thank you @swottypotter for the tag! This is a delightful way to review my year of fic writing and procrastinate on an outline.

Name: Erin

Fandoms: Fanfic wise, I only write for Harry Potter. I read some RWRB stuff, but haven’t written it. Non-fanfic wise, so many things. I cosplay so I’m into a lot of things like Game of Thrones, Disney, Marvel, Doctor Who, Riverdale, CW Arrowverse... I’m just a huge nerd y’all.

Where you post: AO3 and tumblr.

Most popular one-shot: Playing Nurse. It was the first thing I published for Wolfstar.

Playing Nurse (4.1K, T)

Sirius and Remus finally figure out their feelings for each other when Sirius takes care of Remus after a particularly bad full moon.

Most popular multi-chapter: Of Queries and Quarantines. When I came up with the idea for it, I was so sure that people were going to think it was dumb that I almost didn’t write it, but then it wouldn’t leave my head, so I wrote it. I’m so glad I did, too. I honestly think it’s one of the best things I’ve written. I’m so attached to it.

Of Queries and Quarantines (9 chapters, 51K, E)

A story set in the middle of the pandemic in which Sirius is hired at the Potter’s publishing company and Remus is responsible for training him. Lots of texting, lots of video calls, lots of mutual pining, and a lot of really bad literature quotes.

Favorite story you’ve written so far: Ohhhh this is tough. I want to say Queries because I’m so damn proud of it, but I actually think it’s I Don’t Bite. That fic was so fun to write. I love sexy, confident Remus.

I Don’t Bite (6.6K, M)

Halloween was Sirius Black’s favorite holiday. He loved every part, from planning the perfect costume to throwing the kick-ass party that everyone would talk about for weeks to come. Okay, and sure, maybe the irresistible curly-haired, green-eyed cutie dressed as a werewolf that just walked through his front door didn’t hurt either.

Fic you were nervous to post: Of fics I can talk about right now? The Path to You. It was the first time I wrote something non-linearly, so it made me nervous. Although, since I’ve kinda fallen in love with the story telling method when it comes to prompts, because now I’m doing the same thing for RJ’s Christmas Prompts. But The real answer is my Wolfstar Games fic, but that hasn’t been revealed yet so I can’t say much more than that.

The Path to You (Series of 10 fics, 12.6K)

A series of moments over the course of Sirius and Remus’ relationship told non-linearly. Written for 10 Days of Healing: Wolfstar Comfort Mini-Fest 2020.

How do you choose your titles: I don’t really have a set method. Sometimes I steal lines from the fic, sometimes I think of a title then use that wording as a line in the fic, sometimes I steal lyrics from songs that are tangentially related to the fic. But sometimes it’s none of these. I do make sure that the title of the fic makes sense though, at least once you’ve read the entire thing anyway.

Do you outline: 98% of the time. The only times I don’t are for tumblr prompts (but sometimes I even outline for those). At a minimum, I have a general plot summary of the entire thing that usually is a mix of plot and dialogue, but for my longer fics I have an entire scene plot broken down into a three act structure, word count targets for each scene, character diagrams, research tabs, etc etc. Yes, I’m insane.

Complete: Everything on my AO3 right now is complete with the exception of OWLs and my series of tumblr ficlet collections.

In Progress: OWLs. I’m not going to link it, because, it’s taunting me right now. It’s a retelling of OOTP from the POV of an OC of mine, and I made the mistake of not outlining before starting to write and post, because I hit a plot block back in July and I’ve been too busy with other fics to go back and fix it so I can continue. I love that story, but right now it’s haunting me 🙈

Coming Soon: On the immediate horizon (aka scheduled) are my Cinderella AU for Marauders Fest fic and secret fics for Fireside Tales and Remus Lupin Fest. Not so scheduled but in the works are a Hufflepuff Sirius AU and a sequel to I Don’t Bite.

Prompts: Yes please! I occasionally open my prompts officially and post prompt lists I want to write from, but I’m also open to people just dropping their own prompts in my inbox. I can’t promise I’ll write them in any timely fashion, but I’ll get to them eventually 😊

I have no idea who’s done this, so feel free to ignore me: @kattlupin, @lupinmoons, @justtoarguewithyou, @remus-john-lupin, @asnowpuff, @dduucckk, @sunflower-swan

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nurseofren · 4 years

Text

Keeping Your Promise - Chapter 22

Read on AO3

Read chapter twenty-one

Title: CONNECTION LOST

Words: 5800

Warnings: Rape (bow out if you need to, I will include a brief summary in the end notes), graphic descriptions of violence, graphic descriptions of trauma.

Summary: When it rains, it pours. And then the world starts to explode. So it's all just a giant mess.

ST Rambles: Did not upload yesterday because I wanted to take my time instead of rush this thing out. I truly hope you all have enjoyed the story thus far.

Okay, so. My ADN classes and clinical start again on Thursday. What this means: I'm taking a 2-3 week break from writing so I can get into a good rhythm for school and just find my bearings. I think this is a perfect place to take a break. It'll act as an intermission in a way. Jeez, I think you all have earned one by now.

[MASTERLIST]

Excess saline dripped in crimson creaks toward the floor, a bog forming beneath a shaking foot onto a towel. Two empty flushes laid in their respective positions, remaining diagonal to each other as they’d landed earlier. Another towel was set below your thigh as you propped it onto the bathroom counter with your knee bent over the edge, choosing to remain standing rather than chance losing the ability to crawl up from the floor if you’d sat. With every thumb-push of the syringe plunger new streaks of liquid agony soaked into the red, throbbing, raging wounds; each lick of searing solution reminding you of their harbinger, your tongue stained in acrid remembrance of the words which had fallen from it.

I hate you. The phrase you’d feared most had turned out to be the least insidious, its existence light-hearted in relation to the ones that came quickly after. The simple statement had catalyzed the catastrophe, its memory burning what remained of your heart, ashes now dormant and gray within your chest, each beat superficial in the way it sustained a life you no longer wanted. It was difficult to name what you were feeling, the uncertainty rooted in the fact that you were twisted in the clutch of grief and guilt while also floating in a nebula of numbness, the contradiction dissonant and dizzying.

With each haunting phrase, each sharp with a venomous bite, new collections of misery scathed into the scarring tissue, each tear acidic in its salty existence. A recoil was earned whenever recalling the wrath that inhabited Kylo Ren’s tone when he called you a liar, its mental presence ricocheting between your ears and setting your skin aflame with goosebumps, each wave of heated chills revitalizing the blistering burns as they settled into their intentional permanence.

Upon your left thigh, bright and belligerent and baleful, sitting just above the hem of your uniform, stung the evidence of Kylo Ren’s indignation. Staring down at the welts – two pointed, laser-sharp letters – shame accompanied the initial longing regard you held for the brand. You now bore the undeniable truth of your time with Kylo Ren, a raised K set in finality next to a partnering R, the pain-inked initials tied to a turmoil laden conflict you didn’t want to acknowledge. It was too pitiful, too pathetic and disgusting even in the infancy of its consideration.

At the fringes of your mind, the dark corners of consciousness you rarely visited, sprung an aching truth that thrashed against every belief you thought you’d once held. Yet, with each shiv of shaky air, every dagger of dread pitted in pain, you came closer to accepting it. Barely below the surface now, even as the injury pulsated with piercing torment, smarted in sync with the blatant beat of your heart, you could not deny the fact that you felt deserving of its detriment and relieved by its reality. As you tended to the wounds, using whatever scrapped supplies you’d accidentally brought home from the med bay, you fought to react in a way that would be appropriate to this situation.

The malice-born mark should have tinged your blood with fury. In its wake, the aura of red which bled outward from each initial should have filled your lungs with an indisputable hostility towards their maker. Right now, suffering in solitude, you were supposed to be cursing Kylo Ren, spitting his name and screaming hellfire over him as he’d singed into you. There was an overwhelming presence of heavy self-set expectation to sink into an unrivaled hatred for the creature you’d left in that room, the same who’d left less permanent proof in the past. Though, while the targeted tissue throbbed below your trembling hands as you attempted to apply an antibacterial protectant, you found it impossible to feel anything but misery for him.

The haunting image of Kylo Ren’s fleeting soul tore talons into your chest, a coughed sob echoing in your empty residence as you replayed the tangible change in his demeanor. Had light been scarce you swore you could’ve seen the shroud of darkness fog into his sclera, set his jaw flat and firm as he’d backed away from you. Swiping the salve over your wound you shuddered into yourself, time barely hindering the void tone with which he’d rescinded his trust, the abandonment in his voice contradicting the promise you’d made him the night he’d spoken protection over you.

Time ticked on, each second one of slow suffering. As you healed the outward wounds, inward ones formed fresh and raw, head pounding with pain and regret. Even that made wrought you with guilt. The whole reason you’d gone through with Snoke’s plan was to save Mason; his life had been equated to a trading card and it had been your doing. The least you could do was free him from the hell only intended for you. But, similar to the way regarded your new scars, shame took root in the acceptance that you didn’t deem the deal a fair wager.

Maybe it was just the immediacy of the situation, or maybe you were crueler than you’d once believed, but as you’d watched Kylo rip away from you, there was a silent moment where you wished you could allow yourself to embrace the selfishness that would keep him in your life. If you’d had the time to think on it, or if the ultimatum had been less dire, less fatal, in that moment you were swallowed by the fact that your choice would have been Kylo. Completely, entirely, wholly, undoubtedly, instantaneously. Mason had been a comfort for years, someone to rely on, the boy you’d founded a fictional future with. But you’d never wanted him the way you did Kylo. It was the most foreign, mortifying thought you’d ever held, but, however small, there was a part of you that would always choose Kylo. Over Mason. Over anyone.

“Fuck!” Anger swelled as a flare of pain lashed under your touch while applying a saline saturated gauze. “I hate this!” No one was around to hear you, but that was always when the harshest truths hit.

Steadying yourself with the counter and the door, you hobbled away from your working position, affected leg just barely grazing the ground while you made your way into the kitchen. “How did this even fucking happen? Why did it have to be me?” You stood away from a drawer, activating it and digging around until you found a roll of paper tape. “I left here this morning hating him. Why can’t I just go back? I-,” a strangle of tears came, fingers prying uselessly to find the start. “I want to go back.” Thick and faltered, the words fell from devastated lips.

Giving up on your hands you ripped your teeth into the waxy material, spitting the torn tape from your mouth once you finally found the start tab. A rush of hysterics hit, lungs stuttering in defensive laughter. “You can probably fucking hear me, I bet! What, you saw me then, why not now? Why wouldn’t you see me like this, you fucked, disgusting, wretched, voyeuristic scum!”

Pressing down on the damp gauze, keeping it in place, you reached into the drawer once more to grab a roll of left over Kerlix. Tearing it open – again, with your teeth – you pressed it against your upper thigh and held it in place, regarding your scars covered the surface area that spanned the length of your pinky, both horizontally and vertically. Wrapping the rolled gauze continuously around your upper thigh, you couldn’t help but appreciate how precise and clean the letters were. Even brandishing a pen of pain Kylo Ren’s handwriting was beautiful, the thought bringing you a hesitant warmth with a short burst of guilt. The uproar of conflict currently battling in your soul would surely be the death of you.

Taking the last strip of tape, you secured the dressing, smoothing your left hand over it to make sure friction was minimal. While doing so, you caught sight of a flashing message scrawling across in bright red capital letters. The radar had disappeared altogether, not only vacant of the red dot indicative of Kylo’s location, but even of the faint red lines it had moved across. Waiting until the message cycled through until the beginning, you felt your lungs empty as the last letter solidified the severance from your Master.

CONNECTION LOST

“No. No. No no no. Why?” Frenzied fingers tread through sweat sodden roots, pain shooting up your leg as it bore new weight. “I didn’t ever want this! Why? Why? Why?” Sinking to the floor, willfully basking in the pain, you crumpled onto the tile until ice bit the backs of your calves.

Heaves of air collected and left in rushed lungfuls, choked cries reverberating through the room while the heels of your hands dammed the influx of tears. A frantic effort was made to think of anything else, a distraction sought in the face of your now official loss. Cycling through this morning you recalled conversations held by stormtroopers on the Command Shuttle, sharing news and celebrating in the fact that the Republic had been destroyed just prior to landing on Takodana. Mason had gone out of his way all those weeks ago to tell you of the mandatory rally, only for neither of you to be on Starkiller to attend it. It had to have been at least two hours since it occurred, its contents and importance still a mystery to you. A shawl of shivers fell onto heavy shoulders, that feeling of dread you’d felt this morning reminding you of how this day had begun on an off note, like it was destined for doom.

A click and a hiss came from behind, your heart stalling and nose sniffling. The only other person who could have access to your residence was-

“Kylo?” It was a quiet plead.

There was no response, no movement. Unease struck the hairs on the back of your neck. Looking back to your watch, the same message still running across the screen, you didn’t know what to think. The first thing that came to mind was to grovel, to take his sudden presence in stride and fulfill your wishes of selfishness. This was your opportunity to tell him everything, already knowing the excruciating truth of not doing so earlier. Him coming back gave you the chance to right all the wrong done today.

Sloppy, careless movements brought you to your knees. Seething, you remained here while the stinging diminished. “Kylo, none of it was true! You were right. I don’t hate you. I don’t. I promise, I don’t. I can’t.” Confessions were abundant while he evaded your senses. “Snoke. It was all Snoke. He threatened Mason, and, and I had to. Please, you have to understand!”

There was still no answer, but a hiss; it was similar to the mask’s muzzle, but not exact. The difference was strange, like your ears were playing tricks. The sound was closer than the door, still out of sight.

“Kylo, I’m so sorry! I’ll do any- ah!” No matter how tender you tried to be, attempting to stand without pain proved impossible. “I’ll do anything. But please know that I didn’t mean any of that! You aren’t irredeemable. You’re not a bastard. I never… I never want to forget you.”

“And you won’t, I promise. Though, I’d prefer you call me by my name.”

Just as soon as you’d regained an upright posture, you nearly lost it. It was Robbie. He was in your residence. He was here. Robbie was here, talking, with you. At you.

“You know the one.” He came into view, armor intact other than his helmet. “Miss me?”

“How are you- how did you get-,”

“Mm, you really should be more careful, especially with belongings like this.” Robbie, wicked eyes slithering down your stature, held a black rectangle between two fingers. “You never know who might get a hold of them.”

As light glinted over the object your chest sunk in instant realization. It had been so long ago, such a minute occurrence that you hadn’t thought anything of it. All those weeks ago, only a few days after Kylo had barred your practice, you had lost the keycard he’d given you. The one that had been folded into his note was lost in an accidental run-in with a stormtrooper. Its absence had only been noticed a few hours after losing it in the cafeteria, when leaving Mason’s and having to get an emergency replacement that day.

“Don’t do this. You don’t have to do this.” A hobbled step neared you towards the counter.

“I told you the last time we spoke—” the card hit the floor with a booming clip, its sound lost in your pulse “—this isn’t over.” A slow step carried him forward, sending you back further. “Almost, but not just yet.”

His presence was mutilating, every muscle tensing even as your leg throbbed in rejection. The edge of the counter bit at the small of your back, hands gripping into the edges.

“Why are you doing this? Why now? Why me?” It seemed that was the question of the day. Two quivering lips took turns quieting pain and hiding fear.

“Why am I doing this?” He was a madman, visage void of sanity. Another calculated step forward, your pulse peaking. “I knew you were stupid, but this? Come on, you don’t actually think you’re completely innocent here, do you?”

One final step and he was smothering you, fury sweltering as it drifted from his skin to yours. His jugular vein was throbbing to match one prominent on his forehead. Kylo’s eyes may have resembled the emptiness of death, but Robbie’s were swimming with a vengeful desire to deliver it. Vomit rose when you smelled his breath, felt it hot over your nose in his proximity.

“Maybe you can learn, though.” He brushed a piece of your hair behind your ear, clammy hands slick over burning skin, scanning eyes set in thought. “Maybe you’re not completely helpless after all.”

Two hands strangled your own, tightened them to the counter as he pressed his chest against you, leaning down until he could bury his nose in the collar of your uniform. A complete breath hadn’t come since seeing him, head dizzying with thoughts of blame, rejection, and emergency.

“Why are you apologizing to Ren, huh?” Violating lips pressed into your neck, a whimper leaving as you fought to escape him, searching for the fasted route to safety while he couldn’t see you. “Say sorry to me, baby. It’s that simple.”

Self defense was useless against his armor. His lips pulled at your lobe, a gag forming at the touch. Twisting away from him, you peered down to the drawer and found a pair of scissors, their red handle bright in your periphery. The crushing weight over your hands became bruising, your throat thirsty for escape. The only way to evade him was to indulge him, to distract him with the very thing he sought most.

Repulsion clawed at your stomach. “You want me to apologize, correct?” Sultry words hid the sickness they brought.

Robbie hummed into your neck, nose now buried in your hair while he bucked his hips into you, fire sprouting from your wounds under the pressure. “That’s all I’ve wanted this whole time,” just as Snoke had claimed your last name, Robbie clutched your first, rolling it off in a purr.

“I bet you want me to say your name, too, right? You’d like that a lot?” Today had tested your ability to hide your true intentions. Brushing your thumbs along his hold, as much as you could under their restriction, you eyed the scissors. “The name I gave you?”

A grunt left him, another thrust into your brand fuzzing your vision. “Yes. Say my name. Apologize to me.”

Eyes shut tight while Robbie continued in his unwanted nearness, you swallowed hard. “Kiss me, then.” He stopped moving, shoulders still as air stalled in his lungs. “Kiss me and I’ll apologize. I’ll say your name.” It was a desperate hope to hold that he wouldn’t hear the shakiness of the offer.

“Dammit,” he breathed, “you can’t be taught.” Rage grated against his throat, grip leaving your hands and wrapping around your neck. He leaned you back over the counter, the stance awkward and agonizing. “What a stupid bitch! You think this is a trade? You ruined my life! You gave me an identity and ripped it away like it was nothing! Like I was nothing!”

Black pulsed at the corners of your vision, his face doubling and dizzying as you reached for the drawer, fingers inching over nondescript items. “Apologize! And maybe, maybe! I will let you leave here. How does that sound?”

Grappling your free hand over his clutch, you gagged for words, none escaping his compression while you collected saliva at the back of your mouth. You mouthed his name, eyes full of feigned pleads while your fingers found the scissors’ handle.

Robbie’s jaw quivered more while he watched you struggle. Your manipulation was working. That seemed to be a theme today. Though, this one was much easier to endure. Two murderous eyes flickered between yours, quicker and quicker with each movement until he released your throat just enough for you to form words.

Fist locked onto your weapon, adrenaline readying, you stared directly at him and hocked a gob of hot spit into his eyes. He went to shake it free, but your hand came up and slashed down through his brow and over his left cheek. Robbie’s hands flooded towards his face as you pushed him out of the way, scissors still in hand while you rushed for the door. But your leg was a hindrance, dragging behind you, eventually only hopping on the one when the pain began to cut deeper with each stride.

The door activated per your touch and basked you in the light of freedom, only for your head to fly backward as a fist dragged you away from safety. A string of winces left in line with a pouted scream. It barely registered but the exit hissed shut again, your forehead cracking against it with the same force that’d just been around your throat.

“This is what I’ve been waiting for—” a harsh inhale came at your nape “—you knew it all along. Away for months only to get new fucking security the moment you return?”

He had you pinned, legs splayed and arms flung out. Your forearms framed your head, his hands flat over your wrists and stealing every bit of opportunity. The scissors hung loosely under your hand, teetering closer to the floor with each second.

“You left me! I woke up and you were gone. Such a fucking cunt, and for no reason.”

“You are psychotic you sick, vile creature!” Pain seethed into your tone, bandage rubbing into the raised skin.

Robbie trembled with anger, his body vibrating at your back as he pressed further into your right hand so the scissors finally fell. “Maybe that voice was never beautiful.” His right arm bent your elbow behind your back so his abdomen could trap it there; when he was satisfied, he reached it around you so it lay flat in front of your mouth, grip wrapping around your left forearm. His head pushed into yours so your mouth went flush with his arm and your nose could barely attempt at breathing. “Maybe it was only ever annoying. Useless.”

You couldn’t escape him. There were no defenses left to attempt, the only one now bloodied at your feet. All you could do was endure. There was nothing left. No time. No saviors. All that remained was an overwhelming sense of guilt and a pestering question: did you deserve this? After all you’d done, all you’d been forced to do and go through with? In some way, was this karma? In turn for hurting the one you loved, you would be hurt by one who you’d wanted to love? Was this the restoration of balance?

A stifling hand rushed under your skirt, taking time to grope at the flesh over your underwear. Every effort to flex away from him was wasted, and there was so little left to fight for. The message that flashed over your left wrist taunted you, held you just as captive as the monster behind you; in saving two lives, doing what you thought was right, you had given up every aspect of your own. Robbie had snaked his touch beneath the thin fabric, now moving it aside and preparing his own clothing, and the only thing you could focus on was the patterned scrawl on your watch.

It was mocking you, emphasizing its point in the darkest moment of your life, your body stiff and scared with no lasting dignity. There was less than a person, less than a shell now. Each organ working to keep you alive was doing so in vain, purpose fleeting from your foggy thoughts; you’d returned to heal wounds you’d grown to want, and now you wouldn’t live to see them scab over.

You wretched onto his arm, biting down onto the flexed muscle, when you felt the head of his penis swipe over the back of your injured leg. Vomit threatened when his hips circled and he moaned, breath thick and satisfied.

“No, you’ll never forget me,” he huffed, “You won’t have the time.”

Robbie readied himself for penetration, your tears hot and obstructed at his arm, your eyes peering over at the watch as you tried to die at your own will first. Furious, unrefined disgust and shame stabbed your soul when you felt him proceed, felt him buck into you. Your brain couldn’t decide whether to catch fire or burn out, didn’t want to accept this as one of the last things you’d feel.

His breath shuddered at your neck, your cries silent and shattered beneath him. He attempted to speak, but something happened. Something sudden and fleeting and rapturous. A miracle born in the absence of hope.

The lights went out. Pitch blackness swallowed you, enveloped him and in tow distracted him. His restraints weakened and you slammed your head back against his, adrenaline softening the blow.

“Fuck!” Robbie tripped backwards, leaving you completely.

Stunned at the event, you stalled, not knowing what to do. You couldn’t move quick enough, Robbie catching your knee in his bent over position. It was nearly impossible to see him, but the red cast of your watch threw crimson shadows just far enough to glint off his bloodied features. He wasn’t going to give up until one of you was dead.

“Get off of me!” Of course he’d attached himself to the leg currently rippling pain through your body.

“We’re not finished!” A rough tug brought you down next to him where he attempted to climb on top of you, your fingers digging into his eyes and sending him to his back.

“No—” scrambling fingers searched the dark for your earlier weapon, drying blood sticking when you found it “—we’re not.”

Red. Everything was red. Robbie’s face. The blood which dripped from it. Your hands, the same blood streaking and drying in place. He couldn’t see you’d gained the upper hand. In a final glance over the animal beside you, searching him for humanity and drawing a blank, you felt your heart stutter with a decision that would mark you for life. A mark you’d make yourself.

Interlocking your fingers over the red handle, two steady hands pulsating over the hard object, you brought your arms up and slammed them down with insurgence, hitting the break in his uniform over his right inner thigh. Robbie roared in response, his howls echoing into the nothingness which surrounded him. The red haze of your radar glinted off the pool of blood forming beneath him. With each second, each flashing moment, it grew wider and fuller.

With a hard swallow, relief barely recognizable, you looked into his wide eyes just as the ground began to shake. “Now we’re done.”

Without dropping his stare, your hand slammed to activate the door and you backed out of your residence, watching him fade from view when it locked in front of you. It had to be done. He would’ve done the same. It was him or you. In searching for a reason why, you saw a change in the light coming from your watch. The flashing was different, and it started vibrating. Lifting it to your face, you found the message missing and the radar returned. It was fading in and out, though.

No matter, you were rushed back into the reality of people running past and into the floor lobby. A crowd surrounded the elevator, anger being pushed into the button when it wouldn’t respond. You and your floormates were exiles, the floor continuing its violent shaking. A cloud of rushed and flustered conversation plumed down the hall before every face turned towards you.

“Stairs,” said a quiet collection. “Stairs!”

A group of two dozen people stormed in your direction, their speed scaring you past your pain and into the stairwell. The group moved over each other, the leader switching between you and two men. It was a hushed chaos of stomping feet and fast breath. Nobody would make any noise other than the occasional grunt. On the fourth flight of stairs, more and more people piling out from the doors of their respective floors, your leg began to ache again. Though every step burned into you, you knew you had to escape this. You’d escaped much worse just a minute ago, and, for whatever reason, you were still living. Unknown to you, only revealing itself when it was entirely too necessary, there was a fight in you, and whether it be for yourself or someone or something else, you indulged in it with each step.

When the now stampede of officers of all backgrounds pushed past the doors into the Elite docking bay an alarming new mayhem ripped into realization. Hoards of people were fumbling and climbing over each other while screams tore through the room from all directions. TIEs were being crowded with as many bodies that could fit, and then some. The group you’d arrived with all flailed out, each person on their own journey towards safety.

Right where you’d left it earlier, before every horrible thing had gone on, sat the Command Shuttle. Even this far you could hear the engines stirring. Your legs took over and carried you as fast as they could, no matter the injury or barricades of people. The hell that had been born on this forsaken base would die with it, but you refused to do the same.

Each stride brought you closer the now ascending ramp, watching it close as you caught a glimpse of the future you wanted and were going to fight like hell to protect. One, two, three sloppy paces and your foot caught on the elevated ramp, your body sliding into the ship as it closed completely under you.

Desperate breaths stifled a groan as you slid across the floor. A white boot stomped in front of your face as you remained splayed and heaving beside it.

“Clearance?” It was a command, however useless as you felt the ship lift from the ground.

A dark thought crossed your mind – well, do you want my watch, or my keycard, or my uniform, or my leg? Rolling over you found General Hux standing on your opposite side. A thick gulp came as you patted your left arm to your chest, tracing over R – E – N to point towards your position.

“I’m his nurse.” Each word was separate and gasped. “His. I’m his. Commander Ren, I’m his nurse.”

The stormtrooper looked to Hux for approval, only for Hux to look at you with grim, stunned eyes and nod his head. “She’s authorized,” he said. He turned toward the bow of the ship. “Proceed to Ren’s location.”

Remaining on the floor, you felt the ship vibrate into your tired chest, felt the adrenaline course through you in violent pulsations. A veil was cast over your mind, everything close yet distant, present yet past. The only thing you registered was when the ship descended once more and sent your body towards the hatch again. Gripping onto the edge of a seat you strained your arms to keep still, not knowing what was going on, just aware you were still breathing.

Six pairs of boots crowded and fled the now open hatch, frigid air stinging over heated skin. “We’ll get his right, you three get his left!”

Ren’s location? Get his left? “What’s going on? Where is Ren?”

Your questions fell on absent ears, Hux now standing and staring out at the threshold until turning his body to allow the men more room.

“He’s breathing, General, but-,”

“But what?” It was the loudest you’d been since screaming in the halls.

Forcing yourself onto your knees, relying on the adrenaline keeping your own pain at bay, you stood to see your Commander being lowered onto the ground, three men at either of his sides seemingly struggling under his weight.

It was an automatic response to rush to him, to begin searching for injuries and checking for airway, breathing, and circulation hindrances. There wasn’t much hiding the emergency residing over his right side, splitting the skin and muscle apart in a broken, bloody stripe. It flayed his face, red streaks spilling from it and glinting in the low light of the ship.

“Stars! Someone get me some light!” you screamed, command taking over. This was your patient. This was your future. You were going to protect him. No matter what, that’s what you were going to do.

Two soldiers jumped at your voice, flooding away and falling into the wall when the ship catapulted upward once more. One grappled for the back wall and pulled a black box with a red medic symbol engraved on top. He threw it to the second and the three next to you scattered so he could open it for you and shine an overhead light.

“Hey! You three—” you barely glanced at the men before gesturing them down “—take these and apply heavy pressure when I say, understand?”

None of them moved when you threw three dense collection pads toward them. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?” They all quickly grabbed one and waited for your go ahead.

Angling yourself so you could finally find Kylo’s eyes, you leaned over him and watched as he seethed away; you didn’t know if this was a reaction aimed towards you or due to the very obvious pain he was in.

“Kylo,” you whispered, knowing it was too loud and chaotic for anyone else to hear or care, “you’re going to feel pressure and then it’s going to be really painful, but I need to make sure the bleeding stops. Just be prepared.”

He looked up at you like he’d never met you, like you were a perfect stranger. It wasn’t the nothingness from before, but instead something more alive. Wonderment, almost. Or shock. That was a more reasonable emotion at this moment.

Keeping his stare, you gestured the three waiting men with your hand. “Now.”

The men plunged the sponges into his wound and watched as the material expanded and filled with blood. Kylo’s jaw set firm and fluttered by his ear. A quiet grunt left him while your own breath caught. Watching him so pained and wounded was an impossible act. The only thought you’d allow yourself to have was of the relief you’d have once he was being cared for by a team from wherever the ship was heading.

Something warm washed over your right knee. Looking away from him you found it was more blood, another wound on the side of his abdomen dripping through his uniform.

“Fuck, I swear!” You threw your hands over it, pushing deep into his tissue. “How much longer till-,”

The ship answered your question before you could finish it, slightly angling to the side as it went into a rough, screeching landing. Kylo grimaced at this just slightly, lip trembling only a second before he returned to that same shock, staring up at you in silence.

Light seared into the ship when the ramp fell without effort, hitting the floor with two loud bangs. Before you could register, a team of medical professionals slid a transfer board below him and went to move. You grabbed one of the handles on the side, remaining at his waist while you watched him, keeping steady pressure over his abdomen. Blood sopping onto your hands and burying Robbie’s.

“How long has he been like this?” came an indiscriminate voice from behind you. A man, again. The same one who’d helped you with Talia. The physician you’d worked with to save your patient.

“We collected him probably five minutes ago. Initially I only noticed the one gash but found another two minutes ago. There has been constant pressure applied since discovery. The patient is semi-alert, not responding verbally, but appears to be awake.” There was no time for stuttering, the group closing in on the entrance to the Elite med bay.

“Another one right over his shoulder, sir.” Another voice, female this time, came from behind.

“I’m ordering stat fluids and blood replacement therapy. Along with that I will instruct the pharmacy to have antibiotics ready and for the arrival team to gain the appropriate IV access first thing.” The team pushed into the assessment room you’d come to know all too well, your feet stopping as the physician’s did next to you.

“Do you approve of those orders?” He snaked his head to get your attention.

Stunned, shell-shocked eyes peered up at him, head dizzy and ears rushing with blood. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You’re his nurse. You got him this far. Do you think anything else needs to be added to the immediate care plan?”

You’d meant to say no, to agree that the physician was appropriate and logical in his treatment. Instead, your eyes fluttered shut as sound began to fade. The ceiling grew in distance while you felt your knees give out.

“Get her head!”

The last thing you registered was a hand at the back of your neck and the sound of urgent feet rushing toward you. There was a faint set of three beeps which accompanied your fall, monitors running beyond the threshold where Kylo was receiving care. A team was caring for him. He was safe. You could rest now. You could heal now.

And so you did.

#kylo ren #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren x you #kylo ren fanfic #kylo ren imagine #ao3 #st kyp

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let-it-raines · 4 years

Text

CS JJ Day 22: what a plot twist you were (1/1)

Emma’s life is solid. She has her few friends, a job that pays decently enough, and a schedule that works for her. She doesn’t want any of that to change. But when she gets a call saying she’s been left a house in Storybrooke, Maine, she ends up leaving Boston intending to deal with the house and then return to her life like nothing has changed.

Intentions never quite work out, however, especially when she runs into a blue-eyed bartender who just might entice her to stay.

Rating: Mature

a/n: This story is the result of late night baby feedings, leaving plot notes on my phone in the middle of the night, and then not understanding what the heck the notes section on my phone means when I wake up in the morning. Thanks to the ladies at @csjanuaryjoy for bringing some joy to January 💙

Found on AO3 | Here |

-/-

Thick bunches of trees with deep green leaves line the road. They’re on each side of the concrete, dark gray with a faded yellow line in the middle, and she can’t see anything in the woods through the fullness of the forest. She’s never seen anything like this, not that’s so natural, and the darkness of the sky and the gentle rain falling down make it almost haunting.

She’s not lost, but it sure as hell feels like it.

“Keep going for another five miles,” her GPS says in the British accent she can’t figure out how to change.

“Yeah, yeah,” Emma huffs, turning up her radio and increasing the speed of her wipers. “I got it.”

In a split second, the rain turns from gentle to harsh, water beating down against Emma’s old bug’s windows so hard that the glass may break, and if she could see the sides of the road, she’d turn off the road and wait the storm out. She’s got a bag of Chex Mix and several bottles of water in the back. She could definitely wait it out. But she’s also ready to get to where she’s going and out of this car, so she pushes through and keeps driving until she reads the sign in front of her.

Welcome to Storybrooke.

Finally.

Emma’s phone rings in her passenger seat, and she reaches over to press it, hitting the buttons to put it on speaker.

“Hey, Rubes.”

“Emma Swan,” Ruby huffs out, “where the hell are you? I got home from work expecting you to be here so we could eat entire gallons of ice cream, and I do mean gallons and not pints, but you were gone. I thought tonight was our pity party night.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m…going on a trip.”

“You have never gone on a trip that wasn’t with me.” “I like to try new things.”

“You’re a liar. You hate new things. Seriously. Where are you?”

“Storybrooke, Maine.” “What the hell is a Storybrooke?”

“I don’t know,” Emma huffs, peering forward to try to see where she’s going. Buildings are starting to come into view, short ones all pressed together like some kind of Hallmark movie downtown where they decorate for every holiday with an insane budget that’s not at all realistic. Maybe this is the place where they shoot those movies. The name of it sounds made up enough. “It’s just somewhere new.”

“I repeat: you are a liar.”

Emma hums as she tries to ignore Ruby and look for a place to stay tonight. It’s only ten o’clock, but everything seems to be closed, all the storefront lights turned off to cloud the town in near darkness.

Of-freaking-course.

“Look, can I tell you about it later, okay? I don’t really want to get into it. I should be home next week.”

“Next week? How are you going to be – ”

Emma ends the call and switches her phone onto silent. Ruby is going to keep calling until Emma answers again, but she’s too tired to explain it tonight. All she wants is a warm bed and possibly a shower. She probably should have looked up hotels in this town before she came, but it was a last-minute decision fueled by the need for a change of scenery.

She pulls into a parking lot between two buildings and then stares up at the neon sign on one of them. It might be the only light on. “Who names a bar The Rabbit Hole? This town keeps getting weirder.”

There she goes talking to herself again. Maybe she’s the one who is getting weirder.

Sighing, she shuts off her car, grabs her phone, wallet, and keys before running inside the building, only getting slightly soaked. The lights inside are dimmed and it smells of cigarette smoke and spilled beer. Sweat is also likely in the air, but it’s better if she doesn’t think too much about all of the disgusting things that have been spilled in this place. The bar isn’t full, only a few people playing pool or throwing darts, and Emma ignores them to walk up to the bar and sit down on a stool.

“Can I have a glass of whatever your strongest whiskey is?”

“That’s like asking to light a fire in your stomach.”

“Whiskey,” she repeats, tapping her nail against the bar top.

The bartender hasn’t even turned around to look at her, but he nods his head, reaching up on a shelf to grab a bottle and then pouring her a glass. She doesn’t bother looking at him either, simply taking the glass and downing half of it so that it easily burns, most likely lighting a fire in her stomach. She should be asking about a hotel room and getting out of here, but the reality of the past few days is starting to hit her enough that she needs a drink.

Boyfriend cheated.

Couldn’t catch her skip that would have paid rent for the next two months, something that’s been happening a lot lately.

Received a call from a lawyer saying her foster mom from when she was fifteen left her a house in Storybrooke, Maine.

That woman had been crazy. She’d been Emma’s best foster parent, one that genuinely cared, and then one day she pushed Emma into the street when there was oncoming traffic because she’d believed Emma had magic or some bullshit like that. The woman was declared mentally unstable, and yet somehow her lawyers have allowed her to give a vacation home to Emma, someone she has no relation to when Emma knows the woman had family. Sisters, she thinks.

Walsh cheating and the skip being elusive suck, obviously, but they haven’t quite shaken her to her core in the same way.

Her past is her past, and she doesn’t want to relive it.

So why the hell is she here?

“Are you passing through, or are you visiting?”

“Hm?”

“Are you waiting out the storm, love?” the bartender repeats in a deep, foreign accent. He sounds like her freaking GPS. “Or are you visiting the town?”

Emma finally looks up from her drink to see him. The light in here is so poor that she can’t quite make out his face, but there’s a hint of ginger in his beard covering a sharp jawline. A quick glance down shows her muscles under a tight plaid shirt, and that has her looking back up. He’s got dark, messy hair that’s been tousled one too many times, but mostly, all she can see is the blue of his eyes.

Damn.

“I could be from here,” she sighs, running her finger of the rim of her drink.

He scoffs and tilts his head to the side, tongue running over his bottom lip. “This is true. About twenty-thousand people live here, and while I don’t know each and every one of them, I do know that this bar really only sees regulars in here. It’s not often that I get to see someone new.”

“So you’re guessing I’m new on a hunch.”

“Ah, well, that and the fact that your t-shirt says ‘Boston Bail Bonds’ on it. I’m assuming that can only be found in one place.”

“Maybe I just collect t-shirts.”

The man clicks his tongue. “Maybe. Can I get you anything else, Boston?”

Emma rolls her eyes. “Another glass of this and directions to the nearest hotel.”

“That I can do for you, love.”

“Not your love, buddy.”

“Pity that.”

She downs the rest of her drink before he refills her glass and then slides a piece of paper in front of her, quickly drawing a map of downtown and where she can find a hotel. It’s a bed and breakfast behind a restaurant, and Emma commits it to memory because there’s no way this piece of paper is going to make it through the weather outside.

After she pays her tab, Emma makes her way out of the bar with the umbrella the bartender gave her, and quickly hops in her car to drive the few feet to the bed and breakfast only to find that there’s no parking and she has to park back at the bar and run across the street in this New England monsoon.

This town makes no sense.

And she could totally be staying in Ingrid’s house for free, since it is her house now, but that’s creepy and disturbed on so many levels.

Then again, so is all of the floral wallpaper at Granny’s Bed and Breakfast.

“Welcome to Storybrooke, Emma Swan,” the old woman says as she hands Emma the keys to her room.

-/-

Emma sleeps until two in the afternoon.

She doesn’t mean to, not really. She was supposed to meet with Ingrid’s lawyer about the house at noon, but apparently she can’t be a responsible adult and make her appointments on time. The moment she wakes up and realizes it, she calls the law firm and tries to reschedule only to be told that she’ll have to wait at least two weeks because Mr. Nolan has gone out of town for vacation.

He has got to be kidding her.

He’s not. He’s going to Nevada to visit his wife’s family.

Emma groans and falls back onto the springy bed. What is she supposed to do now? She wanted this over with, and as much as she deals with the law on a regular basis, it’s more dealing with scummy guys not paying child support or assaulting someone. It’s not real estate law or anything having to deal with what happens when someone leaves you a freaking house.

Her phone buzzes next to her.

Walsh Osbourne: Can we talk?

Walsh Osbourne: It wasn’t what you think it was.

Walsh Osbourne: Please, baby. I just want to talk. I love you.

Emma could vibrate out of her skin she’s so angry to see texts from him. What a douchebag. Real scum of the earth, that one.

Emma Swan: I hate when you call me baby. You should know that. I pointed it out every fucking time. We’re over, Walsh. I don’t deal with cheaters.

The little bubbles pop up, but she doesn’t wait to see the message. Instead, she blocks his number and keeps herself from having to ever hear from him again.

Asshole.

Food. She needs food. It’s too early to have another drink, but food sounds like a great idea.

After showering and getting dressed in a pair of jeans and a white sweater, she runs downstairs to the diner attached to the bed and breakfast. There’s only one other person in there, and it doesn’t bode well for Emma not getting food poisoning from the food. But the grilled cheese and onion rings end up being good, the hot chocolate even more so, and when she’s finished, Emma tips her waitress and asks her for directions to the police station.

If she’s going to be here for two weeks – because there’s no way in hell she’s going back and then doing this drive again – she might as well see if she can make some money. She knew getting licensed in Maine would come in handy eventually.

“What can I help you with, lass?”

“Um, yeah, my name is Emma Swan, and I was wondering if you guys were in need of a bail bondswoman.”

“Graham Humbert,” he says, sticking his hand out for her to shake. “We usually deal with bonds in the neighboring country. They have an office already, though, so if you’re thinking about setting one up, I’m not sure you’ll have much business.”

“I do more of the tracking down than the office work.”

He cocks his head to the side and softly smiles at her. She’s only seen two men in this town so far, and both of them have been attractive and had foreign accents.

They’re in rural Maine. That makes no sense. None of this does.

“So more of a bounty hunter then?”

“It’s a mixture. So do you have any jobs? Short-term probably.”

“Do you know how to mix a drink?”

Emma turns to where the familiar voice is sitting. It’s the bartender from last night, and in the light of day, he looks much the same but with clearer features. It’s just those damn eyes – they’re even bluer in the sunlight, and they have to be contacts or something.

“A few.”

“Well, Swan,” he sighs, her name curled on his tongue with his accent, “I’m looking for an extra hand at the bar if you’re going to be in town for awhile. If Sheriff Humbert doesn’t have something for you, of course.”

“I’m sorry, lass. I don’t think I do. You’d have to go to Easton and ask them there.”

Emma sighs and turns to the other man. “You’d hire me just like that? You don’t want to run background checks or call my references?”

He waves her away, standing from the desk and sliding over paperwork to Sheriff Humbert. “No, I’m good. I can train you this afternoon, and then if you’re dreadful, I’ll let you go.”

“Do I get to keep tips?”

His smile curves up on one side. “Of course. Killian Jones. It’s a pleasure to meet you, milady. Or, rather, to make your acquaintance again.”

Great. The guy who’s giving her a job is also some freak who talks like he’s from another century.

(Or maybe just likes he’s British.)

Killian finishes up whatever business he had in the police station, talking to Graham for a few minutes, before he asks her if she’s ready to go. They walk the few blocks back to The Rabbit Hole, which looks far seedier in the light of day, and Killian unlocks the door before holding it open for her.

“So are you a gentleman or something?”

“I’m always a gentleman, love,” he says, leaning into her and lowering his voice. “Though, don’t feel special. I do like to hold the door open for most anyone, just as I call most people ‘love.’”

Her cheeks flush red, memories of her grumbling about his term of endearment last night. “Well, I’ll try not to be too disappointed.”

He chuckles and keeps walking through the bar, flicking the light switches until the place is illuminated. It’s actually much cleaner on the inside than it was last night, the haze of the night gone, and she can see where all of the chairs are resting on the table and the floor has been freshly mopped.

“So, it’s pretty simple. We open at four and close at two. Weekdays are calm, just a few regulars who almost exclusively drink what’s on tap, and then on the weekends we’re usually a little more packed with everyone trying to unwind or find a date.”

“People come here to find dates?”

“It’s the only bar in town, so if that’s how you’re looking for a date, yes.” He stares at her, but when she doesn’t say anything back, he nods his head and keeps walking through the bar. “Restroom is back down that hallway as well as the utility closet. The kitchen is directly behind the bar. My old buddy doubled as bartender and cook before he moved. Can you do both?”

“Not unless you want your customers to get food poisoning.”

His eyes crinkle with his smile. “We’ll figure something out then, Swan.”

-/-

Her first night at the bar is hectic.

There’s a bachelor party from two towns over coming in on a Wednesday night of all things, and every one of them hits on her. They don’t do it well either. How one of them is getting married is a mystery to her because he both doesn’t know how to flirt and obviously has no respect for his future wife. Killian asks her if they’re bothering her, she tells him she can handle herself, and they move on with their night and their jobs.

That’s pretty much the only time they talk the entire time unless he’s giving her some kind of instruction. Being behind the bar is a completely different experience than the two of them being on opposite sides.

It’s quieter, much quieter.

At least she thinks that it is until it’s six nights in, a rainy Monday evening much like the one when she got here, and they have no customers.

None.

He asks why she’s in town, she evades the question again, but eventually the quiet begins to get to her, and she huffs and starts talking while focusing on getting a stain off the bar top.

“Just wanted to get away.”

“Ah, so relationship problems.”

She turns to him then. “Wait, just because I’m a woman means my only problems can be relationship problems?”

His brows arch. “I simply meant any relationship. Romantic, familial, friendship. I find most everybody who’s running from something is running for one of those reasons. I’ve never known too many people to leave a place because they were upset over a job.”

“Yeah, well that seems like something a personal thing. People run for all kinds of reasons.”

“Fair enough.” He tugs the sleeves on his flannel shirt up, rolling the cuffs until they’re at his elbows, and Emma gets a glance of toned forearms and angry red scars inching up his left arm. She wants to ask, but it’s none of her business. And asking him questions means he’ll feel more entitled to ask her the same things. “Your business is your business. Simply figured you might want to make a little conversation since we don’t have any business.”

“Nope,” Emma sighs, “I’m good.”

The next night is better, and the night after that. Though, Emma does realize that she’s now fascinating to the town as a new person, which they apparently don’t get a lot of. It’s obnoxious, but it also means the bar starts getting a steady stream of people who are curious as to who she is and what she’s doing.

At least they give good tips. She’s all about the tips.

“You’d think you had magical powers for how they’re all staring at you,” Killian mumbles as he walks past her with a tray of drinks.

“It’s creepy.”

“It dies down. Trust me.”

For a moment, she wants to ask, to get to know more about him, but she doesn’t want to open that can of warms. It’d be too difficult to close.

-/-

“This place is a piece of shit.”

“It’s certainly got character,” David Nolan says, obviously uncomfortable with her language. He is not what she expected Ingrid’s lawyer to look like, but he’s what she’s got. A forty-year-old wearing a flannel shirt and dirty boots while meeting a client is definitely unlike any attorney she’s ever met, but so far, she doesn’t mind him. “Ingrid was never here. I only met her once or twice. I think this was her aunt’s house, so it’s definitely on the older side.”

Emma nods and presses her foot down on the porch only for the wood to start cracking underneath her. The foundation of the house is probably falling apart, the windows are broken, roof shingles are falling off, there’s some rot on the columns, and she hasn’t even gotten to go inside.

“Did she not hire someone to do maintenance?”

“What do you think?”

Emma scoffs and presses against the front door until it’s opening for her and revealing dust-covered furniture and more decay. It’s not as bad as the exterior, but it’s not good. “So, what exactly do I do here? Can I refuse the house?”

“You can.”

“But if I do keep it, what happens then?”

“Well, it’s yours, and you’re responsible for it and for paying property tax. It’s not much, but honestly, I think your best option is fixing the place up and then putting it on the market. It’s basically free money.”

“There’s no such thing.”

David laughs, and she can’t help but feel like he’d be someone who would be good to have around in life. “Think on it, okay? You have some time.”

-/-

“Do you know anything about house repairs?”

“Pardon, love?”

“Home repairs,” she repeats, tipping back her bottle of water. “You look like you’re…handy. Do you know how to repair things like windows and floors or putting a hinge back in a cabinet?”

“Well,” Killian starts, “window frames I can do. Window glass repairs require a professional. Hinges I can do, though. I think I’d have to know what kind of floor repair you need. Why do you ask?”

“No reason.”

Killian quirks his brow. “Believe it or not, Swan, but I’m actually quite perceptive. You’re not asking for no reason.”

“So I’ve gathered.”

“Oh, so you’ve been watching me then?”

“I’ve been working with you every single day for two weeks.” Emma rolls her eyes at his smirk. “I notice things.”

“Funny, so do I. You’re more of an open book than you think.”

With that, Killian walks away to move across the bar to tend to a group of linemen sitting at the table in the back. They all go by some kind of ridiculous nickname, and she can’t remember any of them at the moment despite them always being in here. But the asshole probably said that line and walked away just to annoy her. He seems to like to do that, getting some kind of reaction out of her and then walking away.

What the hell is that supposed to mean? She’s an open book?

Killian’s words nag at her all night, his accent curling around each of them in her memory, but he goes on as if everything is normal. Nothing about her life is normal right now. She’s living in a strange town, sleeping in a bed and breakfast with flowers on all of the walls, and working at a bar all the while avoiding everything about her life.

“Someone left me a house in town,” Emma blurts out two hours later. They’ve only got seven people in the bar now, and she can’t distract herself by flattering men so they give her more tips. “That’s why I’m here. I had to deal with it, and then the lawyer was out of town for two weeks because apparently that’s a thing he does. But I went and saw the house today, and it’s a disaster. That’s why I asked about the home repairs.”

Killian’s mouth curls from one side to the other, and she wants to smack it off of his smug face. She also kinds of wants to kiss it.

Woah. Where did that thought come from?

(Probably from having her life turned upside down and losing her boyfriend and being left a house by her crazy ex foster mother.)

(And staying in this town instead of going home and calling her boss about her not being available for jobs.)

(Not having Ruby to complain to likely doesn’t help.)

“Are you planning on living here then, Swan?” He leans forward and props his chin in his palm while his brows reach his hairline. “Did you find me that irresistible?”

“Shut up.”

“You have a way with words.” Emma groans at him, and Killian keeps on smirking. “Look, I’ve been renovating this bar and the apartment above it for about a year now, so I know a thing or two about home renovations, as I told you. I can take a look at the house for you and answer any of your questions.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“You were asking for advice earlier.”

“But I don’t need any help!”

He holds his hands up and steps away. “I apologize, love. I seemed to have misread the situation. I won’t do it again.”

Shit.

She messed up, didn’t she? Of course she did. Why is she always so rude to people who are trying to help her?

“Killian?”

“Mhm?”

“Would you like to come look at the house with me tomorrow before work?”

He turns to her and smiles again, a little glint in his eyes. “Meet me here at noon.”

-/-

Killian tells her the place isn’t in as bad as shape as she thinks it is. Emma can’t imagine that as a giant spider crawls across the living room, but he swears that it’s true.

He also offers to help for no cost to her other than the supplies.

“Why would you do that?” “I actually quite fancy you from time to time when you’re not yelling at me, and I enjoy the work.”

And for some insane reason, she makes the decision to stay in this weird as hell town and fix up this house so that she can sell it and leave this whole thing behind her. Her life was going to shit in Boston, and she needs a break from that. She needs some kind of change and purpose, and maybe she’ll end up being able to fix this house up and sell it for enough money that she comes into an actual savings account for the first time in her life.

What a thought.

On slow nights at the bar, Emma watches videos on the best ways to paint window trim and how to buff hardwood floors. She looks into the electrical stuff too, but that seems like a recipe for disaster. Or death. Really, it looks like a recipe for her death.

Definitely.

Killian will walk by, muttering comments under his breath about the videos she’s watching and how absolutely inane some of the people are, but she ignores him and keeps trying to learn. Fixing up a house, even a rotting pit like this one, shouldn’t be too hard. It’ll be fine.

It starts with having all of the wiring inside the walls stolen, which is decidedly not fine.

“Who the hell steals electrical wiring?” Emma huffs as she and Killian walk through the house, cold morning air nipping at their extremities. “What’s the purpose of that?”

“They sell it.” “For how much?”

“Not much, but it’s something.” He hits his hammer against the hole (one of them, at least) in the drywall. “I can call Scarlet and have him fix your wiring, but we’ll have to fix the walls ourselves.”

“I can’t afford an electrician right now.”

“Don’t worry about it, love. He owes me a favor.” “A favor to rewire an entire house?”

He winks. “Trust me.”

“Don’t think I’m taking my eyes off you for a second, Jones.”

He freaking bows, throwing in an exaggerated wink too. “I would despair if you did.”

The entire month of September is spent the same way. She and Killian meet up at the house at noon with takeout from Granny’s for lunch (which is really breakfast for them since they wake up at eleven most days) and work on the house until they have to go to the bar. They’re the only two people working there right now, which has got to be against some labor law, but Emma doesn’t mind not having the days off. She likes the money and likes keeping busy. When she asks Killian about it, though, he simply hums and says that he hasn’t taken a day off since he bought the place.

She had no idea he was the owner. She thought he was the manager or something who happened to be living there.

(Not her brightest moment.)

How does a British man end up owning a bar in a small town in Maine?

She almost asks, but it’s not her business. None of his life is.

But that doesn’t keep her from learning that he’s got a penchant for rum and for double-stuffed Oreos. There’s a dirty joke there, and Killian most definitely makes it. He’s also got a penchant for making a dirty joke or sliding an innuendo into every possible situation. It’d be creepy if it wasn’t so damn charming sometimes.

But it’s not charming. Nope. It’s just…it’s who he is. That’s all. And it’s something she’s got to get used to since this is apparently the man she’s going to be spending all of her time with. It would scare her because in a situation like this, she’d usually have already had sex with him and then have some kind of meltdown. She doesn’t know why she does stuff like that, but she does.

(That’s a lie. She definitely knows why.)

Emma is not going to sleep with him, though. It’s not going to happen. Ever. She is not going to be doing the whole dating – or not dating – thing again anytime soon. Or forever.

It’s October when she starts to feel like maybe this house has hope. It’s still a mess, but it’s making definite progress.

It’s also when she realizes that maybe she doesn’t hate this town so much. It’s still weird and kooky and doesn’t quite make sense, but it’s also full of good people. David, Ingrid’s lawyer, ends up pitching in a hand on window repairs, and his wife Mary Margaret may be one of the sweetest people Emma has ever met. She bakes food for Emma and talks paint colors and cabinet stains and always has a smile on her face. Will Scarlet is always lurking around, even once the electrical work is done, and as obnoxious as he can be, Emma kind of likes him. He’s helpful and kind of funny and he beats Killian’s ass at pool at the bar every single time they play.

Killian pouts and mopes around after he loses, and Emma gets an infinite amount of joy out of it.

“You look pathetic, Jones.”

“I do not look pathetic.”

“You do.” She turns around behind the bar to tease him as he grabs a bottle of his favorite rum off the shelf and pours himself a small glass, gulping it down. “You should really learn not to be such a sore loser.”

His brow arches. “Oh, and you wouldn’t be a sore loser?”

“Absolutely not. I wouldn’t lose.”

Killian exhales with his laugh before putting his glass down and inching closer to her until his back is behind hers, warmth from his body covering her so that little bumps pop up over her skin and her breath hitches. It takes everything in her not to shiver while her stomach flips.

“Is that so?”

“It is,” she whispers, trying to keep her breath steady.

“Well,” Killian whispers right back, his scruff brushing up against her cheek and sending a shiver down her spine, dammit, “I do love a challenge.”

With that, he moves away so quickly that his heat immediately evaporates, and if it wasn’t for the swirling in her stomach, Emma would swear it was all a dream.

What the hell just happened?

There’s a low whistle across the bar. “Emma fucking Swan.”

Emma whips her hair toward the sound, and her jaw may literally drop. “Ruby?”

“Oh, so you remember me,” Ruby scoffs. She’s smiling, but there’s fury in her eyes. “I figured you’d forgotten since we only talk on the phone and you’re not living in our apartment anymore.”

“What are you doing here, Rubes?” Emma asks as she leans over the bar to hug her. At least Ruby hugs back. She doesn’t have to, and Emma appreciates that.

Ruby settles down on the stool in front of her, and Emma realizes the entire bar is staring at the two of them. “I took off for your birthday, remember? We were going to binge watch TV and stuff our faces with junk food and feel no guilt about it.”

“Shit happened.”

“And by shit you mean Walsh cheating, your job sucking, and then this crazy lady leaving you a house even though she tried to kill you when you were a teenager?”

“Ruby,” Emma hisses, “shut up. Everyone can hear you, and I don’t want everyone knowing my business.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Emma doesn’t dare look over at Killian to see if he heard all that. She doesn’t need to. She knows that he heard it all. It’s that whole perceptive thing. “Do you want something to drink? Or eat? You must be so tired after the drive.”

“The biggest glass of wine you have. You know what I like.”

Emma nods and turns around to their wine selection before Killian walks up behind her again, this time putting more distance between them. It still feels like he’s right there though, like he never really left.

“You okay, love?”

“Just dandy.”

“Well, your use of the word ‘dandy’ makes me think otherwise.”

Emma rolls her eyes and looks up at him. His eyes are stupid concerned and stupid blue, and who does he think he is being so concerned about her when he barely knows her?

“I’m fine.”

“Hey, hot guy who’s flirting with my friend,” Ruby yells out. Killian’s brow raises at her as his eyes glance to the side. He’s silently asking her for permission to talk to Ruby, and her resolve deflates immediately. She nods and steps away with the wine, leaving him to Ruby. “What’s your name?”

“Killian Jones. Are you the infamous Ruby Lucas?”

“Ah, so you’ve heard of me. That’s funny because I’ve heard nothing about you.”

“You’re obviously much more interesting than me.”

Ruby takes a sip of the wine Emma pours for her before Emma is called to the other end of the bar to deal with some of the cops who are here after their shift. Her ears never leave Killian and Ruby’s conversation, though.

“I mean, obviously,” Ruby agrees, leaning forward so her boobs are nearly falling out of her dress. Emma almost drops a beer glass. “What exactly do you think you’re doing with Emma? She doesn’t need some knight in shining armor to rescue her just because she’s a little vulnerable right now. I mean, you obviously ran a background – ”

Emma’s grip loosens until the tray of beer glasses she was holding slips out of her hands and falls to the ground, glass splitting off into shards and covering the floor.

Shit.

“Don’t move, Swan,” Killian calls out, immediately moving away from Ruby and coming toward her, glass crunching underneath his boots. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” she croaks out. In truth, she doesn’t know. her heart is in her throat, and she can’t really breathe. “I’m fine.”

His eyes scan over hers, but he doesn’t dispute her words. “I’m going to clean this up, okay? Why don’t you go sit with your friend? Be careful. I’m not sure how thick your shoes are.”

All Emma can do is nod, and she’s basically a robot as she walks toward Ruby, who is still sipping on her wine and tapping away at her phone. Emma loves her, but sometimes she doesn’t think before she acts. Half the time it works out, and half the time it means Emma is stuck cleaning up Ruby’s messes.

(While Killian seems to be stuck cleaning up Emma’s.)

“What the hell?” she hisses, trying to keep quiet. “You’ve been here for ten minutes, and you’re already telling everyone shit they don’t need to know.” “I didn’t mean to! I mean, I figured he did know since you’re obviously sleeping with him as well as working for him.”

What the hell?

“I’m not sleeping with him. I’m not sleeping with anyone. And he didn’t run a background check on me. Killian’s a good guy, and he’s doing me a lot of favors, okay?”

“If you’re not sleeping with him, he definitely wants to sleep with you. Like, he’s having eye sex with you right now.” “You’re gross, and you have the mind of a teenage boy.”

“I’m speaking the truth,” Ruby nods while her mouth opens with a long yawn.

“Rubes, why don’t you go back to my hotel room, okay? It’s late, and you’re tired. I’ll meet you when my shift is over.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Emma nods, “and we can talk about what we’re going to do for my birthday tomorrow.” Ruby smiles, and Emma tries to let some of her anger fade away. This is her best friend, and she’s got her own faults just like Emma does. Hell, Emma pretty much ghosted her for two months, and Ruby isn’t even really mad. They’ve both got their issues. It’s fine. It’s life. Ruby has never done anything to purposefully hurt Emma.

Ruby takes Emma’s hotel key and leaves, and for the rest of her shift, Killian tiptoes around her. He’s timid and not making any of his jokes. There’s almost no personality to him, and for a few moments, she starts to believe that he’s mad at her. In actuality, he’s probably just realized he’s been working with someone with a criminal past for two months.

“Hey, Killian? Can we talk?”

“Swan – ” he hesitates, holding the chair he was about to put up.

“No, just, please let me explain some of this, some of what Ruby said.”

His lips are pressed tightly together. “You want to come upstairs? I have coffee there.”

“Coffee sounds great.”

They stop what they’re doing, and Killian turns on his heels to walk up to the second floor of the bar to where she knows his apartment is. She’s never been up this staircase, never even thought about it, but she follows him without question. His apartment isn’t much. It’s clean, which doesn’t shock her for how Killian is, and all of the appliances have been updated. Other than that, though, it’s pretty bare bones – brown leather couch, television mounted on the wall, coffee table full of books that should be on the tall bookshelves against the wall, and a bed with a deep blue comforter pushed back against the wall behind a half-wall.

Oh, and a coffee machine. An actual one. Not a Keurig.

That’s where Killian starts puttering around, not bothering to tell her to make herself at home or not to touch anything. His words can be flowery sometimes, but oftentimes he doesn’t say anything at all, simply letting her decide what she wants.

She kind of likes that.

Except for right now when she’s freaking out.

“So,” she begins.

“You want milk in your coffee right? I’m afraid I don’t have your preferred creamer.”

“Milk is fine. So, Killian, I – ”

“Look,” he starts, his voice gruff, “I don’t care about your past. We all have one, myself included, and it’s not great. So unless you’re a murderer or are going to rob me blind, I don’t need to know.” He turns to her as the coffee percolates and raises both brows, wrinkles appearing on his forehead. “Are you a murderer or are you going to rob me blind?”

“No,” Emma quietly admits.

“Then I know everything I need to know unless you really want to tell me why I would need to run a background check on you.”

She bites down on her lip, her stomach twirling. She never wants to tell anyone this, but the words are at the tip of her tongue. “I was sixteen, had just been taken out of Ingrid’s custody, and I was dating this older guy. I loved him, thought he loved me too, but then he stole some watches, framed me for it, and got the hell out of dodge. I went to jail for it, but I promise I didn’t do it. I’m not going to rob you blind. The only things I’ve ever stolen were some keychains and food when my foster parents didn’t give me dinner.”

Straightforward and only the facts. That’s the only way she can talk about Neal without hurling.

Killian’s brows furrow, and she wonders if he can express every emotion with just his eyebrows. It almost seems like it. “He’s a bastard. So is the bloke who cheated on you, by the way. A bloody fool.”

“I agree with that.”

Killian breathes out and turns around, opening up a cabinet to pull down a coffee mug, pouring milk and coffee into her cup before pouring black coffee into his. He hands hers over to her, and she immediately takes a sip while Killian stares down at his mug, tapping his fingers on the countertop.

And then he’s pulling up his Henley’s left sleeve until she can see those familiar red scars.

“I was in the Navy in England,” he begins. “I thought it was my calling. I loved everything about it, and then there was a damn mechanical misfiring that caused an explosion and tore up my arm and part of my torso. Hurt like hell, and I don’t know…I guess I kind of lost the passion for serving, and when my contract ended, I didn’t reenlist. Then I moved here. I’ve got dual citizenship. Mum was an American.”

“I thought you said people don’t run because of jobs?”

“I did say that.”

“Isn’t that what you did?”

“I ran because of my girlfriend ending our relationship to go back to her husband I didn’t know about and my brother’s death,” Killian corrects. The job simply happened to give me the push.”

Emma’s got a million questions, but she doesn’t think she should ask them. It’s probably best not to. “I’m sorry. That sucks.”

“Aye,” he laughs, scratching his ear. “It does. Life sucks, as you put it. That’s why I don’t judge you. That’s why I’m so willing to help you out with the job and with your house. You looked like you needed some help, and I know what it’s like to be in your position.”

Oh.

No one has ever done something like that for her, not really, and Emma thinks to herself once more that under all of his gruff and brooding and penchant for getting angry at customers, he’s a good man. She gets up and walks over to him, pressing up on her toes to lightly brush her lips over his cheek. His scruff burns against her lips, and she gets a stronger whiff of cologne than she ever has as her own cheeks heat up.

“Thank you, Killian.”

He scares her, in more ways than one, but weirdly, she almost craves that little jolt of fear, one she feels in the tingling of her lips far after she leaves his apartment.

-/-

Things shift after that night. It’s not in some monumental, earth-shattering way, but there’s definitely a difference in how Emma and Killian interact. Ruby spends the weekend with them, touring the house and sharing her opinions on what it looks like now and how it should look in the future. Ruby doesn’t get why Emma is staying in Storybrooke, doesn’t understand why she can’t get rid of the place and come back to Boston, but she still supports Emma. It’s what friends do unless they’re making batshit crazy decisions.

Ruby’s words. Not hers.

Besides, Ruby is convinced that Emma is staying for Killian, which actually would be batshit crazy. She’s not staying here for him. She’s staying here because she needs to fix up this house. She needs to fix up this house to prove she can, sell it, and wash her hands of anything and everything that Ingrid left behind.

Killian gives her the night off for her birthday, tells her to go out and have fun, but since there’s only one bar in town, they hang out at the Rabbit Hole and drink fruity drinks Killian hates making and eat onion rings he made specifically for her, mumbling something about how he knows that she really wanted to spend her day at home in pajamas eating junk food instead of hanging out at the place where she works.

She doesn’t mind, not really. Especially when Killian tells her that he’ll cover her tab for the night, throwing her a downright dirty wink and whispering in her ear that he’d take tips in other ways.

Ridiculous man. Such a cocky asshole sometimes.

When Ruby leaves town and heads back to Boston, she tells Emma to stop being stupid and to do something good with what she’s got here. If she’s going to be here, she needs to make it worth it.

Emma tries to do just that. She really does, but as the months pass and the house gets closer and closer to being presentable (and functionable) enough to sell, all Emma can think is that she’s got an apartment back in Boston and a job that will take her back if she begs just enough.

Boston is safe. Boston is…home. In Boston, there’s no man with blue eyes and a sharp wit who makes her stomach swirl like she’s got damn butterflies fluttering around in there.

Leaving Killian makes her heart ache, but admitting that to herself is something she’s barely capable of. Admitting it to him would be damn near impossible.

-/-

“Swan,” Killian calls out as she walks into the bar, “come help me get these blasted lights up. I thought it would be nice to make it a little festive in here for Christmas.”

He’s standing on a chair up against the wall, box after box of white lights scattered around his feet, and as capable as Killian is, this seems like a disaster waiting to happen. She takes a step toward him, a step toward his bright smile and slightly overgrown beard, but then she stops. She was supposed to be in and out, just like that. She wasn’t supposed to get attached.

She can’t stay.

“I sold the house, Killian.”

He drops a string of lights to the ground, small shards of glass scattering everywhere.

Shit.

“You what?”

“I’m going to sell the house,” she corrects. Her heart is beating faster than it ever has. “I got an offer from a couple from New York who wanted it as a vacation home and are going to finish the renovations and add on an extra room. I don’t really know. But it’s money that I need and that will help me out back in Boston.”

“Emma – ”

She hates when he says her first name. It makes her throat tighten and her stomach ache, and no matter how many times he says it instead of calling her by one of his many names for her, she’ll never get used to it.

She swallows the lump in her throat.

“You’re leaving?” Killian asks, obviously devastated. She hates that she knows the looks on his face and knows how he feels without even a word now. She nods. He knows her looks as well. “Stay, Emma.”

“I can’t.” “Why not? Why can’t you stay?”

“I don’t live here. I have a life back in Boston. I have friends, a job, a – ”

“A what?”

“I don’t know,” Emma groans, hot tears pricking in her eyes. When did any of this happen? How did it happen? How did she allow herself to have so many feelings? “I don’t know, but I can’t stay here. It was only supposed to be a day, maybe a week. It wasn’t supposed to be months. It wasn’t supposed to be this.”

She motions between the two of them, speaking the words that neither of them have spoken over long days working at the house, long nights working here, and too quick of times watching movies in his apartment or grabbing lunch at Granny’s or even racing each other on their runs.

She knows. He does too.

“You can see a future here, and that scares you,” Killian tells her, stepping close.

“Oh, let me guess, with you.”

“Aye,” Killian says as he steps into her space, the now familiar scent of his cologne surrounding her while the warmth of his hands presses through her jeans and then her sweater as his hands move from her hips to her shoulders. “You and I both know – ”

“We don’t know anything!”

His jaw clenches, and she knows he’s holding back. She knows him well enough to know he’s pressing down the fire within him.

“Emma,” he whispers, and her heart does that thing again that’s got to be medically impossible, “you have been the best part of my life for the past four months, and I know that I can’t ask you to stay. I have already, but I can’t honestly be selfish enough to think that you’ll stay just for me. What I can’t do, darling, is let you go without telling you how I feel.”

Her heart may be in her throat now because she can’t breathe. Not at all. Why the hell are his eyes so blue and earnest? Why is he so earnest?

She nods again, and he smiles this soft little smile that makes his eyes crinkle.

“I am rather fond of you, Emma Swan. I’m fond of the way that your smile shifts from small to absolutely beaming and the way that you laugh at your little comedy podcasts we listen to while we’re working. I’m fond of the way that you call me out on my shit and the way that you help me every day, even if you don’t know it. I’m fond of the smell of your perfume and the way I find long blonde strands of hair on all of my clothes even if I didn’t wear the shirt around you. I’m fond of the way you’ve weaved your way into every part of my life so seamlessly while I’ve had to carefully take a hammer to the bricks you built up around your heart.”

His hands trace up her neck, shivers running down her spine and bumps rising up over her skin. “I like you,” Killian continues, “and I don’t want you to go back to Boston thinking that you don’t have a life here. Everyone in this town would welcome you with open arms, but I’d be standing at the front waiting for you.”

Emma’s never been good with words, has never been an expert at expressing how she feels, but she has been good with actions. It’s why she wraps her arms around his neck, fingers tickling along the nape of his neck and into his hair, and kisses him.

She kisses him.

His lips are soft, softer than should even be possible, and his beard brushes against her skin much like it did when she kissed his cheek a few weeks ago while Killian quietly grunts into the kiss. They don’t move much, mouth pressed against mouth, but Emma finds herself getting lost in it. She imagined what it would be like kissing Killian Jones, something she would never admit to anyone else, but it was nothing like this. She didn’t feel it all over her, didn’t feel emotions swirling in her stomach and spreading over her skin, and she definitely didn’t think it would make her this happy.

She’s not sure when or how this happened, how exactly he hammered down the bricks around her heart, but she’s infinitely glad that he did.

Piece by piece and stone by stone.

“I don’t know if I can stay,” Emma whispers when she pulls back from the kiss, her forehead resting against his while her heart beats too fast. “I don’t – ”

“You don’t have to stay, darling. I simply ask that no matter your decision, you still allow me to be a part of your life, however you decide.”

Emma nods in affirmation before kissing him again, hungrily gliding her lips over his while heat curls between her thighs at the feel of Killian pressed up against her. The first kiss was soft, gentle, and while this one could still be described that way, there’s a fire simmering underneath her skin that comes to the surface with Killian’s hearty growl and the way that he starts backing her across the bar until her back is against the wall next to the staircase. Killian captures her gasp with his mouth, and she melts into him some more.

They should talk more. They really should, but they’ve talked for four months, and when Killian asks her if she’d like to go upstairs, she gladly says yes.

They shed their clothes the moment they’re in his apartment, tugging at shirts and pants as Killian finds the skin of her neck and leaves warm, open-mouthed kisses there while it takes everything in Emma to keep running her hands over his sides, feeling the warm skin and slightly marked up places. She’s already warm everywhere, gooseflesh rising, and her breathing is uneven as Killian keeps touching her.

It’s amazing.

And he’s beautiful. It’s all dark skin and lean muscle, someone who doesn’t work out much at the gym but is active, and he’s got dark patches of hair covering his chest and stomach, some of the black hiding the tattoos he has scrawled across his skin. She thinks most of the ones on his torso are there to cover up the scars from his accident, and Emma takes the time to trace her finger over the ink and over the scars, making sure to occasionally watch Killian’s face as she does so.

Of all of the times Killian has looked at her with admiration in his eyes, it’s never been quite like that.

She is so screwed.

When they reach the bed after Killian slamming his lips back into hers and whispering absolutely filthy things into her ear, his hand easily finds where she’s sensitive. He runs his fingers there, making her gasp and moan and whine that she needs more. Killian gladly gives her more.

There’s a push and pull, whispered words of want shared, and she gets lost in it.

He’s warm and thick when he buries himself inside of her, and his moan is one of the most delicious sounds she’s ever heard. His blue eyes are almost completely black now, but they’re no less beautiful. Everything about this is intimate, from the way that Killian kisses her to the controlled movement of his hips, sliding in and out in a slow rhythm that she knows is for her. A part of her wants more, wants faster and harder, but the other part of her is still catching up to the fact that this is real.

This is happening.

And she’s happy.

That might be the most shocking part of the entire thing. Emma is happy, which kind of snuck up on her without her really realizing it, and for the first time in a long time, if not ever, she can feel herself smiling during sex.

Is this what this is supposed to be like? Is this what it’s always supposed to have been like?

Killian smiles right back at her, letting his brows unfurrow from how they were folded in concentration, and then he’s dipping back down to move his teeth over her lips, a light graze that means almost everything to her all the while his hand dips down to where they are joined, the movement making her see all of those metaphorical stars.

Or, at least, something similar in blue orbs and a kind smile.

This is good. This is how things are supposed to be.

Happy.

“Killian?” she asks later. Sweat has dried on her skin, her hair curling around the temples, and she’s folded herself into Killian’s side while her legs are tucked between his calves. Her fingers can’t stop moving through his chest hair, untangling the patches, before moving down to trace over his tattoos and scars once more. She likes the way the red mixes in with the colors of ink.

“Yeah, Swan?”

She nearly giggles at the deep set of his voice, at how it’s harsh and soft all at once, kind of like him.

“I’m rather fond of you too. I thought you should know that.”

“The sex kind of clued me into that.”

“No, I meant. I – you…”

“I know exactly what you meant, love,” he promises as his head dips until his lips press into hers. “I was teasing you. You don’t have to tell me that.”

“I know, but I still want to. You deserve to hear the words as much as I do.”

-/-

She ends up selling the house to the couple from New York.

She puts away the money into her savings account, which was really nothing more than pennies and a few dust bunnies, and for the first time in her life, she has options.

Go back to Boston. Go anywhere.

Or stay in Storybrooke.

Stay in Storybrooke where the people are kind and know her by name, where the beach is nearby and often empty, where she could have a bit of quiet in her life, something that’s also been a novelty for someone who has never really had a quiet she liked. They’ve always been too haunting. This is comforting.

Stay in Storybrooke where there’s a man with blue eyes and the devil in his smile.

Only in the best way, of course, and she can’t keep her own smile away when thinking of him.

Of this life here.

So she stays. It’s what she feels in her heart is right, even if it means leaving her life in Boston behind. And she’s not staying for Killian. As great as he is and as happy as she is that she’s going to be around him, this is all for herself. After Emma tells Ruby her decision, Ruby is disappointed at first, but she promises to visit and still annoy the hell out of her. Emma doesn’t doubt it for a second.

Killian helps her find a place of her own after she tells him that she’s staying. The smile on his face has never been brighter, even when she rejects his offer to stay in the spare room behind the bar that he can renovate into a bedroom. It’s a kind offer, and she imagines she’ll be there often to spend time in Killian’s apartment, but she needs to do this on her own. It’s a new adventure, and she likes a challenge. Besides, if she and Killian keep flirting and making out like teenagers, she imagines one day she’ll be fine living with him.

Who has she become? Being so hopeful like that.

She likes it.

It’s a year and a half later when she and Killian sign the deed to a house on the shoreline, shutters falling off and porch rotting.

“So, Swan, you ready to fix up our new home?”

His fingers tangle into hers while her lips press into his jawline.

Our home.

She likes the sound of that.

“Yeah,” she smiles, “I am.”

-/-

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#what a plot twist you were #cs fic #cs ff #captain swan fic #captain swan ff #captain swan fanfic #cs January joy #cs jj #captain swan January joy

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somniferouseyes · 3 years

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Home Sweet Prison - Thoughts on Silent Hill 4: The Room

Recently I had the pleasure of finally playing the fourth Silent Hill game after years of planning to get around to it. I just finished it last night after three lengthy play sessions over the past week. It definitely had its flaws but I couldn’t help but love the game and wanted to share some of my thoughts. Obvious spoilers below.

This is going to be a long one, so buckle up. First, a little background. If you really don’t care and just want my thoughts on the game, skip down to below the line of ‘=‘s.

It must have been around 7 years ago I played my first Silent Hill game. I had heard bits and pieces about the series for a long time and finally I managed to get my hands on a Playstation 2 along with a copy of Silent Hill 2. The TV at my mom’s place didn’t make much sense to play games on, as I had to share it with a family that didn’t care much for watching games, and so only allowed me to play for short bursts. Definitely not suitable for playing through a game where atmosphere is one of the key elements to the experience. So instead I absconded with my PS2 and the game to the ancient CRT TV in my bedroom at my dad’s place, where I spent the night at most a few times a week. The solitude and old television at night made for a near-perfect playing environment for a game like SH2. The sound effects of the menus and the vibrant red of the save screen casting a bloody shade over the walls of that room are memories permanently imprinted in the inside of my head.

I had a great time with the game and eventually picked up Silent Hill 3 as well, excited for another journey to that destitute, foggy town. Unfortunately, after playing through around a third of the game, I discovered my disc was scratched and couldn’t continue, despite my best attempts to clean and buff it out. At that point I didn’t have any sort of disposable income so buying another copy just didn’t seem worth the expense. So unfortunately, my journey with that game ended there.

I was aware that the fourth game, like the first three, was fairly highly regarded, so I kept a tab on it in the back of my mind for opportunities to play. This past fall, I finally got my chance. I jumped with excitement at seeing GOG offering the now-ancient (by video game standards) title and immediately purchased it, fully prepared to experience what I had been missing all this time. I booted it up several days after and played for around an hour. There was the gameplay I remembered in all its clunky glory. As well as the haunting sound design and twisted visuals. It was a great throwback, but for some reason I didn’t come back for more. I planned to play more but it sat on the digital shelf for months before I would finally touch it again, this time with my partner at my side to experience it along with me. At first I worried having another person there would take away from the atmosphere, which is what I always saw as the strongest part of the series. Thankfully this wasn’t really the case. Anyway, now after enough extra shit, my thoughts on the game itself.

================================================

What first struck me was how creative and intriguing I found the setting to be. I’ve known for a long time what it was, but actually playing it now I found it resonated with me in an unexpected way. I recently moved into my first non-college apartment and as I played I found myself sort of day-nightmaring about what it would be like to wake up one day and find myself trapped in my apartment, door chained shut, windows stuck, and no real communication to the outside world but a strange hole which has appeared in my bathroom wall. Letting myself sort of float in that headspace really got me immersed into the world and I really grew to appreciate the apartment as a sort of hub world in the game. A safe space from the horrors that lay on the other side of the hole. At least, temporarily safe as I would eventually discover. Throughout the first half of the game the apartment served as a resting point in between forays into the unforgiving outside world.

Then one time I came home to discover that the ceiling fan had mysteriously broken and smashed down upon the coffee table. Henry, our lovely protagonist, commented that the air felt heavier as though a weight was bearing down upon him. The in-game ramifications of this event didn’t become clear until a bit later, when I discovered that my health no longer regenerated when in the apartment. My one reliable form of healing had been taken away from me. And the game being a survival horror game, I very quickly felt its effect. Healing supplies were very limited and I found myself struggling to survive through various enemy encounters now where before I had done alright with occasional trips home to heal up. But this was only the beginning.

It couldn’t have been more than an hour or two later that upon entering the apartment I was greeted by a castrophony of crashing and banging coming from the living room. I entered and found the windows there shaking and slamming against their frames, as if by the manipulation of some violent poltergeist. Even so much as nearing them damaged me and despite the frustration at not being able to interact with them anymore without fear of taking lethal damage, it was one of the coolest things I’ve seen in a game for a while. From that point onward every few visits to the apartment, I was met with some new form of haunting in various parts of the few rooms I had. Eventually they crept in the way of the save point, forcing me to put myself at risk in order to even so much as save my game. It was a level of brutality that has become much less common in games. Thankless and cruel. But I loved seeing my safe prison twist and disfigure into a dangerous nightmare. For once in a piece of horror, whether game, book, or movie, I felt as if I was the one being haunted. This was my home and it was being slowly but surely wrenched from my hands. The hub easily became one of my favorite things about the game as a result.

My feelings about the rest of the game were a little more mixed. As is Silent Hill tradition, the controls were a clunky mess. I’m sure it was by design, as fumbling with them creates a tension in common interactions in the game not unlike the loss of coordination one might experience in a dream. As neat as that is as an artistic touch, from a gameplay standpoint it did sour the experience a bit when it came time to deal with enemies (FUCK the ghost victims).

On a related note, for some reason the devs thought it’d be a good idea to have the entire back half of the game be a goddamn escort mission. One where the quality of your performance affects the ending you get for some reason, no less (???). In general I liked Eileen as a character and appreciated the whole slow possession thing she had going on, but trying to maneuver through the cramped corridors of the game while also trying to move around her and make sure she didn’t get left behind with a bunch of enemies was a nightmare in and of itself. One of the worst things about the game, honestly. There were times I made sure she got left behind in areas just to give myself some room to breathe.

Enemies in general were a massive pain in the ass, at least until late in the game when I figured out how to deal with them efficiently. It didn’t help that their designs for the first third of the game were so bland. One of my favorite things about the series is seeing all the fucked up enemy designs and the speculation from the fanbase about what they might represent from a narrative standpoint, so I was super disappointed to find the first chunk of the game only feature zombie dogs, some ghosts, and pointy bats. Later on I discovered that the ghosts were actually Walter’s past victims who had lost all control and sense of reality after being slain for his ritual, which was a VERY cool detail I missed early on. It lent a whole new dimension to what would otherwise be boring generic ghost enemies. I just wish it had been conveyed better, because obviously I didn’t recognize any of them until Cynthia’s showed up during the second visit to Subway World (Yep. It’s actually called that.) It was a lot of fun seeing how each of the people I had seen murdered had unique abilities as ghosts meant to represent their personalities or behavior in life.

Once I hit the water prison, the game’s enemy design picked up though. I had seen images of the Twin Victims before, but it hadn’t prepared me for their sudden appearance in those cramped circular halls. In the past games and the beginning of this one it seemed like enemies usually had a sort of introductory cutscene showcasing a little of their personality or abilities, but for the Twin Victims? Nope, you get nothing. One second you’re in ignorant bliss of their existence, the next a two-headed shrouded figure is charging at you on its hands.

The rest of the enemies were all decent I think in my memory, though some better than others. I’m not sure who gave the okay on the decision for the Patient creatures in Hospital World to fucking let loose the most wild burps known to man whenever they take a hit, but it was simultaneously tension-ruining and laugh-inducing to knock one down the stairs by accident only to receive a musical number comprised solely of belches in response. Definitely a highlight of the experience, if an unintended one.

Since I don’t want to spend a ton of time on the areas themselves I’m gonna just throw together a little list here of quick opinions on them.

Subway World - Awful. Boring area, especially since this exact type of thing was done already in a fairly lengthy section in SH3. Fuck the dogs. Second visit wasn’t any better because being chased by Cynthia’s ghost was incredibly annoying, especially since you’re still just figuring out the mechanics of Eileen following you at this point.

Forest World - Refreshing after Subway World but still boring. Just a bunch of trees and annoying bats. Highlight was Jasper, my bro whose character arc consists of being scared of rocks, drinking some choccy milk, then burning to death. Second visit was a little better? I liked the torch mechanic and finding the body parts in the 5 wells was a creepy little sort of puzzle.

Water Prison World - One of my favorite areas. Really interesting design and home to one of the few true puzzles in the game, even if it is kind of explained to you outright. Also home to the debut of one of the creepiest enemies, Twin Victims. Second visit was kind of underwhelming and frustrating because of Eileen getting swarmed by them though.

Building World - Other than winning the Dumb Area Name of the Century award, this place was fine. Some areas were a bit too swarmed with enemies, but otherwise a pretty fun place to explore. Reminded me of past games in the series in terms of design. Second visit was ROUGH. I finished with no healing items and only a sliver of health remaining as I went into the boss fight, so I had to make sure I wasn’t hit once for its duration. Also what the fuck is up with the way Richard’s ghost moves? Thought my game was straight up glitching for a bit.

Apartment World - I think possibly my favorite area of the game. Just your classic Silent Hill apartment complex. Loads of rooms to explore and find keys for, etc. Second visit was exactly what I wanted. Just chaos throughout the building and creepy shit around every corner. Highlight for me was the chains on the superintendent’s door, for some reason. Just thought it was cool setpiece.

Hospital World - A pretty cool place overall, but too short and with no second visit it had me wishing there was more of it. A bit simplistic in design but I had fun checking out all the various rooms and the creepy shit inside them. Creepiest Shit in the Game award goes to the massive bloody head of Eileen that stares you down with eyes that can only be described as vibrating. Normally I’d be annoyed at Henry literally not reacting to it, but it somehow adds to its disturbing factor. Almost as if its some kind of meta-scare that Henry can’t even see.

As for the characters, I found them overall to be okay. Nothing special really. Henry is boring as hell and doesn’t really seem to react much to any of the crazy things happening around him, which makes me question his mental state a bit. Eileen is probably the best of the group in my eyes. She goes through a LOT during the game. I thought the possession mechanic with her was very cool and loved eventually finding out that her level of possession actually modifies her dialogue at various points in the game. Definitely a very nice touch. Walter is pretty meh. Just your ordinary insane serial killer really. Nothing to write home about. Didn’t really have a personality beyond “I’m bloodthirsty and I want my mommy.” Also, for someone who was trying to kill me, it really didn’t feel like his heart was all in it. He was easy to sidestep and he’d just sort of become disinterested and wander off. I was a bit underwhelmed to find the superintendent didn’t have any role really past the halfway point in the game. Where did he go? In one of the endings he’s confirmed to be dead but otherwise not mentioned at all. He got a lot of the spotlight in the first half so it really makes no sense.

The plot was pretty entertaining. Might be sacrilege to say so, but I think I preferred it to SH2′s despite its flaws, though it’s been a while since I played that so maybe I’ll have to give it another run-through sometime and see. I just had a lot of fun following Joseph’s notes and slowly learning about the Wishing House cult and Walter’s murders. I found myself guessing at what we could expect from Walter and his twisted ritual around every corner and how the tale would eventually unravel.

Upon tearing into it more closely my partner and I found a number of weird little issues and nitpicks with the plot that we couldn’t seem to find any explanation for. Was Walter ever really in prison? The game is deliberately vague about this detail, and I assume we’re meant to come up with our own conclusions, but it felt a bit strange to not give a more solid explanation, as other issues arise from the lack of one. If he did really kill himself in prison, how did he get out of his grave and perform the Ritual of the Holy Assumption? If that wasn’t him in prison, why would anyone bother digging up the grave at all? And either way, why mark the coffin with his number, 11/21? It doesn’t really make sense. Not quite related, but we’re also missing the why of Walter’s split manifestations. What about the ritual caused him to split off a child version of himself? It’s not exactly important to the plot’s progression, but it’d be nice to know if he fucked up some part of the ritual, or was punished for being a little shit by God or whatever.

Unfortunately my partner and I found the endings to all be pretty lame. I got the ‘21 Sacraments’ ending, which I guess is to be expected because I wasn’t very careful in taking care of Eileen due to the controls being a massive pain in the ass while also not really understanding how to purge the apartment of hauntings with candles. I understood the mechanic but literally couldn’t figure out where to place the candles to achieve the desired affect despite all my attempts to, which was a shame. I’m also still not entirely sure why the ending I got results in Walter possessing Henry’s body when I clearly followed the instructions to put a stop to his ritual, but the other endings aren’t all that much better. In the ‘Mother’ ending, apparently Eileen is somehow still possessed? Why? By who? No explanation is given! Always a good time.

Despite the nitpicks at the plot, the confusing decision to make most of the game an escort mission, and the messy Silent Hill game controls, I still had a fantastic time. I still felt just in love with the atmosphere, sound, and enemy design as I did back when I played SH2. I wish there were more in the series to experience, but it seems like my options aren’t all that great. The first game is kind of a dated mess visually, I’m not sure I have the heart to replay so much of the opening of the third game to allow myself to experience the entire thing, and apparently all the games after kind of suck in various ways.

I find myself leaving Silent Hill 4 with a renewed sense of sadness at the cancellation of PT and the grim hopes for the future of the series, but excited to maybe get back into playing more horror games. It’s a genre I used to be all over but eventually fell out of entirely, save for a few recent titles, such as Resident Evil VII.

I’d definitely recommend Silent Hill 4: The Room in a heartbeat to anyone who can stomach the clunky controls as well as some some dated graphics and game mechanics.

Goodbye for now, Silent Hill.

#silent hill 4 #silent hill spoilers #horror #silent hill 4 the room

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plotbunniesattack · 3 years

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On the eve of his 26th Birthday, Dean Winchester found himself alone and with time to kill in Greenwich Village, New York. He had been sent to investigate some potentially cursed occult objects that had popped up at a widow’s estate sale. John was headed further south for a salt and burn low-level haunting and wouldn’t be back for Dean until the following day.

As it turned out, The objects in question were neither cursed nor occult related. Just some crazy lady, her seventeen cats, and a bunch of rusty antiques she wanted to pawn off as expensive heirlooms. No one had really shown up for the gig either, making it that much harder for Dean to even pretend to blend in. Seeking him almost immediately, The widow had not only noticed but also taken a liking to Dean, much to his discomfort. Fortunately, however, he’d been able to charm his way out of her awkward sexual advances following an unnecessarily long personal tour of her estate.

January in New York City was cold and dark. The afternoon rain had muted most of the bohemian neighborhood’s appeal. Wandering aimlessly through Washington Square Park, Dean watched wet pigeons shitting on statues and scrounging for soggy bits of food.

Trekking down Bleecker Street, just past NYU’, some college girls in skin-tight jeans and designer rainwear caught his eye. They giggled and blushed when he approached them to ask about local happy hours nearby. Politely they pointed him in the direction of the aptly named Peculiar Pub a few blocks away. And that seemed just about right, given how he was having one heck of a “peculiar” sort of day.

***

Promptly cut off after his fifth consecutive beer, Dean was given a choice to order a $10 burger or settle his tab; he chose the latter. Outside it was still raining, and darkness had begun seeping into the evening sky. Exiting the bar, Dean somehow managed to catch his foot wrong. Stumbling forward, he was unable to stop himself before full on crashing into a petite blonde.

“I am so sorry about that,” Dean began to say, realizing his buzz was much stronger than he’d anticipated.

“CJ? CJ Braxton!? Of all the people to literally bump into!!”

‘CJ Braxton? Oh, Shit!’ Dean thought as memories flashed through his mind.

The alias Dean had used some years back while hunting a shapeshifting TA at Boston Bay College. Caught off guard, Dean rapidly became too flustered to process the absurdity of his luck. Having just physically collided with a once serious now ex-girlfriend.

“Jen Lindley, Wow! I mean, wow, it’s been a long time!” Dean mumbled.

***

Jen insisted on bringing Dean back to her apartment, conveniently located right around the corner. As they walked, Jen rambled on about her life; Her Grandmother’s cancer was in remission. Both she and her best friend Jack had gotten into NYU. College was amazing, and everything in Jen’s life seemed to be going according to plan.

“I really like what you’ve done with your hair!” Jen gushed as she hung up Dean’s jacket.

As if on cue, Dean reached up and nervously ran his fingers through his short hair.

“Oh yeah, I had to cut it- didn’t wanna start looking like a hippie or som’thing,” Dean slurred.

Jen’s apartment was a large studio with a fire escape facing the park. It was way classier than any place Dean had ever lived in his entire life. Once, Back when he was CJ, he’d experimentally glanced at some New York apartment listings. Pretty instantaneously, his jaw had hit the floor as it dawned on him just how freaking expensive they were.

“Can I offer you some tea, coffee, water Or?” Jen paused, looking past her refrigerator to stare back at Dean.

“Umm, do you have any Beer?” Dean asked out of habit.

“Beer!?” Jen’s eyes grew large, and her face twisted with worry as more information rebooted into Dean’s brain.

In 2003, heartbroken from mistakenly placed trust in Cassie Robinson, Dean had decided to try something new. Instead of being just another version of himself, CJ Braxton became the polar opposite of his real personality. Swearing less, studying more, and trying to eat a little bit healthier, Dean had gone so far as considering the many ways he depended on alcohol. Acknowledging his family’s history of poor coping methods, he’d made a solid attempt at staying teetotal for the remainder of his time undercover.

“Water! Water, is a much better choice? I don’t know what I was thinking there for a moment,” Dean trailed off as Jen crossed the room and wrapped her arms tightly around him.

“Umm.” Dean gulped, hugging her back weakly.

Jen pulled away some but still managed to catch Dean’s eyes, staring intensely into them with concern.

“What could’ve possibly happened with you these past few years-? That you would decide just to throw away your sobriety?” Jen inquired softly.

“Oh. Just- I dunno, life.” Dean retorted.

Jen reached for his hand, weaving her fingers lovingly within his. Leading him away from the kitchen and over to her couch. Dean allowed himself to be pushed into a sitting position and for Jen to rest her head on his shoulder.

“I know it’s been years since we last spoke CJ, and for my own part in that, I am so truly sorry. I hope that you can still find it within yourself to trust me, though-and that you might- still confide in me some of these heavy emotional burdens that have taken their toll on you?”

Jen stared at Dean, searching for any scraps of either validation or truth.

Dean paused; in his gut, he knew that he hated having to lie to her but the actual truth? Her knowing about that was out of the question too.

His mind swam, recounting everything that had changed since leaving Boston and breaking things off with Jen. Dad had thrown himself further into the job, isolating himself and leaving Dean to hunt solo most of the time. Sam had left him for Stanford and quit hunting altogether.

He thought all the way back to that call about some grisly murders upstate in Nyack, NY. How he’d actually wrestled over leaving Jen and what they had at the time. Until he was hit by the undeniable realization that CJ Braxton was a joke and no one could ever love him as Dean Winchester. Before he knew it, there were tears in his eyes, and he was powerless to stop them.

The next thing he knew, Jen’s lips were on his, and her gentle hands roamed under his shirt. Clothing was shed while the kissing continued growing into deeper needier touches.

Things heated then, and before Dean could grasp onto much less unroll a condom, they were passionately entwined. Something inside of Dean snapped, and he gave himself over entirely to their act of passion.

***

Dean awoke alone around 4 AM in the unfamiliar and too dark apartment. His phone buzzed loudly from his discarded jeans’ pocket. Reaching down, Dean flipped open his phone to a text from John, informing him that it was time to leave NYC at last.

***

Jen tried to be patient in the office waiting room, but her heart was fluttering in her chest. She had taken three home pregnancy tests, all yielding the same result. What could the additional lab work prove to her that she didn’t already know? Despite exercising ‘her rights to choose,’ her decision had been made long ago. She would keep this baby, knowing that it was probably the last piece of CJ Braxton that she could ever hope to obtain.

#spn fanfiction #dawsons creek #implied/referenced alcoholism #dean winchester #jen lindley #dean winchester is cj braxton

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magpiemorality · 4 years

Text

The Thing In The Woods, Intruality pt.3

One Two Four Five

Part 3 of the Creature!Remus story for @littlestr! In which Patton notices something strange and takes steps.

Warnings: spooky things, swearing

***

The vacation had gone very smoothly after their initial mishap, but Patton was always glad to be back home in his own apartment, able to lounge around with his guilty pleasure on Netflix, in his cosiest clothing and a tub of ice cream.

So maybe it wasn’t the healthiest way to spend his evenings; but he loved it nonetheless. Self-care, right? Besides, he still dragged himself out to the gym with Roman and walked to and from work every day. It wasn’t the end of the world if he indulged a little bit.

There was just one thing up with his routine at the moment. Ever since he’d got back, he’d noticed a few weird happenings around his apartment. His nights were restless and for some reason he’d just stopped hearing his alarm in the mornings full stop, despite checking his phone was on loud and buying a second alarm clock as a backup. And, maybe related or maybe not, he was sleeping crazy well? The deepest, most peaceful sleep he’d had in a while, as if the whole world was perfectly still and quiet for the entire night and not a thing disturbed him.

There was also the matter of the peanut butter.

That morning when he’d got up (late again and scrambling to get ready for work on time, grateful he still apparently had a working body clock somehow) he’d nearly tripped and fallen over an empty jar of peanut butter that was laying on the floor by his bed. How it had got there he was dismayed to say he had no clue, because- and this was maybe the most interesting fact of all- he didn’t eat peanut butter. There was literally none in his apartment. Somehow the jar had been both emptied and planted in his room, without him knowing.

Ordinarily he’d explain it away as a prank from Roman, but seeing as Roman hadn’t had time to visit, busy catching up on work after their long weekend away, it couldn’t have been him. And it (probably) wasn’t a burglar or stalker because nothing else was even so much as shifted from where it was supposed to be, and the locks were all untouched as well.

Patton was beyond confused.

Logan and Virgil had been pretty unhelpful when they’d met up for lunch, but for some strange reason Roman’s joking suggestion of being haunted stuck with him, and though he wouldn’t admit it Patton decided that looking into what to do about a haunting couldn’t hurt. Especially if none of his friends found out, because then he’d never hear the end of it.

A quick google search revealed a truck load of conflicting information that made his head swim, and he groaned, falling back on his couch with a pout for a second before sitting back up again, legs crossed with the laptop balancing on top. “Okay Pat, you are gonna sift through this and find your answers. We got this,” he told himself, settling in to scroll through the seven million odd results.

A filter to ‘what to do when you’re being haunted’ helped when he finally thought to try it, rather than bothering to try and confirm that that was indeed what was happening. It actually brought up an ad for some kind of ghost hunter site that he opened in a new tab for later, and was surprised by the professionalism of when he returned to it. Some guy calling himself 'The Night’s Watch’ (which wasn’t super creative if you asked Patton) was advertising a ghost assessment and removal service in the city, and he had some kind of bargain free first visit on offer.

Patton had dialled before he thought too hard about what he was doing, surprised when a croaky, slurred voice picked up the phone. “'Lo? Do you know what time it is?” They groaned down the line and he had to pull back to check it was the right number. “Hello? Are you just going to silently breathe at me or did you need to make an appointment for your haunting?”

Oh okay, right number then. “Um, sorry! I just, wanted to do the free visit?”

There was a silence. “Shit, is that still on there? I thought I changed it-” the voice muttered. “Sure, why not? Should'a got rid of it if I didn’t want people to notice it. What’s your address, I’ll be right round.”

“Tonight?!” Patton squeaked, surprised.

“Yeah tonight. I work at night. Exclusively. Did you not read that part?”

“No yeah, I mean yes, but- that’s very short notice.”

“I’m not busy. Only so many hauntings in a peaceful city like this one right? Address?”

“Oh right,” Patton rattled off the address, wondering why there was a weird dark stain in the top corner of his living room ceiling. He got up to peer at it as the voice on the phone took down various contact details.

“I’ll see you in like, whenever the bus shows up. An hour? Ah who knows, see you later dude.” They hung up without a further word and Patton realised too late that he didn’t know anything about who was coming. The mark was forgotten and he rushed around to tidy up a bit, dressing in something more company-appropriate and sitting the jar of peanut butter on the table at the ready in case the guy needed to do any mojo on it. Patton didn’t know, okay? He was very much in the dark here.

The buzzer went only forty minutes later, the same voice tinny through the intercom but recognisable enough that he let them in. And then at last, in his doorway, stood The Night’s Watch, complete with slicked back hair, dark sunglasses, grey trench coat and an empty Starbucks to-go cup.

“Remy Picani, call me he and I walk,” the ghost hunter said, taking Patton’s extended hand and shaking it once firmly before striding into the apartment and looking around. “So what are you experiencing, cold spots? Moving items? Wailing? Suspicious fog? That one’s usually just eye-related, have you done an eye test recently?”

Patton struggled to keep up as Remy walked and talked at an unbelievable pace. “Um, no nothing like that, actually, and I wear glasses so… It was the noise. Or the no noise? Oh and the peanut butter!” Remy turned to look at him, peering over their sunglasses with a raised eyebrow. Patton faltered before hurrying to get the item in question and hesitantly holding it out with a hopeful smile.

Remy’s eyebrow stayed raised, but they took the jar gingerly and eyed it. “And… what exactly was up with the uh, the peanut butter?” They asked, unscrewing the top to peer inside and screwing it back on so they could toss it in their hand a few times. Patton made a face because yeah, it wasn’t super ghosty now he thought about it…

“Um, it appeared. It’s not actually mine at all- I never have any in the apartment. I found it this morning on the floor, just sitting there.”

“Just sitting on the floor. M'kay, sure. And what else were you saying, about the noise?”

Patton shook his head. “No, the no noise. It’s been like, weirdly quiet a lot? I haven’t heard my alarm go off for the past three days unless I’ve already been awake. Apparently I’ve been sleeping through number 4c’s newborn baby too. Which is weird- I’m a light sleeper you know?”

Remy had gone entirely still. “Um, M- Remy? Is everything o-”

“Where did you find the jar?” Remy asked urgently, grabbing him by the shoulders after shoving their glasses up onto their head. “Quick, quick!”

“Um, by the bed! Just on my bedroom floor, but-”

“Holy shit.”

“What? What is it?!” Patton wailed, but Remy was off, leaping through the space into the bedroom and stopping dead into the bedroom. Patton ran right into the back of them, trying to peer over their shoulder to see what they were so struck by. But there was nothing there.

Remy sniffed a few times, taking careful, light steps forwards towards the bed. They circled slightly to head towards the closet, but they turned back to the bed after a quick squint, and stopped almost exactly where he’d found the peanut butter jar. “Here, right?” They murmured, looking back to see him nod. “On my signal, turn the lights off, okay?” For a few more moments they just stood there, but then they took one more step towards the bed and turned to nod to Patton, and as the light switch flipped all hell broke lose.

Something exploded from under the bed frame and filled the room with shadow darker than the shadows already cast, and the whole world went muffled and quiet. Patton felt the inexplicable urge to pop his ears but he couldn’t, and besides he was too busy screaming at the scene before him, where Remy was tussling with a great big, shadowy thing.

What in the name of all that was holy had been living under his bed?!

#ts remus #ts patton #ts remy #nonbinary remy #intruality #moduke #ts writing #ts sanders sides #ts sanders sides aus #ts sanders sides fic #writepie #sanders sides #poor creature remus

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my-love-peterp · 5 years

Text

Mistaken Chapter Two

Word Count: 2000 THERE ARE NO ENDGAME SPOILERS, THIS IS A DELAYED UPLOAD FROM AO3

Fic Summary: Peter Parker has been given the responsibility of bringing in a new recruit. Now, as an adult, he realizes that none of the trashy YA novels he read in high school could have prepared him for this. There was a storm on the horizon, and all they could do from the Tower is watch.

Chapter Summary: Things get messy and so does Kaida. We all have our past traumas. But not all coping mechanisms are created equally. Or: two kindred spirits find themselves at the right time for the wrong reasons.

Warnings: language, underage (barely) drinking, smutty smut, mentions of the snappening, again NO ENDGAME SPOILERS

A/N: Good morning! Chapter Three will be out tonight. You may have seen me over @fabtasticass which is my main blog. So this is my first fanfic and it’s going to be a big one. It is a Soulmates AU but not in the traditional way. That won’t show up until later chapters. I’m going to try to keep endgame a secret the best I can. I have some very angsty ups and downs planned but I’m trying to hold back. So I’ll tag each chapter with what pairing might be in that chapter in the official Tumblr tags but never at the beginning.

Chapter One

The nightmares were relentless. Watching your sister literally turn into dust before your eyes would probably to that to anyone. However, while I still suffered and could barely sleep, it seemed that the world had all but moved on. Everyone was back and grateful to be.

I never would be again. Nadia and I, we had a telepathic connection, not unlike that of soulmates, biologically. Or so we were told. To feel that instantly ripped away from me, well, let’s just say things got bloody and fast. But that’s not something I ever wanted to think of again.

And because the universe had some grudge against me, particularly, she never returned. Whatever fates guided the justice of the stones had decided not to return her.

Her last words both haunted and condemned me.

She lay on the couch, fading, a pleading look entering her eyes. “Find him Kay, you’re all he has now of his real family. Find him.” Him. Her son. Kept a secret from everyone, even our employers. She’d given him up for his own safety, knowing that the alternative was a lifetime of experiments and servitude. But of course we kept tabs on him as he grew, a bouncing three year old with shiny blonde hair and a personality bigger than this world. If I hadn’t seen her give birth to him herself, I would never have believed they were biologically related. The only thing they shared was her slate gray eyes.

I had failed to save her, and even now had never looked for him. Not after that day. So every night I would relieve that moment, over and over again, that agony, despair and overwhelming guilt.

Sometimes, I could swear I still felt her in my mind, filling the cavernous vacancy that was her.

Thank god I had my own kitchen. The fewer questions I had to answer the better.

My official training had been postponed due to a long mission the Captain and Wanda were on overseas. Stark was guest lecturing at MIT for a few weeks, something about the interconnected worlds of science and mysticism. But because everyone was off on separate secret missions, I was in an empty tower. Even Clint and Natasha were nowhere to be seen.

I’d been living at Avengers Tower for a few days with this same routine when finally, I got restless and decided I needed to break out. I’d never done well with cages, no matter how high tech.

Director Nick Fury had run down all the rules and curfews for new recruits.

Spidey had actually been the person forced to help me unpack my meager belongings into my new suite of rooms. It was probably the only time I’d smiled since that night.

I’d managed to get out of that place with a backpack, duffle bag, and two suitcases. Peter had lifted the larger of the two suitcases rather easily but still gave me an incredulous look.

“What did you put in here? Bricks???” He stooped down and unzipped the case, his goofy plaid shirt untucking from his khakis, exposing the briefest glimpse of rippling lean muscles.

“What the-,” he choked out in that silly high pitched voice of his, that was actually kind of adorable. “You ran away, from whatever it is that you ran from… and you packed your biggest suitcase full of books?”

I had simply shrugged and replied, “I’m nothing if not totally impractical at all times,” before turning on my heel and carrying the duffle bag to the walk-in closet. I had felt Peter’s eyes on my back the whole way there until you kicked the door shut, more out of playful spite than anything.

Anywho, because of all the ruckus, the extent of my powers hadn’t been cataloged or tested, so it was very unlikely they were prepared for your ability to fade into the shadows of any place I existed.

In my bathroom, after having showered, shaved and put my best ‘fuck me’ face of makeup, I pulled on a white lace bodysuit, with deep, scalloped cleavage and floating transparent sleeves and a pair of nearly tattered, high-waisted daisy dukes. Paired with white stiletto combat boots, it was a killer outfit.

Melting into the shadows, I caught myself grinning in twisted anticipation and flitted out the door.

The club was packed, which was perfect for me after about two drinks. My anxiety with crowds melted away and I was finally able to give in and fade into the pulsing rhythm of the crowd. Here, I was truly invisible.

Crowds only served to remind me of a time in my life that was best left forgotten.

Deep breaths, Kaida, deep breaths.

When the breathing stopped working, there was always tequila. One shot, two.

Ten.

Dancing on other people, on the bars and chairs and tables. For the first time in months, I felt my inhibitions lift. I even made some drunk friends in the bathroom. The sober one among them was able to get me in a cab right before the last call and I directed him to Avengers Tower.

My skin crawled the entire way back, heat rushing down my spine and spreading throughout my body. Apparently, I still had some steam to work off. Luckily I had just the B.O.B.

Fanning myself, I reached into the little pearly clutch I kept with me on nights like these and grabbed a hair tie, pulling my tumbling curls up and off my neck, praying to instantly transport back to my room. I wasn’t totally positive my body didn’t have spontaneous combustion on the agenda.

Fortunately, that’s when my cab driver announced we had reached our destination. I paid him and tipped quite handsomely, as I hadn’t really had to pay for any of my drinks that night or pay the entrance fee. Mutant perks and all.

Despite my inebriated state, I was able to lift off and fly up to the floor that held my rooms, once I was in the gaping lobby of the tower.

Only one problem. Every door looked the same.

Stopping in front of the door that looked the most like my own in this drunken stupor, I took a moment before collapsing through the door, only to find an older man sitting at the kitchenette counter, nursing what looked to be about his sixth scotch and holding an ice pack to his left eye.

The man was attractive. Old enough to be my dad, but fine as hell.

His eyes nearly popped out of their sockets as he took in the full state of my undress in sweaty club clothes and he shifted uncomfortably on the metal stool he sat upon.

“You, sir, are just what the doctor ordered,” I said as I swaggered toward him. As I approached his stool, I reached toward his face, as though I intended to cradle it in my palm, his eyes glazing over with desire and intoxication, before faking him out as he began to lean in and snatching the tumbler out of his hands and downing the entirety of the contents.

He gasped, whether in indignation or out of pure attraction I was unsure.

“That scotch you just drained like swill costs about $13,000. By the way, who are you and what are you doing in my rooms? And aren’t you a little young to be drinking and going out looking like… like-“, he cut himself off as I slid my barely covered ass up and back onto the counter he was perching in front of.

“Does it matter who I am,” I asked, tipping my head to the side with an exaggerated pout from my crimson-painted lips. “But if you must know, my name is Kai, and I’m more than old enough to know how to keep up with a guy like you, Mr. Stark.”

He groaned at the sound of my rough, ‘sex voice’ using such formalities with him. Tony looked me up and down, staring as I tantalizingly slid my hand up my thigh, pulling my shorts higher and higher, revealing your lace covered sex bit by bit. After all, these shorts were mostly holes with a side of denim and loose enough to give everyone a sneak peek. My knees were shoulder level with Tony Stark’s shoulders, the Iron Man, more or less my new boss/landlord, but I couldn’t care less.

“See something you like Mr. Stark,” I purred at him in that voice again. This snapped Tony to attention and he shot to his feet, crowding my space, forcing my back down flat on the counter top.

“I’d like it a lot better if you’d shut up and let me take you right here.”

“How presumptuous of you Mr. Stark, you’re old enough to be my father. Do you really think you could handle me?”

Hey if you don’t want to read smut, it starts right here, I’ll tell you where to jump to:

The line would have landed a lot better if I hadn’t also let out a breathless gasp as Tony pulled my knees apart and rubbed his nose along my clothed slit, his facial hair scraping my inner thigh, sending flurries of pleasure up my spine, my flash breaking out in goose-bumps.

“We’ll see if you can handle someone with my expertise little girl, just don’t call me daddy,” he growled before ripping my pants down to your ankles and tossing them behind his head before he ripped off my body suit out of impatience despite my protests that quickly dissipated as he began to feast and suck up all my wetness, tongue pistoning in and out, driving my senses wild. He had me falling apart around him in minutes, obviously more talented than any other man I’d ever been with.

“That’s one Ms. Stone, how many more do you think you can take?” Tony teased me as I struggled to sit upright after that onslaught. Instead of answering, I kissed him, hard. Teeth banging together and tongues exploring each other’s mouths I was decently surprised to discover he tasted like honey and blackberries as well as me.

Tony lifted me up and off the counter by gripping my ass and sliding me towards him, encouraging me to wrap my still trembling legs around his waist.

Instead of complying, I pried myself out of his grasp and slid down to my knees in front of him, palming his clothed hard on.

“I believe this is what they call reciprocation Stark. Or perhaps, payback.”

The night continued on as such until you both were sated and absolutely exhausted.

*********************************End Smut ***************************************

The next morning I woke up right before 7 am with the urgent need to relieve myself. Yanking with my slightly enhanced strength, I pulled the bed sheet out from under Tony, opting to rush out the door and into my own room. Pulling the door towards myself, I was hit with bright hallways and muttered conversations.

Quietly cursing my luck, I pulled the bed sheet tighter around my cleavage before lifting my chin high and proudly marching down the corridor to my own chambers.

I heard Pietro mutter a question to Peter, whose eyes were bulging out of their sockets. “She’s uh… she’s the new recruit we brought in while you all were in Wakanda… Did she just come out of Mr. Stark’s rooms??”

“Take a picture boys, it’ll last longer,” I had finally reached her door, having passed the two gawking boys when she let Tony’s sheet pool around my ankles, revealing my stomach, much softer than it used to be, ample cleavage pushed up by my white lace bra and my shorts that had truly seen better mornings, but still worked to cover my body decently. A choked gasp and a hacking fit were the only responses from Spidey and the silver-haired man I hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting yet.

As soon as the doors to my suite closed, I fell to my knees, panting through a panic attack before pulling myself together half an hour later to shower and change into my training uniform that Happy had delivered to my rooms yesterday. It was my first official day as a part of the team. And judging by the way it had started, I might need a drink sooner rather than later.

So we’re starting to get more into the head of Kaida, little glimpses into her backstory. She’s very loose-canon and errs on the side of self-destruction. Anyways, I’m formatting Chapter Three right now. I’m so enthused by the response, I really didn’t expect anyone to see this but I’m hype.

tags: @laurfangirl424 @peeterparkr @private-bucky-barnes

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prixmiumarchive · 6 years

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Don’t Hug Me I’m Confused

Disclaimer: The following post contains some personal critique of certain fandom patterns and habits that I personally find strange, don’t relate to, or don’t enjoy. However, this post really isn’t that deep in those areas, and so while I’m not talking about kink at all, just kind of consider this a sort of KINKTOMATO disclaimer. What you enjoy and how you enjoy it is not my business, and your art and cosplays are things that a) seem to be of high quality and b) I could not actually accomplish so kudos to you for doing it even if it’s not my thing in its expression. You do you, and I’ll do me, and I’m not trying to hurt anyone’s feelings. This is just a personal blog post / semi-review that I’m tagging in case anyone else who has watched dhmis wants to read it. This post may likely come across as pretty “anti-shipping,” but rest assured that I probably ship some weird stuff in other fandoms so I’m not judging you, or whatever.

Nursing a headache better and responding to a text, I was reminded of the existence of a weird web series on YouTube that, apparently, was released over the course of several years. The first installment of Don’t Hug Me I’m Scared was shown to me by a former friend sometime after its release many years ago now. Naturally, I was pretty unsettled by it at the time in a sort of nervous-laughter, later-haunted-nightmares sort of way. However, at the time and with its sole initial video being around, the way I processed the video and its purpose was quite different from the way I process it now. I had seen that there were a couple more videos over the years, but I had never actually managed to watch the little series to its sixth installment because at some point I got disturbed ever time and quit. However, in a state of resolve and slightly greater desensitization, I finally finished it up. And I’m strangely satisfied and intrigued, particularly after watching a couple of commentary videos about it.

Rather than rehashing someone else’s explanation, I’ll simply refer to The Film Theorists two videos on the subject. I think that this YouTube channel sometimes gets a lot of raised eyebrows and bad press for reaching really hard to get shock-value, click-bait-y ~dark theories~ out of benign or extremely popular media. I haven’t really consumed their other material, so I can’t speak to that, but I can say that the two videos on DHMIS are not reaching for even more darkness and edge. Rather, they seem to be well-researched, well-reasoned explanations for what is otherwise a strangely difficult work of art to process. I say “work of art” not terribly lightly nor terribly dogmatically because I really don’t know what else to make of something that intrigues, bothers, pleases, disturbs, and fascinates me that is intended to communicate something even if that something is the particular sense of unease I am describing.

As is my custom when I don’t really know what to do with feelings about a particular work of fiction, I opened a tab to AO3 to see if fanfiction exists for that “fandom” to see if a quantifiable fandom is actually there. To my surprise, DHMIS actually had over 100 fics. So, I scrolled through the first couple of pages to see what they tended to be about or whatever. I had no particular craving or desire to read fic about this at the moment; I just wanted to know what the environment was like. And what I found was really, really deeply not what I expected.

A major part of the fandom seems to be something called “p/adlock” shipping which I’m censoring so that I’m not picking on someone’s OTP. Again, disclaimer, not judging, simply commenting. It seems to be shipping the Sketch Pad from the first installment with the Clock from the second. I really don’t know where people came up with this or why it seems to be so passionate, but I am not here to judge. It just seems like it is strangely misaimed and sort of misses the central themes of whatever the hell is going on in DHMIS. Even if I’m not sure what is going on, I’m pretty sure that it is not a romantic love story, subtextually or otherwise. Of course, there’s shipping in everything. Before you get mad at me, let me also say that it reminds me of another fandom I’m involved in in which I am one of the weird maybe-missing-the-point shippers, so I’ll get back to that.

Perhaps one of the reasons that this is such an interesting experience for me is that I feel like I’m experiencing my discovery of this fandom much the way those who discover the Portal fandom and poke around not knowing what to expect must do. I came looking for commentary or elaboration on the universe that seems to have been established in these little shorts. Instead, I find shipping that I cannot really find the thread for at all. Now, of course, I would argue that I do find subtext and reasoning and so on in Portal fandom and “chelley” (Chell/Wheatley) shipping. I also find reasons to believe that Wheatley being in a humanoid or android form makes sense in some cases. I don’t see why there are humanoid forms of already anthropomorphic set pieces and characters in DHMIS. See the above videos for a theory I’ve pretty much bought into, I think, that these characters represent props or animations or such anyway while only Red Guy, Yellow Guy, and Duck are real characters/people/performers. (I realize they have names, maybe.)

Anyway, digressing a bit from the strange experience of seeing how a subset of fandom that is really transforming the original work (again - kudos even if not my thing, I think) being the majority when you don’t really get it from the other side of it, I also want to comment on how worth-it I found finally finishing DHMIS. It went from what felt like a strange, occasionally darkly humorous, occasionally dark-dark-dark exercise in internet meme-y nihilism to something that became so much more. Initially, watching the first couple of episodes, it felt like something that existed that sort of titillate and affirm that particular vein of teenage, edgy, oppositional defiance-y, XD-random, I wear black as it is the color of my soul, I have fantasy colored hair despite it not being goth because I like color secretly and because it bothers some conservative people, I’m angry at societal structures that have failed me and am determined to throw all the babies out with all the bathwater because I’m so angry frustration. Now, I still relate to a handful of those things. If my life allowed for it I would be a pink-hair-but-wearing-all-black kind of person some of the time. However, I find that the depth of that particular soft-laughter rage that comes with being a teenager with the experiences to develop it sort of off-putting as someone who has both been-there and has become a teacher in my adult life. I see myself in it, but I also see things that I hate both on their own merits and that I hate in the form of hating it for a person who has to go through it or go through the steps to have gotten there. In the end, though, I found that DHMIS was less late night Cartoon Network programming is the pinnacle of artistic expression and more some kind of play on nostalgia, capitalism, anxiety, power structures, creativity and its opponents, institutionalized violence, and even, maybe, the meat-packing and commercial food industries. In a way, watching it all the way through sort of felt like going through a fast-motion montage of going from being a sort of disturbed teenager to being an adult on the other side of it with a whole other set of frustrations and anxieties that can still be found in the same sort of imagery. It felt like growing up in a weird way.

Still in episodes I had seen before, I remarked to mentioned texting friend that Red Guy was my favorite when she indicated that she was watching a bit of it. I wasn’t even sure why, but in particular his reactions to the clock in the second episode really sold me. All of the characters had strange reactions to a lot of things, but his deadpan, monotone confusion, and the way in which he complies to this-might-as-well-happen sorts of circumstances until he cracks in the end and has some kind of epiphany really resonated with me. Then, I realized, it was because he was, in fact, that avatar of the adult in this situation, and that is its own kind of mind-blow because initially one does not really conceive of these characters as anything but ageless muppets. Which is its own layer of unsettling. In any case, I am really impressed with this little series. Whether or not the “film theory” is right, I feel more satisfied in the end. However, I would really recommend those videos because it totally flipped my perspective on the ending of DHMIS from “there’s no hope and not escape from this hell” or, possibly, “you might escape hell but you’re dooming someone else to replace you,” to something entirely and much more hopeful bout the drudgery of a creatively inclined adult trying to slog through the obstacles and soul-drains that our present societal pressures place on us. I really hope I figure it out in the end like Red Guy.

One final, mostly off-topic note: upon a glance, I think that maybe that film theories youtube channel is, perhaps, more genuine in its efforts to dissect internet memes than in the clickbait it produces for blockbuster movies. But then again, in a a world dictated by ad revenue, whatcha gonna do?

Given that our focuses on what we like about the series seem to be wildly different, I doubt that I’ll be hard-joining the DHMIS fandom for the most part. I enjoyed some of the content in the tag, and if you’re reading from outside it, you might check it out.

If you like or hard-relate to Red Guy and enjoy scifi (Doctor Who, The Expanse), other web series (Carmilla), or other common fandom stuff (superhero shows, DC/Marvel, select anime), you might consider messaging or following me. I’d love to talk about Red Guy with someone who kinda gets it, but again I’m not really interested in shipping in this fandom.

If you read this far, thanks and have a lovely day!

#dhmis #don't hug me i'm scared #long post /#conventional blogging tag #red guy

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feisty-mary · 6 years

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A King and a Duchess: Thoughts on TRR Book 3, Chapter 2

I don’t usually write detailed reviews of TRR chapters aside from screenshots of my playthrough with some comments. But I’ve had tons of feelings since the lackluster pilot and now even chapter two is a disappointment, so I decided I might as well summarize what I think and get it off my chest once and for all.

Note that this post will be peppered with links to my other posts, since I usually write down my thoughts immediately after finishing a chapter so I don’t forget them. It won’t be necessary to open the links to follow what I say here (unless otherwise noted), but please feel free to visit them for screenshots and additional insights.

1. We finally have the names of the likely enemies of the Crown!

It’s always frustrated me how Liam dances around the issue and says absolutely nothing to his future bride and Queen about the enemies of the monarchy. I understand he can’t (especially if you’re not romancing him), but that doesn’t make it less annoying. It’s a relief to finally get some clues about who they might actually be in this chapter.

According to Bastien, there are three suspects:

a. Liberation Core. Anti-monarchists, have grown more outspoken in their criticisms against the Crown.

b. Sons of Earth. Newer faction. Pro-trade, in favor of bigger concessions.

c. Nevrakis Family. Olivia’s parents were part of an attempted coup.

I reckon Francesco (the Italian ambassador) is part of the Sons of Earth, since he’s been pushing for Cordonia to grant Italian artists more access to Cordonian market. I don’t think they necessarily want to overthrow the government; I imagine they’re mostly businessmen who want a big share of the market for their own benefit. If this is the case, I think we can conclude that they will be the last people who will want instability in Cordonia, since an uncertain environment is bad for business.

Liberation Core sounds the most obvious culprit at the moment, since the videos from the assassin explicitly say that they want to shift the power from the monarchs to the citizens. I wonder if this is a call to change the form of government from monarchy to democracy?

I’ve already said that I have some faith in Olivia’s friendship with Liam. However, it’s her Aunt Lucretia that I’m very wary of (the one who left her to fend for herself after her parents passed away). In this chapter Olivia seems fiercely determined to support Liam, but that’s not necessarily true for the rest of her family, is it? Where has Aunt Lucretia been all these years?

Coup d’état is defined as “a sudden and decisive action in politics, especially one resulting in a change of government illegally or by force” (Dictionary.com, 2018). It’s interesting that this was what Olivia’s parents were involved in, and this is also in part what the assassin in the video threatens to do if Liam doesn’t abdicate the throne (“the palace halls will flow with the blood of tyrants”).

I’m not drawing conclusions from the points above yet, though I admit I’m frustrated that Constantine never dealt with the potential threat in Olivia. If I remember right, Olivia’s parents died when she was around 6 or 7, so this coup d’état must have happened some twenty years ago by this time in canon. The fact that this problem still haunts Liam now that he’s already king is… well, very disappointing.

2. The enemies of the Crown publicly threaten Liam’s life again in this chapter, but everyone pretends everything is okay.

Everyone includes but is not limited to Ana and Donnie (the media), Bertrand (who calls the entire thing “a PR miracle” if you don’t botch it up), and even Liam himself, who doesn’t discuss the assassin’s video with MC, but invites her to soak in goddamn bathtub instead (if you’re romancing him). I personally bought Liam’s diamond scene, and except for the two lines where Liam asks MC how she feels after what happened, they don’t dwell much on the video message from the enemies and then continue acting as if it’s really not that important.

Excuse my French but, uhm, what the fuck?

3. To Ana’s and Donnie’s credit, they don’t pull their punches when they ask Liam what he plans on doing following the demands of the enemies of the Crown. (You might want to open this link in another tab for context.)

“And what about their demands, King Liam? Given everything that’s happened over the past few days, are you thinking of stepping down?”

They go right for the jugular with this question. And Liam, oh my dear Liam disappoints spectacularly in this one. Here he “pauses to gather his thoughts”, and then it’s basically MC who takes over and sends a message on Liam’s behalf.

My question is: Why? Why does it have to be MC who has to do all the talking, when the question is very clearly addressed to Liam, the actual King of Cordonia? Granted, in my playthrough my MC is romancing Liam and is thus his future wife and future Queen of Cordonia. ‘Future’ being the operative term. Why does she get to speak on his behalf, and why are we given the impression that her words instead of the King’s are enough to assuage the fears of the media and the public? Who the hell even is she? If I were a citizen of Cordonia, why would I believe this person in the first place?

I’m incredibly upset by this sequence, because we’ve been told since Book 2 that Liam has to earn his reign in order to regain his kingdom. In this scene, though, after he supposedly pauses to gather his thoughts, his only words are:

“She’s right. I have no intention of giving in to their demands.”

It gets even worse when you remember how much they’ve been emphasizing that there needs to be a display of strength following the assassination attempt during the Homecoming Ball. And like we’ve been told since Book 1, appearances are everything. In this scene, Liam is supposed to show that he isn’t unruffled by the assassination attempt. He’s supposed to show his constituents that he’s a leader they can look to for guidance, a pillar they can lean on in times of chaos and confusion. It’s supposed to be an opportunity for him to start proving himself to the public.

But no. Instead the writers give the spotlight to MC, and it’s her who gives a strong message that appears enough to alleviate the worries of the public (based at least on the reaction of the media).

This just didn’t work for me. I understand that the writers must have wanted for players to have some input in the direction the dialogues are supposed to take, but to me this greatly undermined Liam as the King. This guy was brought up to be a prince, and then eventually the ruler of his own kingdom. His reign has just been threatened publicly, twice, in the span of barely a week. Is this really all he has to say about the matter? “She’s right. I have no intention of giving in to their demands”?

Wouldn’t it have worked better if Liam, as King of Cordonia, had taken the lead and sent a message to bring his people together, assure them that all is well? That’s literally his job. Ana’s and Donnie’s question isn’t something that should have caught him by surprise – not after that botched up assassination attempt. Couldn’t MC have just rallied behind him, said something in support of his statement, as a Duchess and/or future queen?

This entire scene was just ridiculous. I know the entire premise of TRR banks on a lot of suspension of disbelief, but they really did Liam’s character dirty with this one.

4. Madeleine will be our new press secretary!

I’m surprised but at the same time I’m not? Back in Book 2, even Justin himself remarked that Madeleine was really good at handling the press. Which was when I started lowkey shipping them. I still do; you can fight me.

I know a lot of people dislike Madeleine, but I’ve grown to really like her. Like I’ve said here, I think she will be perfect for this role, considering her upbringing and her knowledge about Cordonia. I’m not sure how we will convince her to help us, though. I know she does want power, so maybe we’ll make some concessions? A higher position? I for one am not entirely opposed to the idea. You can hate her guts all you want, but even Liam and her mother Adelaide have both acknowledged that Madeleine will make a good queen.

I’m also thankful and happy that they decided to take this route with respect to her character development. I wholeheartedly acknowledge that Madeleine hasn’t been the most pleasant person since we first met her in Book 1. But in making her MC’s press secretary and thus an ally, the writers will have more room to explore who she is: what her motivations are, how she has dealt with Leo’s abdication and her being cast aside, her relationship with her mother and Regina, what she feels about Liam and his decision to choose MC in her place, etc. The writers will add more depth to her character instead of simply writing her off as another evil, power- hungry woman. I for one am keenly looking forward to what she’ll bring to the table once she becomes our ally.

=================================

I’ve never done this ‘thoughts on a TRR chapter’ thing before so my ideas are divided between several posts. I’m adding links to those related to this one. I have already mentioned some of them in the text above.

Enemies of the Crown | Truth behind the Death of Olivia’s Parents | Questions We Need to Ask Ourselves Post-TRR Book 3, Chapter 2 | King Liam, MC, and Answering the Press | Madeleine as MC’s Press Secretary

#the royal romance #playchoices #king liam #madeleine #liam x mc #king constantine #i have feelings #oops #chapter thoughts

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ayearofpike · 6 years

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“Collect Call”

From Thirteen, ed. T. Pines Scholastic, 1991 73 pages, 2 parts ISBN 0-590-45256-8 LOC: unknown OCLC: 24486627 Released October 1, 1991 (per Amazon UK)

When the new boy at school gives the head cheerleader a tape for her birthday, Janice Adams is jealous, enough that they get in a fight as they’re driving home from a party. Unfortunately, the fight makes Janice drive off the road and wreck her car, killing the cheerleader. But when she gets home, her answering machine starts playing new messages from the cheerleader, leading her back to the scene of the wreck – somehow, before it ever happens.

We’re fully into the edgy ‘90s now, and kid lit has come along for the ride. This collection, to me, reads as Scholastic trying to not only sell this book, but others by related authors. They knew kids were getting into thrillers, and that a compilation of short stories might be a good way to move more books. Tonya Pines says it herself in her introduction: the boom in sales made this book inevitable, with the part about buying other writers’ books going unsaid. And there are some names we recognize there on the cover – Pike for sure, R.L. Stine (who might have ended up even hotter in terms of pure sales), and also Caroline Cooney and Diane Hoh, who we might recognize as Cheerleaders authors. What I can’t get over is that obvious pen name at the top. D.E. Athkins indeed.

For the purposes of this blog, I only read “Collect Call” this time around. However, some of the other stories in here are quite good. Ellen Emerson White’s “The Boy Next Door” was my favorite at the time I read the book. I definitely shared that one around more than the Pike. She built the hard left turn at the end far better than anything I had seen from him, and certainly never before in such a tightly-crafted short story (it’s only like 18 pages!). White mostly wrote historical fiction, it looks like, besides the very occasional foray into thrillers, so I don’t know how she got tabbed for this anthology. The only other of her books I read, an adult mystery that came a few years later, was kind of boring. “The Boy Next Door” was far more memorable.

But anyway, we’re here to talk about Christopher Pike and “Collect Call.” It starts at a high school party, where Janice is trying to get up her courage to talk to Bobby Walker, the mysterious and cool new kid who always wears the same black leather jacket and jeans. For a minute, he seems like he’s too cool to remember her, but then he knows more about Janice than he’s let on. But right when she feels special, he calls over Caroline Spencer, the head cheerleader whose birthday it is, and hands her a cassette tape of music from some hot new artist called the Black Walker. Hmm, wonder if they’re associated in any way? Nah, too obvious.

So a couple hours later, the party’s ending, and Caroline asks Janice for a ride home. Janice is more than a six-pack in at this point, but she agrees. They listen to Bobby’s tape, which moves them, but then they get in an argument about him. This is the whole reason Caroline wanted a ride from Janice. She wants Janice to lay off, and Janice is basically like screw you, he’s not your property. So Caroline literally slugs the driver of the car she’s in in the face, just as they reach a curve over a steep incline.

When the car finally stops at the bottom, Janice is just a little scraped up, but Caroline has gone partway through the windshield and is obviously dead. Remember, Janice was not just driving drunk, she was driving totally fucked up. She doesn’t want to go to jail for this, so she gets the great idea to move Caroline into the driver’s seat. The tape is on Caroline’s lap, so Janice just sticks it in her pocket before starting the shift. Just as she’s getting Caroline positioned, she gets a weird premonition and gets away from the car right before it explodes in a giant fireball. And Caroline starts screaming as she burns alive.

Freaky, no? It gets weirder. Janice gets home after being treated and questioned about the crash, drops everything right beside the answering machine, and jumps into the shower. When she gets out, there’s a new message - and it’s Caroline, asking for a ride to the party. The party that’s over. The one that Caroline died on the way home from. So Janice figures, huh, that’s weird, but she must have called before and I didn’t notice the message light. So she gets in bed, starts to settle in – and then hears the answering machine start going again. And it’s Caroline, even more insistent than before. Janice turns the machine off – and it starts recording again anyway, and Caroline is getting pissed. So Janice puts on her torn and bloody clothes, including her broken watch, and gets into her mom’s car and takes off.

To kill some time while she’s driving aimlessly, she sticks a tape into the player. The tape from the answering machine. And now Caroline is giving her driving directions like some kind of ethereal GPS. Janice, for lack of anything better to do or any kind of real explanation, follows them, straight to the point where she drove off the road before. And there’s no wreck. There’s not even broken glass. While she’s checking out the site, her watch starts again, counting down the last couple of minutes before her car is slated to come bombing off the road. And sure enough, right at the hour, here it comes. Janice realizes that she needs to get Caroline out of the car first, but when she goes around to help the driver, they keep canceling each other’s attempts to open the door. And pretty soon it’s too late, and the car explodes with Janice inside.

So Caroline wakes up in the hospital and learns about poor Janice’s fate. She’s told that Bobby Walker is hoping to see her, and while she’s waiting for him to come in she checks the voicemail on the hospital room phone. Because I guess pretty popular girls assume they have messages no matter where they are or what’s just happened.

But she has two. The first is from Bobby, hoping she liked the tape. The second? You already know. Janice says that the fire burned off her hands, but don't worry, she'll be in touch soon. And that's where the first part leaves us hanging.

Part 2 starts a month later, with Caroline having agreed to go on a date with Bobby. She's still recovering from her injuries sustained in the accident, hasn't even been back to school in fact, but there's something about his voice and his attitude that makes her feel like she needs to go. Bobby wants to go to a horror movie, and Caroline doesn't even like horror movies but she still agrees. The movie they go to? The Listeners, a story about a lizard monster from the past who possesses one of a set of twins and starts killing everyone. I know, this sounds familiar, but it's also upcoming: Pike has once again referenced one of his works that he hasn't yet written. At this point, The Listeners the novel was still four years away from publication, but he must have had the plot fleshed out already. (And we'll talk more about how he reuses YA themes in an adult novel again when we get there.)

(And now I’m thinking about whether I need to try to tie together the Pike Extended Universe. It’s not the first time another work has shown up in one of his stories. But I’m not going to do it in this post. Just thinking about it I’m getting tired.)

But so anyway, Caroline averts her eyes for most of the gory parts, and Bobby doesn't like that. He thinks she's missed out on understanding what the movie is really trying to tell her, and makes her stick around for the next showing, with the implication that he'll do something bad if she doesn't watch every second. So Caroline does, and she starts remembering stuff about the accident that didn't happen: Janice climbing out of the car, Janice pulling her into the driver's seat, Janice backing away just before it exploded. Only this couldn't have happened, because Janice is dead.

But we the readers saw Janice do this too, so what gives? Bobby's not totally forthcoming with what gives, but he does want to take Caroline somewhere else, and says she'll know more when they get there. "There," Caroline is appalled to learn, is Janice's grave. Before she can even move to get away, he's tied her to a tree and is digging up the coffin.

While he does, he puts on the Black Walker's song and explains it. If you put a tape recorder in a silent location, Bobby explains, sometimes you'll get a ghost whisper. Bobby lucked out and got an entire song, which acted as an explanation of how to sacrifice unaware young women to a demon god. It haunted Janice into a nightmare before she ever knew she was dead, and it continues to haunt Caroline with her knowledge that her punch is what made Janice drive off the road in the first place. What's more, it gives Bobby the strength and the motivation to do what he does. So just like the twin in his favorite movie, Bobby is a vehicle for an ancient evil, and Caroline is just his most recent victim. He plans to throw her in the coffin with Janice's body and bury her alive.

Lucky for Caroline, it takes a while to dig through six feet of earth, even if one is possessed by an evil spirit. And also lucky for Caroline, there's only one copy of the song on the tape, which provides enough blank space for her to hear a ghost whisper of her own: Record. Button. So she snags the tape recorder with her feet, rewinds the tape to the beginning, and records over the Black Walker's song with "Silent Night." Bobby doesn't notice until he's ready to throw her in the grave, and the missing song saps all of his energy, which gives Caroline time to whack him over the head with the shovel and throw him into what was intended to be her final resting place. And as she heaps the earth on top of him, the voices on the tape swell and expand, a ghostly choir presumably of Bobby's victims singing along with Caroline's lone voice.

And so we reach the end of Pike’s first short story that we know of. It works fine, I think, but it seems like it wants to breathe and is out of room to do so. Part 2 seems like it could have (and maybe should have) been a short story by itself, but without the background of Part 1 it wouldn’t have worked as well. You get the impression that Pike, constricted to a length of maybe a third of his regular works, really wants to throw more detail in but can't. And that's not really what short stories are about anyway – it’s about crafting a tale with the minimum amount of information you need to tell it, without sacrificing the details that will engage the reader. Every word counts, and if it doesn’t count you should leave it out. Pike isn’t super good at leaving stuff out, and so "Collect Call" is straining against its bounds. (I never even mentioned the dude who threw the party and all the extraneous details used to describe a kid who’s not even integral to the plot.)

To be fair, Pike’s bio at the end of the book says he’s "America's best-selling author of young-adult fiction," and if that's true it makes sense that they'd let him kind of go as long as he wanted here. (None of the other stories even goes more than 30 pages, let alone two parts.) Still, I don't think it was quite enough for him. After all, this is a dude who has now written nine books about an eternal vampire. We’ll get to some more short stories in a bit, and as I recall he’ll start to figure out the genre. But “Collect Call” takes too much time on extras and is too floaty and flighty (at least in the first part) to be a real engaging read. Kind of like this blog.

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