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sprnklersplashes · 2 years ago

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thunderstorms (ao3)

parents!wesper helping their daughter through a thunderstorm

It’s not the thunderstorm outside his window that wakes Wylan up. Oh no. After his time living in the Barrel, where drunken shouts and fights permeated the much-thinner walls of the inn, he learned to tune such noises out. What does wake him, however, is the creak of his bedroom door, and the soft whimpering from his bedroom doorway has him sitting up with all thoughts of sleep forgotten.

“Addy?”

“Papa!” Thunder rolls through the sky again, booming like a ship’s canon. The whimper turns into a sharp shriek, and Addy hurries across the room in a blink and jumps onto the bed. She moves frantically to carve out a place for herself. Her little body burrows under the blankets until only her eyes are visible, peeking worriedly over the top of the fabric. Until another clap of thunder shakes the air, and she squeezes them shut. Wylan runs his hands over her hair, gentle shushing noises already working to calm her.

Unsurprisingly, the amount of jostling wakes Jesper, who turns and blinks sleep out of his eyes, his hair adorably messy and unkempt. It doesn’t take him long to notice Addy’s presence and an even shorter time for a fond smile to creep across his face.

“Hi, darling,” he says softly. “What has you in here?” The flashing outside the window answers his question, followed by a thunderclap echoing from the Geldstraat all the way to the Barrel. Addy whimpers and presses herself into the mattress, pulling the sheets over her little body as if they give more protection than the bricks making up the house.

She gives her parents just enough time to smile wryly at each other before Addy declares loudly to the room “I don’t like the storm”.

“The storm likes you though,” Jesper teases. Addy stiffens beneath the covers. The blanket twists until a small, round lump replaces the shape of their daughter, but after a few thunderless moments, she at least wriggles up to the surface and pokes her head above. The pout is still etched onto her face, big brown eyes furrowed, but it’s a start.

Her hair is also a mess, falling out of the braid Jesper did for her and streaming across her face. Wylan smiles as he tucks it away from her, taking a moment to boop her nose as he does so. That gets a smile from her, as bright and as delicate as the stars currently hiding behind storm clouds.

“When it’s gonna stop?” she asks, propping her cheek on her fist. Wylan draws his arm around her and pulls her close, his chin pressed to the top of her head. "I’m not sure, baby,” he sighs. “Depends on how big they are. Sometimes they don’t last too long. But sometimes they can go on for hours. See, the water in the air rises when it’s hot-”

There’s a quick nudge against his leg, and it takes his brain a second to process that he’s been kicked. By Jesper. His eyebrows shoot up, a shake of his head so slight that only Wylan can see. At first, Wylan doesn’t understand, but then Addy whimpers at another thunderclap, and the realisation smacks him over the head. Fascinating as the subject may be, their daughter perhaps does not need a science lesson on how thunderstorms are created right this second.

“But it won’t last forever, Addy,” he tells her. “In fact when you wake up tomorrow, it’ll be gone.”

“Really?”

“Really, really,” Wylan says. Jesper grins then, laugh lines creasing his face, and he bumps his knee against Wylan’s.

Lightning crackles outside, lighting the heavy blue curtains. Addy squeals and grabs Jesper, her two shaking hands clinging to him like a lifeboat. With her hands held in his, he slides closer to her and deliberately moves to block the window as much as possible. He’s not sure how effective it is, if at all; Addy’s gaze remains past him, her eyes wide, her little frame trembling against the mattress.

Brown eyes meet blue over her head. After Jesper woke, he switched on the bedside lamp, bathing the room in a soft golden glow. It reassures Addy a little bit, but when a thunderclap draws a pained whimper from her, they’re told strongly and finally that they’re not sleeping for the next few hours.

With a resigned sigh, Wylan adjusts the pillow so it sits against the headboard, Addy still wrapped in his embrace. He presses little kisses to her hair, hoping it will help keep the fear at bay and help her back to sleep. She settles against him and claims half the pillow as her own. But she seems almost determined to stay awake, to outlast the storm that so rudely woke her up.

Jesper sits up against the headboard, his hand running through Addy’s hair.

“Well,” he says. “I think if this storm is going to keep us awake, we might as well enjoy ourselves.” He jumps up from the bed and grabs his discarded jacket, ignoring the looks he gets from both Wylan and Addy. The two of them are puzzled beyond belief, meanwhile, Jesper just keeps grinning as if he’s got a winning hand at Makker’s Wheel.

“Come on then,” he says cheerily. “Unless you two stay here and I keep all the hot chocolate for myself-”

“No!” Addy leaps from the bed, almost crushing Wylan’s wrist in her haste. He’s not annoyed though, not when her giggle flutters through the room and Jesper is swinging her off the bed, eyes glittering, hair still messy from sleep. He’s barely got his own jacket pulled on before Addy grabs his hands, pulling him towards the door with all the intensity of the horses that pull their coach.

“Come on, Papa, come on!”

(Is he a little grateful for this storm now? Surely he’s allowed to be if it gives him moments like this?)

After a quick stop to grab Addy’s dressing gown, and her stuffed rabbit whom she forgot in her panic, they find Jesper working in the kitchen. He’s switched the lights on. While the rest of the world lies in the dark, he’ll carve out a little pocket just for them.

Sitting on their stove is a copper pan, and an empty glass bottle sits on the counter beside it. The milk is already softly bubbling, reminding Wylan of a creek near the house, and Jesper is half-in, half-out of the pantry.

“Darling, where do we keep the sugar again?” he calls. Wylan laughs, the feeling solid and warm in his chest. He deposits Addy on the counter and opens the cupboard above her head. Her giddiness is almost palpable, especially when she tilts her head to look up at him. Especially when she presses her face into her rabbit to stifle her giggles.

“You mean this sugar?” he asks casually. Jesper turns, frowning and then laughing, and strides back over to the stove.

“The very same.” In his other hand is a precariously balanced jar of cocoa powder and a half-opened slab of cooking chocolate that Addy’s eyes widen at. It doesn’t matter, of course, how many times they tell her it’s for cooking and not eating. Every time it comes out, her eyes are locked on it.

“What are you making, Da?” she asks now, shuffling closer. Wylan panics just a little bit as she moves, knowing that open flame plus a woolen dressing gown can only end in disaster. He rests his hand on her back, hoping to keep Addy from catching fire and turning their midnight snack into a midnight call for a medik.

“I am making Aditi Hilli’s famous hot chocolate,” he says. “World renowned for curing all kinds of sleepless nights.” He winks and shakes the cocoa into the pan, the powder falling like new spring rain. Addy watches its descent, her mouth hanging open in anticipation.

“Was it one of her zowa powers, Da?” Jesper’s laugh is low and warm, and the fondness on his face practically glows.

“No, it wasn’t one of her zowa powers,” he tells her. “It was one of her own special powers.”

He makes sure to squeeze Jesper’s hand as he passes to the cupboard. Jesper’s gaze follows him as he goes, and he doesn’t need to look up to see the expression on both their faces when he returns. The presence of the cookie jar is almost enough to distract Addy from the crack of lightning outside the window.

“Well if we’re up past bedtime, we may as well break all the other rules too,” he teases. Jesper catches his cookie in his mouth, eliciting a delighted giggle from Addy as Wylan hands her one. Together, they watch in wide-eyed silence as the milk in the pan swirls around, the colour changing from speckled white to velvety brown. As it simmers on the stove, the air turns warm and rich, and even Wylan’s mouth begins to water. Jesper grabs three mugs from the cupboard and pours the contents of the pan in. Beneath Wylan’s touch, Addy is wriggling around like a puppy about to be let off the leash. She takes the mug in both of her small hands, bunny tucked beneath her arm for safety and cookie in her mouth, and the light on her face would put Alina Starkov to shame.

“Come on,” Wylan suggests. With Jesper holding the remaining mugs, Wylan lifts Addy and places her carefully on his hip, careful not to spill any of her cocoa. Jesper eyes him curiously, and now it’s his turn to wink. “Why don’t we take this into the living room instead?”

The Van Eck living room had undergone quite a transformation in the time since Wylan’s father owned it. It’s still etched into Wylan’s mind how it looked when they first moved in; the neatly arranged maroon cushions, the rows of books so tightly packed Wylan wondered if they were more for decoration. Some of the books were kept, the ones that proved either useful or interesting. The rest were donated. A rainbow of cushions is now strayed haphazardly across the furniture, matched by the multi-coloured rug Jesper found at a market and insisted was what the room needed.

(He was right)

Wylan doesn’t know what exactly triggers the realisation. Maybe it’s setting Addy down on the sofa with cookie crumbs all over her face or Jesper arranging his gangly limbs next to her, but for a second all he can think about is how his father would’ve hated this. Wylan being outside his bedroom after 10 was met with cold warnings and thin threats. Midnight hot chocolates weren’t even a suggestion. Jan Van Eck made no pretenses; he’d expected Wylan would run his house with the same tight schedule and iron fist that he did.

But now he’s here, in the early hours of the morning, wiping a hot chocolate mustache off of Addy’s upper lip and clinking his mug against Jesper’s and no-one is telling him to stop or go back to bed.

Carefully arranged on Jesper’s lap, Addy turns her head and looks out the window, the mug covering up half her face. Her brow furrows when a clap of thunder shakes the sky, pressing into Jesper’s chest. As she softly whimpers into the cushion, Wylan’s eyes meet Jespers, and Wylan finds the fond exasperation feels mirrored in his husband’s eyes. If they want to get Addy to sleep before the sun comes up again, they’ll need a little more than hot chocolate, magical or otherwise.

And that’s when Wylan gets the idea.

“Here.” Leaving his mug on the sofa, he slides carefully off the couch and onto the piano stool beside it. He doesn’t need to look around to see how Addy and Jesper’s eyes widen in tandem or the small smile that tugs on his daughter’s lips.

Carefully, gently, his hands dance over the keys. It’s an old song, its presence stretching all the way back to Wylan’s childhood. Back when he was a prince and not a disappointment, and he and his mother would spend hours sitting at the piano together. Crisp autumn mornings and short summer nights, playing, composing, laughing, until eventually, the twinkling music lulled Wylan to sleep.

With a glance over his shoulder, he sees it’s halfway working. Addy sits with her cheek against Jesper’s chest, mug clutched in both hands and the bunny sitting somewhat awkwardly in the crook of her arm. Jesper’s slender fingers run up and down her spine, her dark locks twirling around them. When she blinks, she blinks slowly, heavily, and her head slides down Jesper’s chest.

Jesper looks up, and his eye catches Wylan’s. The smile is quiet, fond, so brimming with love that Wylan’s heart skips a beat. Just like it did years ago, when they were just kids who knew nothing and expected even less. When Wylan thought he’d never set foot in this house again and had made his peace with that.

It takes two more rounds of the song, and a scattering of steadily-receeding thunder, for it to work its magic. When Wylan checks again, Addy is quietly snoring against Jesper’s chest. Piano notes slowly and softly fade and Addy buries her face in the fabric of his shirt. At some point, Jesper pried the mug from her hands and left it on the table beside them, along with his and Wylan’s.

Jesper pokes Addy’s cheek, the surest and safest way of checking if she’s asleep. Addy murmurs and burrows further into Jesper’s chest then goes on as if nothing happened.

Jesper grins, so bright and dazzling he could power all of Ketterdam.

“Success, merchling,” he whispers. Wylan’s response is a quirk of his lips and a short breath that passes for a laugh. Then, with the ease he once used to break into this house, he creeps back onto the couch and rests his hand against Addy’s back. He feels the little lumps of her spine, feels her back shift and rise as she breathes. Outside, the rain falls steadily against the window, and thunder rolls lazily through the sky.

“We should probably go back upstairs,” Wylan whispers, so as not to wake Addy. As he says it, his back sinks into the couch cushions. His arm wraps around Jesper’s and holds tight, he thinks with the intention of standing up.

But then Jesper’s lips press against his forehead and Wylan’s cheek somehow finds its way to his shoulder.

“We’ll go up in a minute, love.” Wylan blinks, slowly, and his knees pull closer to his chest.

“Okay,” he replies softly. At least, he thinks he does.

He wakes up the next morning with creaking joints, a crick in his back, and a decision that he is never sleeping on this couch again

But then he finds his head is in Jesper’s lap and his daughter is handing him a stone-cold mug of tea, and he thinks he can bear such conditions again.

#wesper #wesper fanfiction #wylan van eck #jesper fahey #six of crows #six of crows fanfic #i have to leave in like 10 minutes lol #also:#me: yea i don't think kid fics are for me anymore #me a week later: creates this

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flower-assato · 2 years ago

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[Sound Horizon] ⭐ Pico Magic - The Lineage of the Thunder God

Pico Magic Masterpost ✧||✧ Albums ✧||✧ Website

⬅️ prev ✧ next ➡️

Lyrics

★ ━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⟡ ━━━━━━━━━━━━ ★

Following the death of the one-armed hero Who saved the world, A city was built on the very same land Where he sealed the evil god. Acting as a barrier to uphold the seal, It served as the cornerstone of a long-lasting peace.

Those with the Proof (Crest) of Thunder Branded into their proud right arms Were known as the Clan of the Thunder God. The secret of the clan, a mystery told as legend; The chronicles of a boy, Tracing the lineage of the Thunder God.

The weaker they are, the more they band together In search of a scapegoat. The days of his youth spent without knowing love Wrought pain of a searing stone.

Keeping his lips sealed shut, He held onto his knees and braced himself. If he took shelter from the rain, it would eventually pass. And a storm is no different.

Does an emblem (crest) that lost its shine Hold any real power? The small, outstretched hand of the girl Looked so big to him…

Within the palms of history, what remains untold Is the story of how the boy and girl met. Like a flash of lightning, Ten years pass by in a single moment. And now… The black history is set in motion once again…

Gazing up at the faraway sky With an aching in my chest… All I can see in the distance is her lovely smile, While knowing in my heart these impossible feelings Will never be returned…

Why must you, my beauty, be the daughter of our leader? You are betrothed to the strongest in the clan, As commanded by the immutable law of our people.

Ah… am I unable to protect you, With this arm devoid of power (thunder)? None can match the power of my feelings for you— No matter how hard I shout, My words only vanish into the wind…

The end of an age. A suitor for the eldest daughter Was to be determined on her 16th birthday. As her birthday approached, the fiercest warriors of the clan came forward to vie for her hand.

The end of an age. A sinister aura enveloped the entire city. Dark clouds brewing in the sky Ushered in "The Third Storm"…

"Oh no… how can this be? I can see the shadows of people clad in black robes… We mustn't let disciples of the chronicle Breach the innermost barrier. They are trying to break the seal on the evil god! The blood of the Thunder God has been so diluted, We can barely harness the smallest thunderbolts. Ahh… how frightening! The almighty power that will shake heaven and earth… It's coming, ahh, it's coming…!"

A howl that tears the earth asunder, Claws that rip through the heavens; A pair of six wings that ignite an inferno. Bewitched by eyes that held insurmountable darkness, Brave warriors fell one by one…

Ah… is man so powerless in the face of god? The moment before all Were to be consumed by deep despair, A peculiar blinding light Struck the powerless (thunderless) young man's body…

"Awaken… O valiant youth who inherits my right arm— Hear ye, heir to the power (thunder) of my lineage… In a bygone era, my right arm was lost whilst Charging a spear of thunder to seal The Evil One (god). If the power (thunder) within thee unleashes now, Thine arm along with thy body shall be blown apart… Art thou prepared to give thy life? …Then awaken now, O 『Right Arm of the Thunder God』!"

"Power (Thunder) is too much For one person to bear alone, But together we can do it, I believe in us!"

On that day, lightning pierced through the dark clouds Upon the reunion of the boy and girl. And now… two emblems intertwined To weave a brighter age (future)…

"…ma… hey, grandma… grand-ma!" "Why'd you stop? What happens next in the story?" "Oh… right, sorry." "So then, the Thunder God defeated the evil god, right? Didn't he?" "Well… I wonder about that… It's a story from so long ago that I've forgotten…" "What…! That's not fair…" "The truth is… the power of the Thunder God Didn't really matter in the end… Because that girl loved the boy Ever since they first met…"

…my Grandma said, eyes shining with tenderness As she smiled softly. …It left a deep impression on me. …Something tells me The lineage of the Thunder God isn't over…

★ ━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⟡ ━━━━━━━━━━━━ ★

T/N

[coming soon]

🎵 Support Sound Horizon on the official YouTube channel & Spotify! 🎵

#Pico Magic #Sound Horizon #Flower Assato

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increasethythunders · 6 years ago

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⋈ LEVIATHAN | 0. Prologue | MASTERLIST ⋈‏

words: 1k+

warning(s): n/a

A/N: im only putting dyad on hiatus bc godzilla is my main dude and my hyperfixation is off the fuckin shits rn so have the most self-indulgent disaster i’ve written to date

you can also support this fic on wattpad & ao3

Earth, 65 million years ago: Yucatán Peninsula, Mexico

The middle brother was the first to open his eyes.

With them he beheld a strange world, foreign but not unfamiliar. Not unlike the many he had seen in his long, long life. In a matter of minutes his mind was already exiting the haze of the impact, racing with thoughts too quickly to count. With the flick of a forked tongue the dragon tasted fire and brimstone in the air. A reptilian smile, cold and calculating, sliced across his visage.

All around him was the remnants of an oasis - trees uprooted from the scorched earth, what was once a lake thriving with life was now barren, the bed of soil cracked and sizzling from the rain of fiery debris. The Golden Demise's work had already begun.

With a shrill cry, he turned to his brothers, nipping at their throats to rouse them from their disorientation. The right brother hissed, nipping back at his superior. The left brother scanned the horizon. He could feel the wave of heat from the destruction warm their scales, a surge of power growing from the tips of their talons to the edge of their wings.

With a roar more akin to a cackle, they outstretched their wings, a curtain of thunderless lightning surrounding them. It was a power the dragon took great pride in, knowing that after all their travels there wasn't a being that could ever hope to rival them.

They were inevitable.

They were the planet eater.

Suddenly, the right brother's head whipped around, lips curling into a snarl. There was a presence approaching far too quickly for it to be any of the stragglers that barely clung to life from their arrival. The middle brother's eyes narrowed, rattling their tails as he strained to look through the thick cloud of smoke that filled the crater. The left brother flared his horned crests as another of his high-pitched trills echoed through the air.

Through the hazy smoke, glowing red from the embers that fluttered around him, a bright blue light shone like a beacon through the darkness.

The middle brother felt the crackle of their lightning burning up in his throat, while the other two were simply too awestruck at the sight of opposition before them. In a matter of minutes a silhouette emerged from the haze, tall and strong and so fiercely determined. Tremors shook the earth beneath them with each step the being took. But the brothers were not so easily impressed.

"Who -

- How -

- What

- dares."

The titan huffed, a hot puff of air rolling from their nostrils as jagged teeth formed a crooked sneer.

They had drawn close enough for the brothers to fully observe their form. The middle brother let out an incredulous snort.

"Dull -

- Slow -

- Weak."

Dozens of deep scars marred their scales, one of which ran over its left eye, leaving it white and cloudy. They were all jagged edges and coiled muscle, so different from their own regalia. The brothers were sleek, radiant from the glowing embers that clung to their gilded armor that crackled with electricity. They towered over the lizard before them, it was almost

"Pitiful -

- Futile -

- Comical."

And yet the creature persisted.

The lizard nipped at the air, head tilting as it released a growl. Its amber eyes narrowed, almost seeming to scrutinize the conjoined trio ahead of it.

At that the middle head could sense his left brother's impatience growing, and with good reason. There was nothing that could ever hope to challenge them. All who dared met their fate at the brothers' hand. They had relived this scene many times before, and the brothers assured themselves that they would relive it many times more. But from beneath the ashes that covered the titan came a distinctive blue light thrumming throughout their body like a distant star. Or a warning. The brothers unleashed a cacophony of cackles. If they were good at anything, it was snuffing out stars.

With three simultaneous cries the dragon galloped forward, their wings kicking the smoldering detritus beneath them into the air. The rival narrowed their eyes, readying their stance as they leaned forward. With a sharp jerk of their head, their jaw snapped open. A thundering roar unlike anything the brothers had ever heard nearly stopped them in their tracks. It was as sharp as the being it came from, seeming to cut through the very air itself. The sound rattled their bones, shaking what remained of the trees around them for miles.

Ending with a low rumble like rolling thunder in their throat, the rival smirked.

But what is thunder without lightning?

The brothers jaws unhinged, serpentine strings of yellow energy crackling through their teeth and clinging to the lizard like thorned branches. The creature doubled over, releasing a pained cry while landing heavily on one knee. In an attempt to shield themselves, the lizard shifted, curling around so that it's rocky scutes faced the dragon.

The brother's relented, saving their lightning as they pounced on the downed figure. In one swift movement - almost graceful - the right brother's maw wrapped around the lizard's arm, teeth digging in between scales. The left brother followed, pinning the other arm. They could feel the strength in the titan's muscles, a power they had not seen in recent memory. In fact, they could not recall any being that resisted for this long. Restless and irritated, the middle brother sunk his teeth into the lizard's neck. Even this creature's unarmored flesh had endured his teeth. The dragon sunk deeper, eliciting a long wail. Finally tasting the familiar iron-laden liquid on his tongue, the brother would've smiled if he could.

The lizard thrashed, their long, spiked tail whipping about like a dying snake. They looked up, desperate eyes searching the darkened sky with a look of fear that the lizard had not felt in a long, long time.

With a deep inhale and a growing whir that even startled the dragon from their adrenaline-induced stupor, the titan opened his mouth. A blueish steam poured from their maw seconds before the dragon felt a heat sting their vulnerable chest scales. In seconds the red sky was torn apart by a spire of blue light.

The middle brother's companions laughed. The fool had missed! And the dragon was but inches away from the lizard. This fight wasn't just easy, it already had a winner.

The dragon's lightning gathered in their chest, moving up their throats before dying out completely. The right brother detected a sound - no.

A song.

Through the smog was a light that rivaled even the brothers'. It was as though a sun had somehow formed right before them out of nothing. But it was no sun, as the middle brother quickly concluded. Suns didn't possess wings.

The brothers hissed as the flying sun passed right over them, its harsh light blinding them almost completely. At that same moment pointed limbs scratched at their necks, taking a scale or two along with it. The dragon released the lizard from their grasp, attention now on the new assaulter, wings readying for flight.

With an aggravated trill, the brothers flared their wings. Unexpectedly, something called back.

The middle brother's lips curled into a snarl. What could possibly come next after this nonsense? The dragon soon found his answer in the form of talons, narrowly missing his eyes. The left brother outstretched his neck, attempting to bite at the second flying creature. But it was much too fast, far faster than the dragon had ever been.

The lizard stood back up, regaining its posture from before. This time joined by the two newcomers. As the light from the second faded as it landed on the lizard's shoulder, it revealed an elegant being that almost resembled a moth. The third landed beside the titan, this one seeming to blend in with the area around them, their skin cracked and glowing like magma given wings.

The lizard-titan roared.

#godzilla #king of the monsters #godzilla king of the monsters #godzilla fanfic #leviathanfic

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junketsonasadplanet · 5 years ago

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gods own plaything

“There is no need to persecute witches, as Satan has given them no power.”

- Saint Augustine of Hippo, probably.

“God heaps laments on those he favors,” I said.

I had thought up this line a few weeks back and thought it sounded good. A little poignant, self-suffering without being indulgent, reaffirms my belief in Christ who would be the sole audience for the words. I hadn’t accounted for the handgun in my mouth.

“’od ‘eap ‘amets o’ ‘ose ‘e ‘avo’,” it came out.

I sighed and moved the pistol to my temple. I had thought about bringing the dog with me so I’d have some company but couldn’t bring myself to do it. The mutt wouldn’t know to run back home and would be pawing at my truck door the entire time. The thought of the old boy waiting for me, who would no longer have time for anyone, was too cruel to entertain.

A low-hanging storm front had blown in this morning; a monolith in an otherwise clear sky, humped low on the horizon like a patient tourist. I figured it’d reach me in... an hour? After a little past 70 years, I could hold a while longer. Dawn had only just risen and the lake I was parked in front of looked best when the fullness of the sun was reflected.

The storm cloud had arrived while I had fallen asleep, the little bit of heat early dawn had imparted was sapped out - no, torn apart - and autumn cold made itself an apparent guest on the lakeside. The lake was basalt grey; the shallows were still barely visible and their murky green encirclement of the lake gave me the horrible impression of a shocked eye staring into the storm, or of an infected wound.

With growing horror, I leaned forward over the steering wheel to see that the storm cloud had its own ringed pupil - a furious inner space in the cloud was lightning-formed, was a thunderless, soundless blink of light surrounded by heavy and black clouds.

“God save me!” I yelled and raised the pistol to my temple and pulled the trigger.

He did.

Misfire.

[Pull the slide back and eject the round.]

I did.

[That looks old even to me.]

“My father carried it with him during the war.”

[Which war? Nevermind, I can find out later.]

The thunder finally came. I looked to my right and there was something that looked mostly like a man in the passenger seat. I say mostly because he had two legs, well-pressed khaki pants, a blue button-up shirt with a black tie and two arms, the left shoulder with a badge indicating he was a park service ranger, and, of course, a head and hat. He was reading my suicide note with something like boredom.

I say mostly because after forty years of service, I had never seen someone that looked like him in my region. And because I had the unaccountable fear that if I looked away he wouldn’t be reading my note. I would maybe catch a half-glimpse in the driver side window’s reflection that he was staring at me, his two eyes dividing into four, into eight, into a hundred and forty-four.

[You’re pretty old yourself.]

“Who are you?”

He ignores me and flips the note over.

[Fairly succinct. Hand me that, please.]

He takes the gun from my hand and ejects the magazine, then pulls the slide back to check the chamber, then the firing pin, then he holds the magazine and carefully replaces it in the pistol.

[Alright, there you go. Now wait about fifteen minutes.]

“What are you?” I ask.

He looks over. His face is wrinkled and there is a kind droop to his features, his mustache is blonde with gray flecks and his smile slow to come.

[Another sinner, mister. Just another one.]

He pauses and looks down. I make the mistake of keeping track of his eyes which don’t leave mine through the gesture. Thin green irises around wide black pupils.

“What’s going to happen in fifteen minutes?”

[The same thing that happened before.]

His lips aren’t moving when he talks.

[Roy, I need you to do this as a favor for me. It’s not just the... forty years or so at stake. In fifteen, now fourteen minutes, lightning will strike this truck of yours. What is this, a ‘61 Ford?]

I nod.

[There’s a small fault in your muffler, a problem in its creation.] He seems troubled and pauses at his choice of words. [An impurity in its forging means that when the first lightning strike -]

“First?!”

[When the first lightning strike hits, the muffler will uncouple from the truck and ground itself when it hits the clay. The second lightning strike will be grounded and ignite a hairline crack in your fuel tank.]

Nine strikes?

[Who are you talking to?]

I - you can hear me?

[Yes. It’s loud. Kindly cease.]

He’s rubbing his temples, though his eyes -

[Again, I can hear you. Who are you trying to speak to?]

“I -,” I try to stop thinking but it’s pointless.

“My wife, I guess,” I reply.

[She’s not here. I am.]

“I like to think I’m talking to her even when she’s not here.”

Think of silver crosses and exhortations expelling demons. Think of revelations. Think of broad white and blue skies without limitation. Of limited spaces containing myself and her and small, crucial movements. Think of good meals and

[You’re going to kill yourself, you know. I’m only ensuring a small detail is ful-]

Think of bad days. Think of the date, the year. September ‘83. And last year. Think of our kids. Think of the first time I was struck by lightning - [that was a good one] - think of every time after that. Think of -

[Shut up.]

[I am implacable and as constant as sunrise. Every story that ends, ends with me. Through the cumulative will of, well, don’t worry. This is how the story ends. You can storm the world with your thoughts but I will ask you for some silence. Ten minutes left, by the way.

[This is much more peaceful. There will be a storm and a fire. When you shoot yourself it doesn’t kill the entire body. Your legs will twitch and some spare impulses will move your arms. It looks like dancing.

[Your mind is filled with thought because it remains with questions. There are no more questions with me. Nearly nine minutes.]

“You didn’t answer honestly when I asked who you are.”

The man sits still and we watch each other. The gun, repaired, is in my hands. Watching his eyes, I put it in my mouth and aim upwards. The kind eyes that have followed mine show at last the emotion I wanted - fear.

[No, no, no -]

You can hear me, yes?

[Yes.]

I am going to pull the trigger.

[I know.]

Move this cloud. I want to see the lake.

[I can’t do that.]

I pull the trigger but fumble at the last second. It blows off the right side of my face, the cheek and teeth and molars.

He reaches over and readjusts the gun.

[You will go into shock and unconsciousness before the storm is ready.]

Move the storm. He pauses. He looks away as at a high window, something has caught his attention at a high window where a passing fowl may catch the attention of a churchgoer.

[I cannot.]

He reaches and steadies my hand. Pain, briefly dammed, floods. Forty years of waiting for the touch of lightning is in me, seven brushstrokes through an otherwise calm life like the flaws of inflection on an otherwise competent artist. A mostly happy life.

I steady the pistol against the roof of my mouth which is slippery with blood. The last thing I taste is its copper scent, the last touch is the pressure of the trigger. The aim is correct.

Dearest,

I have seen the children of deer who give embarrassed birth in the forest grow to their fruition and mate again. An eternal cycle or ecumenical, I guess.

I have no further words to give you outside that I spare you the pain of my departure. When I see you again, it will be in a forest. Think only of when we first kissed in that place - the leaves were browning but still some remained verdant on their fixed positions.

Do you remember the lightning-struck tree we saw then? Think only of that. As the fire consumed its heart the tree still blossomed. That is my love for you.

I am passing to escape the brief flash of this existence which exposed itself to the same flame. Whatever coincidence lightning brings should not be ever imparted. I enter a final conclusion with God in my action and will await you in Heaven.

Roy Sullivan.

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riverballad · 6 years ago

Text

striking light

(chapter 1) 2.8k words

ko-fi

read on ao3

Hawkmoth disappears. Everything gets worse.

In Hawkmoth’s absence, Marinette feels… wrong. Off. A cold pearl inside of her sets and hardens and compresses somewhere deep in her chest, burning bright and incessant like a wailing siren-- a warning. But no matter how often she stops throughout the following days, clasps her hands white-knuckle tight, prays for something, anything to happen, things carry on as normal. And the irony of it all bites at her, laughs wryly in the back of her mind, a berating little voice-- her own-- cruel and demanding,

Its supposed to be better now. Everything’s supposed to be better now that he’s gone. What’s wrong with you? Why don’t you believe that things are better now, fixed, healed?

But the weeks and months following the final battle come slow, slower than she could’ve ever imagined, each uneventful day folding into the next, and Marinette becomes acutely aware of the passage of time and it’s torturous, unrelenting passage.

She can’t sleep or eat or function, really. And its not like she could tell anybody about it, aside from Chat Noir, obviously, but God knows that isn’t an option anymore. So instead Marinette digs her heels into the ground, willing desperately for the earth beneath her to stop spinning and spinning and spinning on it’s axis, just for a second, just so she can breathe again, but it never relents, and every inhale knocks her lungs against her ribcage.

One morning during breakfast, roughly twelve days, fourteen hours, and some thirty-odd minutes after the last person had been akumatized in Paris, her father folds up a newspaper and notes how peaceful it is to not read about another attack. Her mother hums in agreement, sipping slowly from her cup of tea. In that moment, Marinette wants to laugh or cry or-- she doesn’t know-- scream. ‘Something's coming’ , she wants so badly to tell them. ‘Something's coming and it's going to be worse now, now that everyone's off guard’ . She knows this. She does. But instead of laughing or crying or screaming; Marinette bites the inside of her cheek, blinks hard, and pushes her spoon around her cereal bowl, silent.

On the fifteenth night, she digs up the old burner phone Chat Noir had bought her years ago, when things had still been normal between them, when he’d stressed how important it was for heroes to stay in contact, when he’d flirted with her and waggled his eyebrows during fights just to make her laugh or roll her eyes or both, when he used to call her ‘Milady ’, when he gave her the phone with it’s haphazardly-decorated case adorned with glittering ladybug stickers, when--

Oh, whatever.

She digs up the old thing out from the back of her drawer where it had been shoved somewhere between a hole-y pair of socks and a broker phone charger cord, and falls asleep with it safely tucked underneath her pillow. That night she dreams she’ll awaken to a notification ( [URGENT] SPOTTED: AKUMA ATTACK 22nd Street East End of Paris ); the night afterward she dreams Chat sends her a simple ‘hello’. Neither ends up being the case when she wakes up, and each morning, she yawns, checks her phone, and then stares aimlessly at the floor, burrowing her toes into her bedroom carpet and feeling as weary as ever. At dawn on a day she feels particularly daring, Marinette sends Chat a short message: I can’t sit around anymore. I have to do something. If you’re in, you’re in. If you’re out, so be it.

He doesn’t respond.

She knows she’s busy, that she should be spending her time whining about how difficult her classes are, what with this being her final year of high school and the time she should be applying to various fashion institutes around Paris, but Marinette can’t really find it in her to care.

At lunch they sit, she, Luka, Alya, and Nino, perched at the bottom of the school’s stairway, and she’ll contribute to their conversations as best she can-- hums here and there, a laugh, a giggle-- but neither her heart nor her mind are there. All she can think about is them. Hawkmoth. Chat Noir. It wasn’t until Luka would nudge her shoulder, ask her if she was alright, asked her about the worried knot between her brows or the scowl on her face, that she’d be pulled back into reality.

The seconds and minutes and hours she’s used to setting aside for her responsibilities as Ladybug are suddenly empty and Marinette feels like the world’s suddenly stopped spinning, leaving her teetering on it’s edge, trying-- failing-- to find her balance. "I don't know what to do," she confesses to Alya one day during lunch, "I have so much free time that its driving me crazy."

"Girl," Alya had teased in response, her eyes narrowing, "This is a blessing ; you should rejoice! Meanwhile I'm swamped with all of these college applications and babysitting the twins. Luckily, I haven't had to update the Ladyblog in a while, if I did everything would just be too much."

"Yeah," Marinette sagged a little in her seat, swallowing down the bitter lump that had formed in her throat. “Luckily.”

On the thirtieth day, on a morning that might otherwise be rather unextraordinary, Marinette gets out of bed and decides Enough is enough. She can’t just sit there. She can’t just sit around and wait for something to happen, only to be blindsided anyway. Enough. She transforms into Ladybug for the first time in months and for a moment the costume’s material feels unfamiliar, foreign and uncomfortable, rough against her skin, and she hesitates.

When she finally manages to swallow her anxiety down and dial Chat, the phone rings one, two, three times before a shrill automated message answers, and she winces.

The number you dialed is not a working number. Please check the number and dial again. El número que ha marcado no es un número de trabajo. Por favor, compruebe el número y vuelva a marcar. Le numéro que vous avez composé n'est pas un numéro valide. S'il vous plaît—

She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, really-- a cordial welcome, an emotionless greeting, for him to hang up on her-- but whatever it was, it certainly hadn’t been that. That pearl inside her that had been growing and growing drops hard and heavy into the pit of her stomach, and Marinette bites her tongue, tastes bitter metal in her mouth, and detransforms.

The nights that Marinette can sleep through in their entirety are few and far between.

Soon she grows tired of waking with a gasping start at the earliest of hours, sweat beading her temple and not a speck of morning light glinting through her curtains, so she’ll chug a coffee or two before bedtime and lie in bed, staring up at the dark shadows as they flit across her ceiling and, though she’ll fight it, her mind will always, eventually settle on that day, the last day, like a broken record, looping and looping until slumber overcomes her not gradually but all at once like a thunderless bolt of lightning.

She’s gone through their final fight so many times she could tell it in her sleep-- that is, if she ever really got any. Here’s how it goes:

Before the the thing’s even started, its over.

From the first buzzing notification on her phone (a new safety measure Mayor Bourgeois's administration had implemented after five straight weeks of akuma attacks) at which Marinette had leapt up from her seat to excuse herself in the middle of one of Miss Bustier’s lectures, to her race down the school corridor, knocking shoulders with Adrien Agreste on her way out, who-- for reasons unbeknownst to her-- was barreling in the opposite direction, too quick for her to even eek out a startled ‘hello’ to, to her dip out into the alleyway to hastily transform into Ladybug and race through anxiety-inducing crowds, to her rendezvous with Chat Noir at their usual spot some fifty metres from the school, the whole thing was-- as always-- a sensory overload, and couldn't have lasted more than five minutes. And yet, by the time she and Chat had reached the akumatized victim-- a disgruntled street vendor who was terrorizing Parisians in the streets below-- the man suddenly de-transformed before their eyes, just as the heroes leaped into the fray from their position atop a nearby building.

At this, Chat and Ladybug quickly exchanged bewildered glances, before springing over to the victim. The streets-- which had been bustling with frantic crowds just moments before-- were now uncharacteristically still. As they approached the disheveled man something in Marinette wavered, her heart rattling against her ribcage as erratically as it had seconds ago when she'd readied herself for battle. "Monsieur," she’d began, clearing her throat in an attempt to sound more collected, like Ladybug would be, should be. She ignored the heat of Chat's inquiring glance in her periphery, and continued, "What's happened?"

"I--" the man had started, dabbing feverishly at his reddened face with a handkerchief, "I'm not sure."

"Sir," Chat Noir had said calmly from beside her, and Marinette's insides turned, How was he always so sure of himself? Of his surroundings? How did he always know the right thing to say?

Something small and dark, an envious little coal, settled in the pit of her stomach and Marinette swallowed, hard, as Chat soothed the older man. "Sir, you were akumatized. But then you just... recovered. Don’t you remember?"

"No, I don't remember any of that!" the vendor proclaimed, extending his arms before letting them fall, helplessly, at his sides. "I don't remember any of that at all."

Marinette and Chat Noir shared another wary look. Marinette raised her eyebrows as if to say, I believe him, and Chat shot back a small, short nod in return.

"Okay, Monsieur." Marinette interjectected, "that's alright. Thank you for your time and, um, and have a good day."

Once they get out of earshot, Chat Noir reached out and clasped a hand around Marinette's forearm. "Ladybug, what was that? What's going on?"

"I.. I don't know, Chat." Marinette admitted, wriggling out of his grasp. She sat against the wall and drew her knees to her chest, her arms encircling her legs. "This is all so confusing." She pressed the palm of her hand to her forehead and sucked in her breath. A cold breeze whizzed past her ears and she shivered, hating herself a little for that moment of vulnerability. “This is wrong. All of this is wrong. Nothing is making any sense. Why would Hawkmoth--”

"He's done this before." Chat interrupted, tearing Marinette from her whirlwind of thoughts.

"What?"

"Hawkmoth. He's done this before. Don't you remember?" Marinette blinked back at him, saying nothing. Chat Noir released a short breath-- something close to a sigh, Marinette thought-- and pressed his back against the wall opposite her, his arms folded insurgently across his chest. "Two years ago. He did this with Mayor Bourgeois and his wife. He almost got our Miraculouses. He and Master Fu... You really don't remember?"

"I-- Oh!" Marinette flummoxed, lifting her chin from her knees. "Oh. God, yes. Yes, I do. Of course, I--” She snapped her mouth shut, feeling stupid. “Yes, I remember."

Chat pressed his lips together, tight, and Marinnette couldn't tell if he was trying to hide his annoyance or mirth; in the past few months things had been uncomfortably tense between the two of them. She prayed it was the latter and set her jaw defiantly, "Hey, this isn't funny, Chat! I'm... I'm just tired."

"I am too." Chat said and somehow, despite years of working with him, this caught Marinette off guard.

"You are?"

"Of course, Ladybug! I'm here with you, everyday, putting in the same hours as you, everyday, and I have school and even more responsibilities outside of that and--"

"Okay! Okay, I get it. I'm sorry it's just... you always seem so... put together." She hugged her knees closer to her. The air was cold, too cold, and when she sucked in a breath her teeth ache.

Chat laughed wryly. "Well, I'm not. And you should know me better than that, by now."

"Well,"

"Well?"

"I-- Nothing. I have to get going, anyway." Marinette relented. Her throat burned as she pushed herself up to stand. Her hands shook as she used her Yo-Yo to grapple to the top of a nearby building. "See you later, Chat. And, I'm... I'm sorry."

"Bye, Ladybug."

As she vaulted away, the image of Chat's eyes, dark green and solemn underneath that domino mask, lingered in her mind. As she leapt from rooftop to rooftop, far from her partner, her blood still pounded in her ears, loud and demanding like the unsteady beat of a drum.

She doesn’t sleep.

“I saw Adrien the other day,” Alya tells her one day as they make their way home from school, and Marinette chokes a little around the bread roll between her teeth, “ What ?”

None of them-- not even Nino-- had seen Adrien in over a month; he’d stopped coming to school and though no one knew for sure, rumor had it that Mr. Agreste had fallen ill.

“I--Where? When? How--” Marinette splutters out after the worst of her coughing subsides, and she feels her ears and cheeks burn red in embarrasment.

“Slow down, girl!” Alya laughs, a little incredulously, and Marinette would feel more ashamed about her reaction-- she and Luka were… something after all; they had been talking for months-- but she hadn’t seen Adrien since the morning of the final fight.

“At the grocery store.” Marinette opens her mouth to ask for more details but Alya lifts a hand to silence her, continuing, “he was with Nathalie, I didn’t see Mr. Agreste with him, if that’s what you were gonna ask. We didn’t get to talk much, they were kind of in a hurry, but he told me to say hello.”

“I-- to me?”

“Well, to everyone, really.”

“Oh.” Marinette swallows, tugging at her ponytail.

“Yeah.”

“Well… I hope he’s doing well.”

"Yeah, me too."

"Yeah," Marinette echoes softly.

On the fiftieth day, Marinette takes the old burner phone and smashes it against the pavement until it lies empty and broken on the sidewalk, surrounded by a halo of shattered glass. The shards leave small, red indents in the palms of her hands when she gathers them all to dispose safely in the garbage, and Marinette pulls thorns around herself and thinks nothing, feels nothing of it, and transforms into Ladybug.

She starts patrolling Paris as Ladybug again, sometimes at night but oftentimes during school, slipping out at lunch or between classes, and at first its exhilarating, like how being Ladybug was at the beginning, years ago, something new and daring-- an escape. She'll perch atop a tall skyscraper and look out, down, to the streets below and the people walking and talking and laughing and she'll fight it, the heaviness in her chest that's yearning to feel that same joy, and the pearl will harden once more. She'll grow content. Slowly, she will. And it's close to happiness-- contentment is, isn't it? That's enough for her. Enough for now, she thinks.

She starts to sleep more. Eats better. Luka asks her out to the movies ('Finally!' Alya had proclaimed when Marinette told her, 'Finally!') and its nice, if not a little awkward at first. There are no akumas to catch nor akumatized villains to stop, but petty crime is always thriving in Paris. She captures a bank robber one day, a pick-pocket the next. As Ladybug, she brings rolls of bread from her parents' bakery to a homeless shelter, and their gratitude is thanks enough.

But one night on patrol, she hears it as she's swinging from one building to another. Clear and urgent, the voice somehow hundreds of miles away and right beside her, she can almost touch it, feel it against her skin, she knows it.

"--Ladybug--"

Its Hawkmoth.

Marinette falters and the yo-yo's grapple snaps and the world lurches, slows, for a single pulsing moment as she falls.

Her palms and knees and skin slam into solid ground and it feels the same as it did when she fell off her bike when she was five, only her Mom isn't there to smooth her hair back and kiss her cheeks and tell her everything's going to be alright, and when Marinette sucks in a breath it sounds like a sob. She whirls around only to find nothing behind her, but she knows it, she know's it's real, and her palms grow clammy and her throat sore as the autumn wind slaps, cold and dry, against her face.

She runs. Bolts in the opposite direction, arms and legs and lungs screaming and burning and aching as she makes her way home. She races up the staircase upstairs to her room before her parents, perplexed behind the bakery's counter, can ask her what's wrong or why she isn't in class.

She lies in bed that night, shivering beneath her duvet as the open window lets in October breeze and the police car sirens are a lullaby until sleep, finally, thankfully, overcomes her.

#ml fic #miraculous ladybug fic #ml fanfic #miraculous ladybug fanfic #adriennette #ladynoir

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