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shadowsfascination · 3 years

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Sonamy (YAAU) - coming to terms [Chapter 15-A]

“You don’t have to let this get the best of you, you know?” The words cut the silence like a knife, breaking the vacuum of his daydreams, breaking in abruptly in the tormenting whirlwinds that were his mind lately.

“What are you talking about?” Sonic asked in an emotionless way. “Come on, hedgehog. You’re a mess ever since-“ “Don’t! Don’t say it,” Sonic snarled at the scientist. “So you do acknowledge it?” “I just have to forget about it.” Sonic turned his head around, just to shift his gaze to another point. He was sitting on a grassy slope, resting on his hands. The wide view over the green hills was amazing and the breeze that brought a gentle chill softly stroked the grasslands like a carpet. It was the most peaceful place Sonic knew and the most rest he could give his mind was here. Eggman kept standing behind him, staring into the open himself now too. It was one of the few times that the hedgehog and the scientist could share a serious moment without any rivalry. Even while he had not verbalized his thoughts, Sonic could feel he was denying himself and kind of hated that it took someone else to make him realize that. “Can you do that, though?” “I don’t know”

It had been six weeks and three, no- four, days ago when the team had split up in duo’s to investigate the widely stretched cave tunnels to learn more about their enemy in order to come up with a detailed battle plan against the A.R. Sonic remembered very well how many weeks and days had passed since then because it had awakened something in him that had taken him by surprise. During that particular investigation Shadow had teamed up with Espio, who had enjoyed each other’s quiet working style. Tails and Eggman teamed up, Knuckles with Rouge and Sonic with Amy. The blue and pink duo had been sneaking around in the tunnels, following some A.R. members but stumbled upon a dead end in one of the tunnels. Similar to the dead end in the Cabbureine warehouse, the A.R.-members disappeared, appearing to use Chaos energy to teleport somewhere. The difference here was that this teleportation act seemed to be working for them only and so Sonic and Amy were stuck in the tunnel when all of the sudden tens of armed A.R.-members showed up in front of them, blocking their way out. They engaged in battle with Sonic and Amy, trying to seize Sonic and teleport him with them, but Amy merged into battle and knocked some of them down. Sonic had known Amy’s strength for so long that there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that she would be able to handle it. That was, before he was introduced to the dark side of the A.R. in person. Sure, he’d seen the destruction they’d created in the cities and all, but their vicious ways of relentlessly hurting the ones in front of them like this… It was new to him and it shocked him to his very core. Amy was brutally shot in her leg and chained to a rock while being held at gunpoint. With her out of the way, they turned to Sonic, aiming a high-energy gun at him, pressuring him to leave her and surrender to them. If he’d resist, they’d finish her off – slowly. Whatever business they had with him, he still didn’t know.

They promised him they would torture her before his very eyes until death would befall her if he was playing games with them. And so, astonished by the sight of his crippled dear friend, screaming, bleeding heavily and crying until she passed out, he gave in. They handcuffed him with special equipment that was supposed to block any Chaos energy in his body, but when he was given a preview of their sickening promise, he snapped. Even without any Chaos emeralds near and the energy is his body being blocked, in a split-second the spines on his head and back curled up and darkened while sharp fingernails and teeth clasped into his enemy. With an uncontrolled, raging roar he smashed big rocks onto the heads of the A.R.-members, scratching their limbs until the blood was seeping out of it, colouring the place violently red. The screams were blocked from his ears while he was raging and attacking everyone one who was trying to destroy the one he loved. After killing all but one, he cornered the remaining enemy and ordered them to report this to their chef, as an example of what would happen if they pulled something like this again in the future. The remaining soldier was in awe of what he had witnessed, but smiled confidently at Sonic. Unnerving and uneasy it had made him feel, doubting whether this had been a set-up all along.

Sonic rushed over to break Amy’s chains, ripped a piece of her clothes to stop her leg from bleeding and let out a powerless whimper. The now unconscious woman in his arms was weak from the harm they had intentionally caused her and he was overcome by so much fear at once that it just hurt. His chest cramped and he started to feel this tingling sensation in his fingers. He was going to lose her because he wasn’t strong enough, hadn’t been fast enough. Before realizing it, he was crying like a baby, uncontrollably and loud. He clamped his body against hers roughly, burying her face in his chest, wetting everything with his sobbing. When the sparkly vision between his lashes focussed on the device on his wrist, he pulled back, wiped his tears away and closed his eyes. Tails’ device was able to transfer Chaos energy to heal her, something he’d never done before. Sonic held Amy’s hand, inhaled deeply and concentrated. A strong power and comforting warmth rushed through him. His surrounding slowly faded as he let the light of the Chaos take him wherever was needed, lifting them off the ground into and endless ocean of lights. The lights drew closer to them one by one, each and every one carrying a memory of him and Amy. Some of which he had forgotten they took place. Overtaken by this transcendent experience, his mind became peaceful again and his body relaxed. His heart overflowed with warmth and a confidence so strong: he loved her deeply. And with that confession the peace was gone again, and replaced by a fear that she had been able to feel what he felt, but she wasn’t awake yet. After that, Shadow had stormed in, alarmed by the many unknown markers that had showed up in the map where Sonic and Amy were. He had had taken her from him and took her home in his arms while Amy looked back at Sonic over her shoulder and he stared into the blooded cave, zoned out about all of it.

And now everything had changed. Ever since this whole fiasco he had felt it so strong and now it was undeniable: he had romantic feelings for someone! And not just someone, Amy for Chaos’ sake! Amy, who had been crazy about him for years when they were teens. Amy who has been dating Shadow for almost a year now. Amy, his friend. He never pictured his life without Amy, but it now dawned to him that there was this urge to have her with him in a whole other way and he did not know how to act around anyone at the moment. He had just forgotten how he would normally act and therefore avoided most of his friends. Shame fell on him that he was in love with his friend, the girlfriend of his other friend and he was ashamed of the massacre he made in the cave. It left him running in circles through the Green Hills in attempt to clear his mind, but his mind didn’t clear. The fog didn’t lift and so he stared into the wind on this cliff, talking to Eggman. “It might go away over time.” Sonic sighed. “Can you wait that long?” “What’s the alternative?” “I happened to find this document while we were exploring. I didn’t show it to Tails.” If he didn’t show it to Tails it was sure to be something suspicious. He handed Sonic an old, brown piece of paper that was folded twice and smelled like the dirt of the cave. Sonic unfolded and read it, slowly raising one of his brows in disbelief. “Do you really believe this crap? That the red emerald can take away my feelings for her? Why would it work like that?” “Not just take away, it would store them inside the gem, forever. You of all people shouldn’t be the one to whom I’d have to explain this to.” He already knew that the emerald did not only transfer energy, but also could connect with one’s feelings. He’d seen it happen, like when Eggman used the hatred of the Echidna tribe to destroy Station Square with Chaos. In fact, he had experienced it many times himself when he was transformed into his super- or dark form, but this was different and sounded like an old urban legend. A fairy tale. Or maybe, part of him didn’t want to say goodbye to these feelings. Maybe part of him was curious what would happen if Amy knew about his feelings. If it would change anything. If she still loved him. If she would choose him over Shadow. His cheeks and ears coloured slightly pink when picturing him holding her in his arms again, stroking her rosy quills and even kissing her. The second his hopes were rising, the guilt flushed it away like a stormy wave. He shook the thoughts off and rose up to face Eggman, who was holding out the emerald for him. Sonic gave him an annoyed look. “Don’t you want to get rid of these feelings? She is with Shadow now and hasn’t been in love with you for years. You’ve had your chance, hedgehog.” The words were harsh and stung a little, but they were true and he knew it. She would never be his. “And besides that: you’re a complete mess. We’re at war and you’re useless like this.” “Fine, but you can’t tell anyone about this!” Sonic hissed at Eggman and grabbed the emerald.

#YAAU #Young adults alternate universe #Shadowsfascination #sonic fanfic #sonamy #Shadamy #amy rose #Amy Rose the Hedgehog #sonic the hedgehog #shadow the hedgehog #sidestory

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cravingmarvel · 4 years

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Pairing: Bucky Barnes AU x Fem!Reader Warnings: Attempted Suicide, Talk About Suicide, Hinted Eating Disorder, A Lot Of Swearing, Being Mean And Vicious. (If you have any issue with the warnings I would highly suggest you stay away from this!) Summary: This is not a love story A/N: This is a little one shot I wrote because I am sad. This is a lot to handle, so please make sure you read the warnings!!

Please leave some feedback and remember to Reblog! Have fun!

MASTERLIST

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You walked through the hallways, wanting to get a new bottle of water for your room. It never occurred to you to take the entire six pack since none of the other Avengers liked sparkling water.

The low lights running through the hallways marked the end of the day, everyone asleep and the tower so quiet you heard your footsteps bouncing off the walls. It is strange, walking around this late. The rush of the day gone, former deadly assassins and war heroes all slumbering in peace. Or so you thought.

You turned the corner, whispers and whimpers cutting through the deadly silence.

You knew exactly who it was as you walked up to his room. Bucky was wide awake.

It crossed your mind to knock or at least ask F.R.I.D.A.Y what was going on behind the door, but the fear of being shoved away verbally concerned you. It is far too dangerous not to take immediate action.

So, you turned the handle, pushing the door inside gently, the painful voice of Bucky Barnes getting clearer; he was in pain. Quietly, you closed the door, watching as Bucky stood at the window, his back to you, shoulders shaking.

There was something eerie about this situation, something very wrong. You have heard him being in internal pain before, his cries for help, someone to take the evil out of his brain, but no one could do anything but to tell him he will be alright. Those demons come out quite a lot and it is always just as painful as the last time.

You inched closer to him, whispering. “Bucky.”

His shoulders stiffened, his cries disappearing in the air with one last echo. Bucky turned and your blood ran cold.

His face glistened with tears; he must have been crying for a while. His sweater confirming it with stains. In his hand, a gun. You assumed it was loaded.

Your eyes widened, the man you have come to adore more than a friend, now stood in front of you, ready to fire that gun. “What are you doing?” You said, a little firmer this time, in need for the answer to confirm what your brain was telling you.

“Just stay away. Get out.” Bucky said, your eyes widening.

Now you could not go, even though he did not say it, you knew he wanted to point that gun to his head. You inched closer once more, trying your best to close the distance between you and Bucky, without being invasive.

He let you.

Though he was still stiff, he let you touch his wrists, keeping his hands steady where they are. You are not stronger than him, but you wanted to try.

You looked away from the gun, looking into his eyes. The red rim around them, fresh tears falling. You felt powerless. But you wanted to try.

“Please don’t.”

“Why not?” Bucky fired back.

“Because there are a lot of people here that don’t want to see you dead. A lot of friends who do not want to discover your lifeless body in the morning. And I don’t either.” You squeezed his wrists.

“I don’t care, y/n. I want out, I can’t do this anymore.” Bucky’s words turned to a whisper, almost unable to detect.

“It doesn’t matter what happened and it doesn’t matter what will happen, all that does matter is right now, Bucky. Stop being so selfish.” You knew it would hurt one way or another and you saw it in his face. “No matter what you tell yourself, there are people who care if your alive. I know you want out, but this will only inflict permanent damage to the people around you.”

Bucky closed his eyes, tilting his head up. “I don’t have a reason to stay.”

“Yes, you do. Think about all the books you have not read, the stories you have not told. Think about the family you will never have if you do this. Bucky-“ You let go of his wrists, holding his face, forcing him to look at you. “- Your life isn’t over just yet, Buck. I know it’s hard, but it’s better to feel pain than nothing at all. Me and all the others will be here for you every step of the way.”

You took the gun in your hands, slowly placing it on his desk next to you. Bucky leaned closer to you and you wrapped your arms around him, running your hand up and down his back. Both of you stood like this for a moment, embracing each other. Letting the silence wash over you and just be here.

Unwrapping your arms from his body, you took his hands in yours, leading Bucky to the on-suit bathroom.

You gestured for him to sit on the edge of the bathtub.

Once you pulled his sweater over his head he apologized, looking up at you. A sting ran through your heart, you never wanted to see someone like this, like you did a few years back. Broken to pieces, without a cure to piece them together. A hole inside your soul, taken away by years and years of pain and suffering. A time you would never get back.

You ran your hand through his hair, smiling weakly to reassure him that you were ok.

Once you fished a new sweater from the bottom drawer of his dresser, you pulled it over him. Bucky leaned his forehead on you stomach, holding you with his arms around your middle. You knew it was shame, that he was hiding from judgement.

“You decided to live tonight and that’s all that matters to me, Bucky.” You cradled his head, holding him close to you.

You held him that entire night, making sure he knew. You wanted him to know that you were present. And you were, until the morning sun broke through the night.

A week after that night you encouraged him to go out, to get in the crowd and meet new people. You were afraid he would dress himself with sweatpants for the rest of his life, so you helped him put on something more complementing to him.

He went to a local bar, without the whole Avenger entourage, he was almost invisible, blending in with the people around him.

That is when he met Jenna.

A woman out with her friends, celebrating her birthday. More enticing than you will ever be, you thought as you met her for the first time.

Bucky had thanked you, because without your encouragement he would not have met her.

Did you regret it? Yes. Did you feel guilty about it? Absolutely.

Why should your happiness be any more important than his?

They were happy.

It did not seem like a big deal, but Jenna was everywhere. Whichever turn you took, a room you entered, she was there. Sometimes sitting on Bucky’s lap, sometimes close to chest laying on the couch. The only room she did not invade was your own.

The guilt washed over you, Bucky could be incredibly happy with Jenna, possibly for the rest of his life. Is that not what you wanted than night he decided to stay?

You spend your days in your room, only coming out if you felt like facing the pain of your heard dying once more.

This was one of them, standing in the kitchen, preparing food you had no interest in eating, but knowing you eventually had to.

The hole in your stomach grew wider with every second of the day, but you could ignore it, you had spent your teenage years training for you to do so. This sandwich you prepared was sorely because Tony told you to, he always noticed when your body looked more fragile than it had a few days prior.

“Y/n!”

You turned to see Jenna walking towards you, her perfect curves agonizing you. “Jenna.” You gave the sandwich your full attention again.

“I just wanted to thank you, for moving Bucky to leave this tower. Without you, I would have never met him.”

There was a small part of you, a tiny voice echoing in your brain telling you to throw the sandwich away. “Sure, no problem.” You were glad she did not see your hands shaking or the food you had just made being thrown away as she turned and walked out.

You were happy for Bucky, but not Jenna.

The coffee you were holding in your hands cooled down quicker than you wanted to. Staring off to the distance, out to the city beyond the glass.

It had been exactly a month now since that night. Jenna was usually the one helping James through his nightmares while you stood outside the door, feeling useless in his life.

He smiles at you now when you pass each other by in the hallways, she seems to be good for him. But that awoke an ugly part of you, a monster you could not control. Jealousy took the best of you, manifesting itself in your mind.

As the clouds thickened, painting the sky a shade of grey, you felt your heart do the same. There was really no point in opening up about how you felt.

“Y/N!”

You turned your body to the one screaming: James.

He quickly walked over to you; anger written all over him. The other Avenger sitting in the common room turned their heads to your direction quickly.

“What the fuck is this about?” He stopped right in front of you, holding the screen of his phone to your face.

Still sitting, you read the article: Bucky Barnes, The Winter Soldier, Deals With Suicidal Thoughts.

Your shoulders dropped and so did your jaw. The article was disturbing, revealing James’ mental health issues with no problems of wild interpretations thrown in there. The breath you were trying to exhale got stuck in your throat. Never did you go to the public with this and he should know you did not. Where is this coming from?

“I- I don’t know what this is, James.” You stood from your seat.

“I’ve only told you about this, y/n! You’re the only one who knows about me wanting to kill myself!” You have seen him kill other people, but now he looks more dangerous than ever.

Tony came forward, requesting to know what this was all about. James showed him the article, all eyes on you. You felt interrogated, all you did that night was help him and now he’s accusing you of telling the world about it.

“James, I swear I didn’t say anything about that night!” There it was the monster fuelling your emotions. “Why would I do that If I too have once tried to do that myself, huh?”

“It doesn’t fucking matter if you tried to kill yourself! What matters is that you went to the public talking about my problems. You hear me? My problems!”

“You are delusional! You were so selfish to try and put a bullet in your head, not giving a shit about what everyone else would feel. News flash, James, you are not the only one with problems! You ride this self-pity train for way too long, oh poor you! No wonder half the world fucking hates you, you’re a psychopath who violently murdered people including Tony’s parents!”

Your blood was boiling to a point where you could feel your skin turn red, as if it were about to melt off your skin. Your mouth spitting words without your brain cooperating. James on the other hand looked like all the blood was strained out of his veins. Mouth agape, staring at you.

“You can stop playing your victim card, James. I didn’t say shit, psycho.” You stepped out of the room, making sure to hit his arm with your shoulder.

There was someone you needed to have a talk with, someone you had a feeling could have said something: Jenna.

It is not hard to find her; James’ room was the only place she could be at right now and you were right. You took your phone out and hit record.

“What the fuck, Jenna? Why would you tell the tabloids about B-James?”

“Jesus you scared me, y/n.” Jenna chuckled, sliding off the bed, naked. She threw on one of James’ sweaters and sat on the edge of the bed. “Just between you and I? Was good money, paid me like five grands for this information.”

Jenna smiled wickedly; you felt your face fall. You ran your hands over your face dramatically.

“Don’t be upset, y/n. Once this all blows over you can take over as his therapist again.”

As if nothing happened, nothing had been said, you smiled right back at her. “Thank you, Jenna.”

Wasting no time for Jenna to register what had happened or what your plan was, you sprinted down to your room, packing only the necessities, everything else you planned on taking later.

With the duffel bag in one hand and your phone in the other, you walked right back into the common room. Everyone turned silent as they heard you enter, all eyes on you. But you went straight to James.

“There, next time pay better attention to who you fuck.” You pressed play, sweat collection on your body. All eyes now to your phone, Jenna’s voice piercing through the air. You knew to James, it was poison.

As soon as the recording reached its end, you put your phone into the pocket of your jacked. James stared at the spot on the table where your phone laid, he wanted to speak, opening, and closing his mouth.

But you did not give him the chance, walking out of the room, down the halls. The voices calling after you are fading with every turn you took. Soon enough you were out of there, walking down the street.

Time passed quickly with the move into your friends’ apartment. The decision to leave the Avenger came easily and within a week, you were no longer apart of the group you called family. The people who you thought had your back.

Your friend Adam was shocked when you told him the news, taking you in until you could afford something of your own. It was strange, indeed. A home that is not the tower was new to you. There were not people just roaming the rooms, a person always to be found somewhere within the living quarters.

The workers below the living space, swarming out of the building were swapped with elders living below you.

But despite the heartbreak you endured, you were determined to take back your live and a night out in town sounded like the best idea at the time.

With sweaty people all around you, mind fuzzy from the alcohol and the outfit you wore showing just the right amount of what you have to offer. Something he apparently did not want. You needed to have a smoke, a habit you picked back up after leaving the team. With no need to stay healthy and in shape, the need to keep your breath for fighting, the cigarettes made its way back into your life.

You shuffled through the crowd to get a breath of fresh air. The music from inside still buzzing out on the street, you had no way of hearing the car pull up beside you. Just as you were to light your cigarette, a man called your name.

You turned to see Steve walking towards you, he did not look to pleased.

“Get in the car.” He said as he put his hand on your arm, pulling you towards the direction he wanted you to go. The cigarette that was between your fingers dropped to the floor as he whisked you away.

“No, I’m not coming with you.” Despite the protests, Steve managed to seat you in one of Tony’s cars. You knew what was coming from the buildings you passed along the way. Familiar skyscrapers and shops along the street, brought you back to the place you left well behind.

The car ride was strange. For a person you have known nearly three years, the silence appeared to depict the end of that friendship.

Steve parked outside the tower and you shook your head frantically.

“Y/n, you have no idea what you’ve done. Bucky has never been this broken before and you’re going to try to fix this.”

Even though you did not want to go into that building, Steve did not let you have a say in this matter.

You walked right behind him, your heels clicking on the floor. Steve lead you to James’ room and stood aside for you to enter.

Was there a small, ever so tiny part that felt the need to apologize? Yes. But doing it is always the hard part, admitting to yourself that you’ve done something terrible.

The knock was easy, but as James gave you permission to enter, your feet seemed to be made of cement, every step heavy.

The room was dark, curtains closed to amplify the darkness, to keep any and all light out. James laid on his bed, his back turned to you.

“Steve, leave me alone.”

You inched closer, your heels giving you away. As you reached the bed, he turned around to you, but you could not make out any of his features.

“I came here to apologize.” You said, quiet.

“Get out of my room. Now.” James went back to his previous position, his voice muffled by the duvet. “I hate you, y/n. I hate you.”

For a moment it was still and silent. The salty tears falling to the floor as you stared into the darkness. A feeling of nothingness overtook you, leaving you empty in every aspect imaginable. You inched away from the bed, taking one last look into the room, despite not seeing anything.

Closing the door behind you, Steve asked you what happened, but you could do nothing but shake your head. Steve pulled you into him, embracing you. The cries that left you, agonizing in your ears.

“Can you cry somewhere else?” James called from his room.

Your stomach dropped to the floor, your heart with it. You held tighter to Steve hoping to feel something.

You wanted to feel his embrace, his warmth.

But you felt,

Numb.

Fin!

A/N pt.2: Just as a disclaimer, what the reader says to Bucky in the case of her wanting him not to commit suicide, is personal to what I have been told in that situation. That is not me saying that those words will save everyone.

If you do have issues with any type of mental disorder, please talk about it!

Talking to a friend is the start, but talking to a professional is the goal! Stay safe and be kind.

#Bucky Barnes #james barnes #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #james bucky barnes #bucky x Female Reader #bucky x reader #bucky!au #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #Bucky Barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x you #marvel fanfic #marvel au #nimiwrites

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breezeinmonochromenight · 4 years

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I was challenged to rewrite this prompt into something a little more serious/fleshed out with a few inputs from a friend:

Note 1: Why am I still here? Just to [make myself] suffer?

Note 2: This was supposed to go up the day before yesterday, but every time I get Metal Gear asks I just [vibrates uncontrollably and writes an essay]. So, sorry ‘bout that to the anon asking.

Note 3: Higgs is unapologetically on his full creep shit in this. So. Consider that fair warning.

—

Of course she’d get caught wandering through Homo Demens’ territory on her way to deliver a fucking pizza. That alone was bad enough luck for a lifetime. But, in an even more unfortunate turn of events, of course one of those terrorists just had to be the same guy that just couldn’t leave her alone on these god-forsaken deliveries to the middle of nowhere.

The Man in the Gold Mask that she’d had multiple run ins with wasn’t just ‘one of them’, either. Oh, no. She could never be that lucky. Of course he just had to be the leader of the fucking pack, to boot. The entire situation would have made her laugh hysterically, the cosmic irony of it all proving too much for her already fraying sanity, had the business end of a rifle not currently been digging into her temple with the slightest shift in movement.

Unsurprisingly, the ter — she couldn’t bring herself to even think the word, because thinking it confirmed that she’d been fraternizing with a monster — Higgs liked to bloviate in front of his lackeys just as much as he did around her. She could only count the seconds passing by; could practically feel her delivery getting colder through its packaging. She hadn’t been paid for this delivery, and yet, she could feel it being snatched from her hands with each lost moment. Her thoughts inadvertently had her jaw clenching, brows furrowing into a glare at no one in particular. The anger at her current situation and grief over the unfortunate nature of Higgs’ real identity caused a roiling her gut so intense, so immediate and all-consuming, that she found herself half tempted to nudge her guard and see if she couldn’t take an early exit out of the situation.

No pay meant no resources, and no resources meant, well... she refused to be in a ‘no resources’ situation ever again.

She wasn’t the same dirty, starving little lost girl any more. Wouldn’t be. Couldn’t be.

(And though she’d never admit it, she’d grown accustomed to his sudden appearances and self-insertion into her life. He was a random variable that interrupted the stagnancy of her days.)

(He was almost delicate with her when the rest of the world had not been.)

(He was a... friend, reluctant as she was to admit it, and now that had been taken away.)

(She was so tired of things always being taken away from her.)

—

“...Darlin’, I don’t much care for the look you’re giving me or my... associates.” Higgs’ drawl was lazy, almost bored in tone as he came to a stop in front of her.

Hearing that pet name finally interrupted her brooding.

She blinked, fully snapping back to reality when she felt sting of the the rifle muzzle pointed at her digging its way into her temple a little more. Wincing at the resulting thin line of blood trickling down the side of her face from the new cut and the gravel digging into her knees, she flicked her eyes up to meet his expectant gaze as lowered himself to a crouch, their eye contact never breaking.

Well, shit. This was bad.

Had Higgs been speaking to her directly?

Whoops.

“Whatever.”* It was entirely dismissive in tone, but she was spiraling quickly, and couldn’t bring herself to care. If this was how she was going to die, she might as well show some backbone and die with a little dignity. Go ahead and get it over with. “Maybe I really don’t like assholes like you holding me up.”

Was it a stupid thing to say in her position? Absolutely. But what else was there to do? Apologize for wallowing in her own misery and zoning out? Beg for her life?

Yeah, no.

Fuck that.

Her life really wasn’t worth much, anyway.

—

Higgs sneered through his masks at her, hidden face beginning to lose its composure at a rapid rate. It was taking everything in his power to maintain his even facade toward her before removing the physical masks he hid himself behind, especially when he’d noticed in the porter’s eyes that she’d drifted off to a place very far from her current reality.

It felt like a dismissal. Made him feel powerless, like he had for so many nights with his da— when he was a child. And that had infuriated him, especially coming from the one person he couldn’t take his mind off of; that he kept finding his way back to.

Why this reckless little porter got under his skin so easily, he didn’t quite know.

But she did, whether she meant to or not. And the hold she had on him was powerful — so much so, that he could often physically feel her emotions as she was experiencing them. Rarely were they positive, but they served as an easy guide back to her, wherever she may be.

That was why, not long ago, when an incredibly pleasant, persistent tingle down his spine had nearly doubled him over with arousal, this so-called ‘connection’ of theirs had gotten infinitely more irritating to him.

Investigation led him to her private room at Mountain Knot City and, more importantly, to the sight of her being far less mouthy than she’d ever been with him toward some fucking no-name porter... One that she was currently riding late into the night, so desperate in chasing her release that she didn’t notice — or perhaps, worse, didn’t care — that he’d decided to pay her a visit.

Heh. Higgs supposed, in retrospect, that he shouldn’t go there. It was rude to speak ill of the dead, after all. That, and the poor fuck’s corpse had effectively wiped out Bridges Corpse Disposal. So, realistically, he shouldn’t be too angry.

(Except he was. He was still absolutely fucking seething.)

(If only she hadn’t looked so goddamned enticing with her skin glistening from a thin sheen of sweat in the low lights; hair partially shielding her face and biting her lip to hold back the noises of pleasure-pain and her pleas to a god he was sure she didn’t believe in.)

(If only the way she looked with her toes curled and back arched skyward hadn’t effectively rooted him to the spot, unable to look away from the sight of her strong thighs trembling and parting just enough that he could see a tiny, heart-shaped birthmark sitting high on the inside of one of them.)

(If only the thought of claiming that little heart with his teeth before he buried his face in-between her thighs hadn’t left him so painfully, achingly hard that he’d had to bite down on a gloved knuckle to keep from howling as he spilled into his hand later that night. An ultimately useless act, given the perfect visual he now had of how she’d look riding his cock, controlling the pace of her hips until he was finally ready to let her tip over the edge — an image that had him rutting into his hand again in record time.)

(If only, if only, if only. If not for so many if only’s, he’d have killed her ‘acquaintance’ in the act that night.)

Logically, he should have killed her, used her body for a voidout long before now. Forgotten her name and everything about her. She knew his face now, after all, and the last thing he needed were witnesses.

But he couldn’t. There was something about her he couldn’t let go of. Something that made him want to completely devour her, mind, body, and soul. Something about her defiance toward everyone and everything despite being dealt a shit hand that made him see a bit of himself in her.

Still, even though he had no intentions of killing her, he couldn’t let mouthing off go completely in front of his men.

“A word of advice, darlin’?” Higgs gripped her chin hard as he spoke, forcing her to look him in the eye as he ran a gloved thumb over her full bottom lip.

She refused to say anything or to shy away as Higgs tugged his masks off with his free hand, dark eyes catching his blue ones and staring him down fiercely. He kept their little contest going for an extended moment, amused, before leaning in close to her ear, positively delighted at the small shiver he sent through her body.

“Trigger fingers can slip. So might want to work on on keeping that mouth of yours shut, quickly,” Higgs growled out, casual drawl giving way to something much darker, before jerking her head away from him. He was pleased at the further surprised widening of her eyes in response. Flicking his tongue out, he dragged it down a in wide stripe on her cheek, the coppery tang of her blood welcome on his tongue. “...because I’d just hate to see this gentleman put a bullet in that pretty little head of yours.”

He lingered for a few seconds longer, too close to her graceful neck and that remarkably smooth looking skin of hers. She smelled good, sweet, even— faintly of soap and something else he couldn’t identify.

Funny, given her sour personality.

Still, despite his efforts at unnerving the porter, nothing even close to fear was registering on her face — only a look of shock and revulsion, maybe even annoyance with him. “What the f— Look, man, I’m not interested in your business. I just wanted to pass through to deliver a fucking pizza. But I’ll shoot myself it’ll make you just stop. fucking. talking.”

He barked out a genuine, surprised laugh at the unexpected, honest response. He certainly could do that, but given the look in her eyes and the way jaw was set, he knew it wasn’t an act — she’d actually do it.

And that’d be no fun for either of them. She was even more feisty than he’d originally thought. Confusing. Interesting.

And he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious to see more.

“Bring her back to my tent and let her get cleaned up, but don’t let her leave,” he ordered her guard her guard before turning his attention back to her. “The pizza girl here and yours truly are going to have a nice n’ friendly little chat about everything that’s happened here today.” He smirked at her near-instant change of expression from completely stone-faced to puffing out lightly freckled cheeks in anger, ready to hurl expletives at him.

Yeah.

Yeah, she was definitely a keeper.

(He was internally mourning the loss of a perfectly good pizza the whole time, of course, but its delivery girl was just too appetizing in her own right not to entertain for a little while.)

(He’d just have to make another order and make it more than worth her while to deliver it. An offer she couldn’t refuse, if he recalled the quote from the old pre-Stranding movie correctly.)

(Cold pizza was for the dogs, after all.)

#higgs thirst tag #higgs x pizza girl #pizza girl x higgs #higgs x reader #higgs x ofc #higgs x oc #higgs #higgs monaghan #death stranding higgs #pizza girl #pizza girl saga #death stranding #norman reedus and the funky fetus #not sfw #writing prompts

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mestizo-efp · 5 years

Text

TianShan AU FanFiction

Chapter 1

Thanks to my bro @alexc1ting for being the best Beta reader! Sup bruh!

Kindaped He Tian Ch 2

The city flashed fast behind the car’s window. Yet in Mo GuanShan’s eyes everything felt kind of amplified and in slow motion.

The lights too bright, the leather under his hands smooth and warm, the smell of blood and new car mixed together. Reflected in the car’s window, Mo GuanShan was studying He Tian’s profile; now brighter and glowing because of the streets lights, now pale and shadowed by the night sky.

«Where are we going?» the silence was so heavy, Mo GuanShan felt like his voice rumbled like a thunder in clear sky.

«My apartment» said He Tian.

After leaving the place where he was held as a hostage, He Tian didn't talk too much for a while, which was weird considering how much more talkative he was while tied and beaten up.

Mo GuanShan shifted in his seat: he didn't feel at ease in a car so brand new and so polished. He Tian on the other hand, thought dripping wet and with his bloodstained shirt, seemed to fit perfectly.

Why was he even there? What did He Tian expected him to do?

For a moment, a weird thought came into Mo GuanShan's mind...what if He Tian just wanted to get revenge on him? What if he wanted to torture him just to get more informations about the men who kidnapped him?

All that fake kindness was just to allure him and to make him fall for his trap! They were taking him who knows where and he wasn't even putting on a fight!

«I want to go home» said Mo GuanShan.

He Tian looked at him with the corner of his eye, he looked stiff and his movement were slow.

«You can't, there might be someone waiting there too. By the way, you should give me your address. I'll send someone»

Mo GuanShan grimaced «You want me to give my address to the son of a Mafia boss?».

«Who said that? I said I was involved in the Chinese Mafia»

«What's the difference?»

He Tian turned around, now looking directly into Mo GuanShan's eyes «You can do whatever you want, but the more we wait, the more they'll get suspicious» he tilted his head «I heard you earlier, about your mom»

«I don't need your help» burst Mo GuanShan «I can take them»

He Tian narrowed his eyes «You have a gun with you?»

Mo GuanShan gritted his teeths, gripping his fist so tightly his knuckles went white

He eyed He Tian, then the driver.

Maybe he could jump out of the car... maybe he could try to.There was a bit of traffic, and the car wasn't going that fast. He looked at the car's door handle. His hand was close, he just had to move it a little. Suddenly the car stopped, making Mo GuanShan slumping forward.

«Do it, if you want to».

Mo GuanShan jolted, looking at He Tian. He felt the blood coloring his cheeks; was he so obvious?

«I didn't-»

«But the moment you leave this car, whatever you'll find between you and your mother... you'll have to face it alone»

Mo GuanShan looked again at the car's door handle; he was ready to grab it when suddenly...the cold feeling of a gun pointed at his temple hit his mind. It was like the gun was still there, together with the sense of powerlessness.

There was nothing he could do.

Simply nothing.

«I get it! Fuck!».

Almost whispering, Mo GuanShan told his address and He Tian looked at the driver through the rearview mirror; who nodded. Without even looking at the phone, he sent a message. Mo GuanShan wondered if those bodyguards were even human.

Mo GuanShan felt so useless.

He clicked his tongue, clenching his fist. He looked at He Tian, and with an even voice, but hands trembling with rage he said «If anything happens to her, I swear I’ll make you pay»

He Tian smirked «For what matters, you have my word»

«Why the fuck are you even doing it?»

He Tian shrugged, smirking while looking outside «I wonder…»

Silence again.

Things sure were getting weird, too much even for Mo GuanShan.

He looked at his phone. His mother has sent him tons of messages a few hours ago, but it was 3 am at the moment and with a bit of luck she was probably asleep, meaning they had a few hours to make sure everything was safe.

Lost in his thoughts, Mo GuanShan almost missed the long, deep sigh escaping He Tian’s lips.

He looked at him: he was resting his head over the headrest, eyes toward the streets. His breathing was getting shorter and slow, like expanding too much his chest was giving him pain.

Mo GuanShan looked away, clicking his tongue “Probably broken ribs” he thought.

The bodyguard must have noticed something too because at some point he slowled the car, raising his eyes towards the rearview mirror.

«Mr He?» he said

«I’m fine» answered He Tian «The drug was numbing the pain»

«But-»

«Keep going» said He Tian, his voice low and cold. Sharp as a knife «I can handle this much».

He Tian coughed, resting one hand over his side.

He closed his eyes and he went so still Mo GuanShan thought he might have fallen asleep.

Nothing else happened until they reached an immense skyscraper, so high Mo GuanShan could’t see the top.

He Tian got out of the car first, followed by the bodyguard, Mo GuanShan hesitated for a moment. There was no one outside, the parking lot was empty too. Mo GuanShan wondered if He Tian owned the entire building. When He Tian knocked on the car’s window he got out: the wind was blowing strongly, a wind so cold it took Mo GuanShan’s breath away.

He remembered looking at the skyline from far away, when he was younger. Now that he actually was in the middle of it, if felt strange, unreal.

«You can leave now» said He Tian to the bodyguard

«I’m sorry Mr.He, but your brother asked me to guard the area. I’ll leave in the morning»

He Tian took a short breath, like the only idea to allow something ordered by his brother was an incalculable effort. In the end he just sighed, nodding.

«Fine» he said.

The bodyguard nodded «Please be careful Mr. He».

And like that, the black car disappeared into the streets, probably going for a patrol.

«Follow me» he ordered «The elevator is this way»

Mo GuanShan clicked his tongue «Fucking ordering me around» he hissed.

He Tian had lighted a cigarette, but he wasn’t smoking it, instead he just let it burn between his fingers, turning into ashes.

The elevator, like most of the building, was modern and looked very much expensive. He Tian was resting his shoulder against the elevator’s wall, slouching and breathing unevenly. His eyes hidden behind his dark bangs.

«What did you say was your name?»

Mo GuanShan snorted «Fuck off»

«You weren’t so cold earlier, in my lap»

Mo GuanShan punched the elevator’s door, making it tremble «SHUT THE FUCK UP! It was just the spur of the moment! It meant nothing! You fucking hear me?!»

He Tian smiled «Don’t fret so much. Though seeing you get all red and flustered it’s pretty cute»

Mo GuanShan was so indignant that his anger choked his voice. And before he could think of something to say, they reached the floor.

He Tian got out, still smiling at Mo GuanShan’s startled face.

He took out the key from his pocket and then he opened the door. He gestured Mo GuanShan to get inside.

«Make yourself comfortable»

Mo GuanShan step inside, not before looking nervously at the hallway, were they the only ones on that floor?

Once inside, Mo GuanShan had some difficulties to choose between being impressed or somehow disappointed: that was an amazing apartment, located in a beautiful area and with a view of the city that would have been breathtaking for literally everyone, but on the other hand, that place could be hardly be defined as a “home”.

It was empty.

Besides for a bed, a couch, and some boxes.

«You live here?» asked Mo GuanShan

«Most of the time...wait here, I need to get something»

It was really hard to believe that someone had ever passed more than a day in that place, kitchen furnishing and floor were covered by a thin layer of dust.

Mo GuanShan deduced that He Tian had lied to him and that that was simply one of the few houses someone like He Tian owned. Probably the closest one.

Suddenly, a loud commotion.

Mo GuanShan jolted, waiting in the silence for a few seconds.

«Hey» he said.

No answer.

«The fuck happened?»

No answer again.

“Fuck” he though, running toward the the dark hall in which He Tian had disappeared earlier.

Mo GuanShan looked inside a room, empty.

Then inside another, the lights were on. He opened the door slowly, but it got stuck and he couldn't open it more. There was something behind it.

He peered through the gap «Hey? The hell is going on?»

It was a bathroom; at first he didn't see anyone, then he looked down...and it was hard to not look away: He Tian was on the floor, resting on his forearms and knees. His head low and his shirt gone.

His skin would have probably look pale as snow, instead it was covered with big hematomas. The entire surface of his back, from his shoulder blades to his hips, was stained in purple and dark red circles all as big as Mo GuanShan hand, if not bigger.

The worse were on his ribcage, Mo GuanShan recognized the shape of a boot on his last rib.

He Tian coughed, and it must have caused so much pain, that his knuckles went white through his fist. Yet he emitted no sound, no complain.

«What the fuck?!»

Crawling through the door's gap, careful not to hit He Tian's legs, Mo GuanShan got inside and kicked something that rolled near the bathtub.

Besides He Tian, all over the floor, there were bottles of disinfectant, gauzes and cold packs.

«I'm fine» said He Tian, voice hoarse «It's nothing».

Mo GuanShan did nothing, he just stood there, watching while He Tian picked up one cold pack.

Watching while his trembling legs made him barely stand.

Watching as he walked outside the bathroom, leaving Mo GuanShan alone. He looked at the floor, stained with little dots of blood.

His hands started trembling with anger.

He ran towards the entrance, finding He Tian sitting on the bed, cold pack resting on his rib.

«Why am I here!!!??» yelled Mo GuanShan looking directly into He Tian's eyes «What the hell are you planning??!»

He Tian looked back dead serious «Because it's safer»

«What the fuck do you care?» hissed Mo GuanShan, getting closer «What do you want uh? Why would someone like you wanted to help me? I was there with them! It's my fault too you almost died! It's my fault you're injured so badly» he pointed at He Tian «I was ready to sell you, tell me what's behind this»

He Tian was silent.

«TELL ME!»

Nothing happened for a moment. Then He Tian took away the cold pack, squeezing it between his hands.

«I was eight the first time someone tried to kidnap me. It didn't go well for them, luckily one of my brother's men was nearby. The second time I was thirteen. It went different that time. When I was finally back home, seventy two hours later, and I looked at myself in the mirror, you know what I saw? It wasn't fear, it wasn't panic. The only thing I could see in my eyes, was the pure, intense desire to be better. I wanted to be so strong, so powerful, that no one would ever try again. So that I could take care of myself, so that I could take my fate in my own hands»

He Tian looked at Mo GuanShan, and slowly he raised one hand, brushing softly his hair, for a second.

«The moment you took away the eyefold I immediately recognized it in your eyes. That feeling, that deep, strong, desire. I knew what was happening even before I heard it directly from them. You were, in a way, more in trap than I was. That's why you're here...and that's why you're going away tomorrow. And you'll never see me again. You'll finally be able to be the way you want to be. Because now you know, and now you can be better»

He put the cold pack back to his side, smiling «Of course I also thought you were really cute» he grinned «Ah, maybe love at first sight~?»

Mo GuanShan was speechless, he took one step back, looking at his feet «You're completely crazy»

He Tian laughed, but immediately regretted it «I guess» he said.

Mo GuanShan closed his eyes for a second, taking a long breath. Then he went back to the bathroom, fetching the gauzes and everything that could be useful.

When he went back, He Tian furrowed his eyebrows.

«I'm not sure if I can still trust you, and as soon as I know everything fine at my house, I'm definitely going to get the fuck out of here. Until then…» he gestured at He Tian with his chin «Turn around».

He Tian shaked his head, smiling and showing his back to Mo GuanShan.

Carefully Mo GuanShan put some ointment in almost every wound, tying the cold packs over it.

«Love at first sight for sure» he hummed

«Shut it, you crazy fucker» he slapped his back, making He Tian squirm «Now your face»

He Tian's nose was still a bit swollen, Mo GuanShan was ready to put some ointment on it, when he noticed He Tian looking directly into his eyes.

«What?»

He Tian looked so serious «I don't know if I want tomorrow to ever come»

Mo GuanShan felt his throat tightening. He gulped, shrugging «Can't you see it's four am? It's already tomorrow, and I'm still here»

With a leap, He Tian threw himself over Mo GuanShan, kissing him strongly and messily. Mo GuanShan was barely able to free himself from He Tian's grip.

«STOP IT!!»

He Tian hugged him tightly, rubbing his cheek over Mo GuanShan's belly «Definitely love at first sight»

He said, smiling.

-.-.-.-.

Sorry for the long wait! Hope you liked it! Please let me know your thoughts! Being a continuation of a fic based on a fanart, I guess it’s still right to thank @bisho-s, who inspired this! Thanks!

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#19 days #19天 #old xian #tianshan #tianshan fic #my fiction #He Tian #mo guanshan #fluff #chapter 2 #kidnaped #kidnaped he tian #au #he tian x mo guan shan

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catsundercherryblossoms · 6 years

Text

|Ch. 4: Kidnapped PART 2| Her Forgotten Past//AOT fanfic//

(Eren's P. O. V.)

Even in my sleep I could still hear her words, resonating in the caverns of my mind. I didn't know why exactly they affected me so much. They just did. The way she had looked at me had sent chills down my spine. Her eyes... so drilling and cold. I would never admit it to anyone, but it upset me the exasperation I must've caused her. For some reason... I could never do the right thing when she was around. Would she ever look at me differently? Would that coldness ever be replaced with warmth whenever her gaze shifted on me?

Maybe I'll apologize in the morning. Maybe.

Lost in the deep nescience of sleep, I thought I heard a wince come from somewhere in the forest, followed by a shrill whinny; a sound that could only come from a spooked horse. The hairs at the back of my neck perked up. What was going on?

I opened my eyes and was met with a terrifying sight: the barrel of a rifle.

And it was pointed directly at my face.

"Don't move." The man holding the rifle warned. I was too shocked to even react. He wore a bag over his head with two punched holes for eyes. He wasn't the only one either. There were about six or seven of them, surrounding our sleeping bags. The others began to stir, and the rustle of gasps spread as they were also met with threatening rifles.

"Gather their ODM gear. Quickly." The man closest to me said, and the majority of them moved around our camp and searched, leaving only three to keep watch over us.

So they're thieves..., I thought in disgust. The nerve they must have... "What will you do with it?" I asked.

The man's beady eyes seemed to glint evilly through the bag's holes. "There are people who will pay handsomely for these. You can't beat the titans anyway, so what's wrong with taking useless equipment?"

No. There was no way in hell we were going down without a fight. Summoning my courage I sprung into action, tipping the rifle up and pushing it against him. The others got to their feet, staring at me wide-eyed, but too scared to follow suit.

"Everyone, now!" I shouted, struggling against the thief as he forced me back.

I heard Armin call my name worriedly, about to take off, but another thief pointed his gun at his head and he second guessed himself. I grunted. My arms were aching. Wasn't anyone going to do something?

Jean suddenly got up and made a run for it. The thief I was trying to disarm saw him, and to our horror, he pulled the trigger on the rifle, which was unintentionally and unluckily pointed in Jean's direction. The bullet flew and scraped Jean's cheek. A few more millimeters and he'd be dead. Jean froze in his tracks, his leg paused in mid-step, suppressing a gasp. His cheek started to bleed.

I was too distracted and failed to hold the thief back anymore. He used his rifle and shoved me forcefully backwards. I fell to the rough ground, the side of my face bruising painfully.

"You'd better think twice before moving. Don't make a sound." The thief warned again.

For the next twenty minutes no one dared to twitch or even breathe too loudly for fear of having a bullet shot into their skull. All we could do was watch, like standby ducks, as they robbed us of our gear and loaded it into one of their two wagons. The way they laughed and praised themselves for their success was sickening.

"What about this one?" One of the thieves emerged from the trees, carrying an indistinguishable weight over his shoulder. I couldn't tell what it was from where he stood. It was too dark.

"Eh, lets take her with us. She's pretty enough. Perverts at the capital will pay a good price for her." Another thief standing by the wagon said, chuckling darkly.

Wait... did he say 'her'?

The thief carrying the 'her' moved towards the wagon, stepping into the moonlight. What I saw stopped my heart. It was Johanna that dangled limply over his shoulder, her wrists and ankles bound tightly. I heard Jean gasp and knew precisely the reason: blood trickled from her head, little drops of crimson falling to the ground. They loaded her onto the first wagon, the one without the ODM gear. But nonetheless they robbed her from us as if she were nothing but stock. Nothing but mere merchandise.

The first wagon with Johanna inside departed first. "We won't take your lives." One of the thieves said as he and his partners in crime climbed into the second wagon. They trained their guns at us even while inside. There was no way for us to stop them from leaving.

The thief continued, "But if you follow us," I was sure he was smiling beneath that bag over his head, "we will kill you."

And they drove away down the beaten path, their silhouette getting smaller and smaller, until the wagon was nothing but a speck of black amidst the night.

We collectively exhaled. I wasn't aware I had been holding my breath until now. When I inhaled again it was pure revulsion, anger and bitter hatred filling me as easily as oxygen. I didn't think so much about the gear anymore but the way they just took Johanna without any consideration towards her dignity. She didn't mean shit to them.

The leader of our own group... and we lost her. Now she was probably going to be sold and...

I didn't even want to think of it.

"If we attacked as a group, we could've done something!" I told the others.

"That's your opinion." said Jean. There was a hurt in his eyes, the shock of losing his bestfriend settling in. "I don't agree. Actually, because of your crazy behavior we were all put in danger."

Marco frowned. "This training is done for."

"Definitely." Armin agreed sadly.

"Are we abandoning Johanna?" I asked harshly.

They seemed to shrink a little. Marco shook his head, "That's not it! But with just us, we can't do anything! That's why we should go back and ask the instructor—"

"And if we don't make it in time?" I said, aggravated. Did they not see my point? "I won't accept this as it is! Stay here if you want, but I'll save Johanna alone if I have to!"

I walked off, going no direction in particular, ignoring their protests and calls. Marching through the forest, I willed my mind to think of something— anything that could help me get to those thieves. But my mind went blank. I was too inflamed to think properly. Armin was better when it came to this... but me? What about me? What good was I?

An image flashed in my head. That horrible memory from that fateful day... Shiganshina... the titans... Mom.

I scrunched my eyebrows. It was the same predicament again and again. I couldn't save Mom that day, and I'm too helpless to save Johanna now. What is wrong with me?

Footsteps approached me from behind. I felt a hand on my shoulder, stopping me. "All our horse were released! How are you going to find her?" Jean asked.

"None of your business!" I slapped his hand away.

"It is my business!" He raised his voice. "I'm going with you, dumbass!"

I could hardly believe my ears. Out of all the people in our group, Jean was the last one I'd expect to side with me.

More footsteps. The others appeared from behind the trees, walking towards us. The sinking feeling in my chest lifted. They didn't need to say 'We're with you'. It was written in their faces.

I smirked. "Let's do this."

* * *

"You're going to be okay. I promise. Dadda promises."

That voice... I almost wanted to believe it.

I woke up to a throbbing pain. The side of my head was tender where it had been struck, sticky with what I could only guess was dry blood.

My pulse beat faster, stronger, and more anxiously. What happened? I assessed my surroundings. I was in a wagon, lying on my side and powerless thanks to the ropes tying my ankles and wrists. Through the gaping opening I could see the dirt road as the wagon drove, the wheels clattering on the rocky ground. There was a second wagon trailing us not ten feet apart. There were men inside it; all of them tattooed, gruff, and talking lowly. Who were they? What were they doing? I squinted my eyes, and under the moonlight I saw multiple silver glints in their wagon. It was the blades of the ODM gear, boxed and ready for sale.

Everything clicked into place. It all came back to me. I remembered the blunt, painful sensation of a rifle making contact with my head. A horse's shrill whinny.... and then darkness.

"Look who's awake..." a voice growled. A foot turned me over and I was met with the face of a heavily-pierced man. His coal-black eyes studied me from head to toe. "Nice to meet ya, pretty girl. A new life in the interior awaits ya. So what's your preference... dukes or noble officers?"

He and another guy, who I could only guess was the driver, both roared with laughter.

How dare he... I tried spitting him a string of insults, but instead they came out as inarticulate, muddled grunting. That was when I realized I had a gag in my mouth, tied securely at the back of my head. The corners of my stretched lips had turned so numb that I couldn't even feel it there.

Damn it all.

Even with my tied ankles, I flexed my legs and kicked the pierced thief. He cried out and clutched his shin, hopping around quite comically, if I may add. He fixated a menacing glare on me. "Why you little..." His hand curled into a fist. I shut my eyes just as it came down—

Yells erupted in the second wagon. I opened my eyes and I, along with the pierced thief, looked out the opening. My heart swelled. I would've smiled if my mouth was capable.

It was Eren and Jean. They had dropped into the second wagon from above, ripping the tarp. The element of surprise caught the thieves off guard and they fought them. Eren and Jean had the upper hand so far. It was almost surreal seeing them working together instead of against each other.

"Quick! Get the gun!" The driver up front yelled.

Gun? I watched as the pierced thief grabbed something from behind a crate and my heart jumped to my throat. No.

He aimed at Jean and Eren. I screamed despite knowing full well that they couldn't hear me. Of course... I had to do something— anything. Before he had a chance to pull the trigger, I squirmed and positioned myself to kick him again. The force was so strong this time that my feet knocked his legs out from under him and he fell heavily, the gun skidding out of his hands.

"You bitch!"

If he was angry before, he was furious now. He grabbed the gun again and pointed it at me, making a perfect target of my forehead. I froze. Hopefully, I didn't look as terrified on the outside as I truly was on the inside.

In this sliver of moment I foolishly wondered what it would be like... having a bullet planted in my brain. Perhaps it wouldn't be so painful.

On cue, a grappling hook came in and slapped the gun out of the pierced-thief's hands, changing my mind. I looked out to the second wagon and saw that Eren and Jean had their ODM gear on, ready to attack. They flew to the front of this wagon heroically, and with synchronized precision they slashed the reigns of the horse with their blades. The horse pulling the wagon galloped away, frightened for it's life, and the driver's face indicated nothing but terror as the wagon continued forward at high speeds with no steering whatsoever. There was no other choice. He had to pull the break.

The instant he pulled it the wheels screeched. But the momentum kept going. We spun out of control until the entire wagon inevitably collapsed on its side, skidding and skidding until finally we came to a crash against a large boulder. My body jostled and I winced upon impact. Dirt and dust clouded the air, making it difficult to see. My head throbbed and it felt as if my whole world was flipped upside down. I was so disoriented that I hardly felt the pair of hands wrap around the collar of my jacket, dragging me forwards like worthless baggage.

The dust cleared in seconds, and the first thing I saw was my comrades, standing together some ten feet away with odious expressions, but also hint of fear that I couldn't understand. Why were they frozen in place?

Then I felt it. A sharp edge grazed the skin of my neck. One of the thieves had me execution style, on my knees, gripping my hair tightly with one hand and holding the knife at my throat with his other hand. I could feel his ragged breath close to my ear. My heart thundered in my chest. Oh my god... please let this be a dream.

Would my life really end here? With absolutely nothing I could do to prevent it? For once my life was no longer in my hands. It was at the mercy of these thieves, mercy which I doubted they could spare.

Mercy which I doubted they possessed at all.

The wagon driver held a gun up. He fixated it on them. "Do as I say and hand over the gear! Hurry up!" He barked.

Without any hesitation they began removing their gear, unclipping it from their straps. Except Armin. No, Armin hadn't moved an inch. As much as it perplexed me, I noticed he was smiling at something in the trees behind us. What could possibly be so amusing in a moment like this?

"Shit, you've got to be kidding me..." The pierced-thief holding me muttered to himself. I turned my head slightly to look at his worn-out face. Whether he was aware I was listening or not, I did not know. But he kept on, "How could this happen to me? Even if we run away from titans... what can you do out here where nothing can be risked? Don't burden others... I should've taught my daughter that much." His tone was laced with regret.

His words affected me. They shouldn't have, but for some unexplainable, nonsensical reason they did. They reached in and touched a part of my soul. For a moment I had caught a glimpse of the true man behind the thief. He was just trying to get by... he had a daughter.... He didn't choose this life of thievery. It was simply granted to him with no other option.

Huh... Weird.

Why was that familiar to me?

"Quit the stalling!" The other thief yelled impatiently. "Hurry up!"

CLANG!

Two figures dropped out of the trees and in a flash, before I could process the scene, the thief was disarmed of his gun and the pierced-one holding me was kicked brutally to the ground.

It was Annie and Mikasa from the other training group. I was saved.

But relief hadn't settled in yet. I watched as Annie, who had kicked down the thief holding me, raised her blade and pulled back, so close to slicing his throat open—

"DUN KILL HEM!"

The blade stopped at his Adam's apple, nicking the surface of the skin, but going no further. Annie's glacier eyes flicked to me in question. One look at my face was all she needed to understand.

"Hm." She brought her blade down, albeit reluctantly.

The tension began to diffuse. Our group allowed a sigh of relief to pass through them. Our moods elevated and our worries lifted just as the sun lifted itself too, gradually shifting the sky into pinks and yellows as dawn announced itself.

Jean rushed to help me. "Are you okay?" He asked.

I stared back at him warily, the gag still in my mouth.

"Oh. Right." He said and untied the knot at the back of my head. He removed it and instantly my lips melded into their normal shape, aching a little from the forced, unnatural position.

"Thank yo- oof!"

Jean hugged me tightly before I could finish. This was very much like him, I recognized. He was never good with sentimental words. Or any verbal expression, actually. But the embrace was more than enough... it was a communication in itself. A communication of the distress he had been put through, and the sweet alleviation he was now feeling.

After cutting the ropes binding my wrists and ankles, Jean took me to Krista, who gathered the medical kit that had been supplied to us for the training. I sat with her as she grabbed a cotton swab and dampened it with alcohol. Several others from our group and Mikasa and Annie's group, who had arrived with the Military Police, approached me to ask how I was doing. I gave them a half-smile and faked a composed attitude, even though inside a dark realization nagged at me...

I could've died. My comrades could've died too in their attempt to save me. It was a depressing slap of reality.

Krista dabbed the cotton swab on my injured spot. I hissed.

"Oh! I'm sorry..." she apologized timidly.

"No, it's okay. Just... natural reaction." I assured. The girl was too compassionate for her own good.

Someone cleared their throat. We turned and saw— to my great surprise— Eren Jaeger standing awkwardly besides us. Alone.

"Um, I can take it from here Krista." He offered.

The blonde nodded chirpily and gave him the cotton swab. She walked off towards the horses and Eren took her place next to me, sitting down. A stiff silence enwrapped the two of us. Why was he here, doing this?

"I want to apologize." He answered my internal question, as though he could read my mind.

I waved him off, about to stand. "You don't have to—"

"Yes, I do. Please, just listen?" He said.

Okay, now I felt bad. This seemed to be important to him. Like he wanted to get it off his chest. I stayed put and allowed him to continue.

Before he did, though, he rummaged through the medical kit. "You still have some blood on your face."

"Oh," was all I could say. I didn't think I had bled that much.

Eren took out a small, wet cloth and before I could object he pressed it to the side of my face, wiping the dry, dark red residue. He was unexpectedly gentle, a trait that— after so many of his far-from-civil impressions— I didn't know he possessed.

"I don't have the best temper... I know. Mikasa does a good job of telling me that." He said, and I watched him carefully as he continued to clean, now moving on to the actual injury. "But I never meant to cause you— or anyone in our group— any stress."

Even though he wasn't making eye contact with me, busy inspecting the wound through my coarse hair, I was nonetheless lured into the irises's of his eyes. This was hardly the time, I knew. But I hadn't noticed how nice they were before; honest green, like emeralds in their rawest state.

"I guess I should work on it, huh?"

I snapped back to the present. "What?"

He stopped and looked at me, confused. "My temper. Were you listening?"

"Um, sure." I said.

"So does this mean you forgive me?"

There was no getting out of this. "Yes, Eren. I forgive you."

"Hm. Eren..." He repeated, turning to look in the medical kit once more. I couldn't see it, but I could sense the smirk on his face.

"What?" I inquired and folded my arms.

"Nothing." He shrugged and faced me again, a roll of gauze in his hands. He began to unroll a long strip. "It's just... you usually call me Jaeger. Why do you do that?"

Now it was my turn to shrug. He started wrapping the gauze around my head. "No reason in particular. What's the big fuss, anyway? Plenty of people call me Jo."

"Well I think," he cut the gauze with a pair scissors and put away the rest of it, "Johanna is better. It's more you. There, you're all patched up."

"Pfft... And you think you know me so well?" I tested.

He stood up, dusting off his pants. His next words threw me off. "I hope to someday." He gave me one last confident smirk before departing to a group of people trying to pack up our supplies.

There was only one question burning in my mind as I sat there, completely fazed.

Who does he think he is?

End Of Chapter 3

#eren yeager #Eren Jaeger #fanfic #levi ackerman #eren x oc

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segovia-trazyx · 6 years

Text

Prologue

Trigger Warnings: Gore, death, violence, mentions of rape

The world burst into flames. Trees shattered against the ground and sparks flew, latching onto the next item in its hungry tirade. There was no stopping the fire as it engulfed the village, the homes made from wood and grasses nothing but embers within a few minutes. It was horrifying to watch and even more horrifying to run through.

The young druid had awoken to the smell of smoke filling the sleeping dens. The fumes burned his eyes when he tried to open them as well as filled his lungs when he tried to breathe. He could hear coughing of the other druids as they woke up in the same predicament as he. Panic arose within him and the young elf pushed himself from his bed and ran, an arm over his mouth to minimize the amount of smoke he took in.

He stumbled up towards the surface, only stopping once when he heard a young woman scream out in pain. A fearful look in the direction of the scream made the druid double over and empty the contents of his stomach. He coughed and sputtered, his mind seared with the image of the woman being torn to shreds by tiny, greedy imps. He couldn’t help her, though centuries of training to be a healer kicked him to at least try. A battle of morals waged within him as he tried to get to his wobbling knees, ultimately deciding he needed to move on as the screams stopped and the sound of tearing flesh continued. The healer had to move forward before the imps made him their new target.

The druid forced his feet to move and stumbled from the sleeping hollow. The sight he had seen inside compared nothing to the horror of the outside world. Imps chased people and danced upon the wreckage of demolished buildings. Fel-dogs tackled fleeing elves and devoured them alive, howling as they left their half-finished prey just to charge after another. All he could do was watch, his mind a slave to the horror in front of him. He could do nothing. He was powerless. This was his village’s death and the end of his people…

He was pulled out of his thoughts as another piercing scream swept through the air around him. Another villager was pulled down and consumed before his eyes, blood dripping from the maw of the lesser demon. All he could do was wince and look away, stumbling behind a tree for minimal protection. He wouldn’t be able to save anyone, especially as he stood there. In the middle of a crisis, he and the healers are supposed to stay calm and protect the people as they flee; he’s supposed to aid the wounded and get them to safety.

How can he do that when all of his people are dead?

He shook his head and took a deep breath. Not everyone. He hadn’t seen his family among the corpses so they must have gotten to safety or they’re still battling. If that’s so, he couldn’t leave them behind.

The young druid took a deep breath and ran through the burning village, the imps too transfixed on their gruesome revelry to notice the druid running deeper into the inferno. A few paused to watch him, cackling and pointing at him, tormenting him in both the elven tongue and the demonic tongue as he ran. They infuriated him and scared him as he ran, but he didn’t stop. They couldn’t get him to stop and face them like they wanted. No matter how much they tormented him and screamed that he couldn’t save his consumed village, the young druid pressed on and on. He didn’t stop until he was climbing the steps to the alcoved house, one made from the trees itself. It was always a beautiful house. That fact still stood even as it burned with red and orange light. It was horrifically gorgeous.

He had made it halfway to his home when he saw two elves burst through the front doors. One shapeshifted into a bear and charged back into the burning house while the other stayed outside and seemed to cast inside, most likely towards whatever it was the other had charged at.

The young druid felt relief wash over him. “Dad!” He called towards the man standing outside, now running towards where the fighting duo stood. The old druid paused and turned to look over his shoulder at the young druid. The man relaxed at the sight, letting out a sigh of relief as his eyes landed on his son.

“Segovia--” His dad breathed out happily. His warm smile grew wide before it was interrupted by a violent cough, his whole body going rigid. His dad panted heavily as he looked down at the knife protruding from his heart, blood heavily dripping from the wound. His dad made one last attempt at a spell, his hands lifting as if they had weights upon them. The action was cut short when the knife was ripped from his chest. Segovia heard a scream as his dad crumpled lifelessly to the ground but he wasn’t sure if it was his own or someone else’s. Instead, Segovia lifted a shaking hand towards where his father laid, though his eyes began to blur and water. He could hardly see anything but vague blobs anymore.

He forced himself forwards, needing to get to his father to see if he could do anything to help the man who raised him. He knew it was useless but he still had to try. He had to see if he could make his father open his eyes again just to smile. Just one more time--

Segovia blinked the tears away as the shape-shifted bear was thrown out of the house only to stop next to her dead lover. Even from so far away, Segovia could see the labored rise and fall of the bear’s sides. A surge of hope spurred Segovia to run forwards, his hands glowing green as he reached for his mother. The bear looked up at him sadly; she seemed to smile before shifting back. He reached her in time to wrap his healing spell around her, his mother comforted by the familiar feeling. She took Segovia’s hand as he skidded to a stop next to her, smiling in exhaustion up at her son. Though she had blood dripping from a wound on the side of her head, the smile managed to copy onto Segovia.

“You’ve made me so proud.” Segovia’s mother murmured. She squeezed Segovia’s hand and brushed her coarse fingers against Segovia’s face, a touch which Segovia gladly leaned into. He reached up and placed his glowing hand against his mother’s wound, the cut slowly beginning to heal.

“I’ll get you out.” Segovia promised, shifting a bit so that he could pick up his mother. He had forgotten about the force in which both his mother and his father had been fighting. He hadn’t even fathomed that the thing may still be alive.

Not until a silver coil wrapped around his mother’s neck and ripped the woman from his arms. The crack froze Segovia in place, his eyes wide with fear. No. Not his mother too. His mother couldn’t be taken away from him like his father was. Not like this.

A burst of laughter sent chills down Segovia’s spine, an action that caused Segovia to look up. He was met with amused, fel-filled eyes and a wide, wicked grin. In one hand, the demon held a silver whip, the weapon still wrapped around his mother’s neck. Her lifeless corpse dragged along behind the demon as he sauntered towards Segovia, creating a sickening shuffling sound.

This would be his end. If there was a demon so powerful that it could single-handedly kill both his mother and his father, Segovia would have no chance. He would die a gruesome death, whether it would be to this demon or one of the lesser demons he saw below. He had no doubt in his mind…

And still, Segovia felt his feet taking him backwards. The fight or flight instinct kicked in as he stared at the approaching demon. It was only a bit taller than Segovia himself. It had large, purple wings, ram-like horns protruding from it’s head and a long-slender tail that flicked behind it almost like it was amused. It probably was, knowing the demon. It probably found all this death and destruction alluring.

The demon drew out of the cover of the smoke and Segovia saw that it was hardly wearing anything. It wore only a loincloth that showed off the fire tattoos on it’s thighs and a necklace that hung low beneath its pecks. It looked elf enough, besides the bipedal legs that ended in hoofs. That thought brought further discomfort. It wasn’t an elf and yet it could take the form of one as it slaughtered?

Segovia, too caught up in his own fear and his observation of the demon, didn’t realize he had reached the steps once more. His foot slipped from under him and set the poor druid crashing down at the feet of the demon. The action made him flush red with embarrassment and anger, especially as he heard the demon cackle at his mistake. Segovia pushed himself up only to be met with his face directly in front of the demon’s. He felt the breath get sucked out of his lungs as he stared in fear at the grinning demon.

“A shame you had to see my art.” The demon purred in a voice that was all too silky. It made him uncomfortable and he tried to back away from the thing. His attempts were met with more laughter and the demon caught him by the chin. “I was almost sated when your mother walked in and knocked me from your father… a shame, really. I was so close to having such a good feast, too.”

The demon licked its lips and Segovia snarled in response, trying to pull away from the creature. He was only met with a harder grip against his chin and a cackle of amusement. “Now, now, little druid. There’s no need to fear me. I will take good care of you, just like I take care of all my pets. If you behave well, maybe I’ll treat you even better.”

Segovia spit on the demon’s face and yanked backwards hard enough that the demon let go of his chin. It growled in the demonic tongue as he wiped the spit from his face, the druid taking advantage of his momentary stun to turn and flee. He didn’t get very far before a silver coil wrapped around his leg and yanked him onto the ground. He landed with a hard thud and yelled out in pain, blood beginning to drip from where the whip was wrapped. He cursed under his breath and looked down at it, wincing as he saw blood drip onto the stone steps.

He heard talking behind him and glared up at the demon who was approaching him once more. It’s hooves clicked menacingly on the ground as it approached but Segovia could only feel hatred at this point. If he was going to die, he wasn’t going to die a coward. He could swallow the fear for as long as it took but he was ready to die as his parents had: fighting for his village.

It turned out that he didn’t need to. The approaching hoofsteps of the demon disappeared only to be followed by a large thud and a bear-like growl. The whip retracted from around his ankle, freeing the druid even though the action caused it to slice further into his flesh. Segovia cried out and pulled his wounded ankle close, a healing spell already being muttered under her breath. He bit his lip as the magic began to heal up the wound, his eyes scanning for where the demon disappeared to.

His search didn’t take more than a few seconds before his eyes latched onto the fel-creature being mauled by what looked to be a large bear. It wasn’t just any large bear, Segovia noted as he saw a green tattoo on the shoulder of the bear. It wore leaf decorations around it’s ankles and had protective runes shaved into it’s fur. The sight made Segovia grin as he watched the large creature overpower the demon.

The fight lasted not much more than a minute, Segovia having learned his lesson with shouting out to the familiar druid earlier and keeping his mouth shut this time. His ankle burned as if it was on fire but he knew better than to stop healing to check on it. The whip was probably laced fel and would need much more than his healing magic to stop the burn. The bleeding could be stopped but the fel would continue to erode his skin away until he made or found a salve that could treat it.

He doubted he would be able to walk on it. Segovia watched as the bear threw away the demon as if it was a ragdoll before charging at Segovia, it’s maw and front paws bloody. He didn’t feel fear as the creature arrived at him and hunkered down just enough that Segovia could use his good ankle and launch himself up onto the top of the bear. He grabbed handfuls of the bear’s fur and latched on tightly as the bear raced away from the demon, leaving the burning village far behind.

Curiosity burned within him as they left the massacre behind. He looked over his shoulder to see the demon staring at them. It didn’t follow, much to Segovia’s surprise. Instead, it just watched. He didn’t mind the creature staring, if he was honest. In fact, Segovia hoped the demon would remember Segovia’s face. He hoped it would burn into its memory just as the inferno around him would burn into Segovia’s.

This would be the man that would bring that demon to its mercy. He promised, as the burning village faded behind him, that he would get vengeance for his mother and father.

He would hunt the demon to the end of the world, even if it killed him.

Edits made on 7.31.18

#Prologue #Story Time #Main Story

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reivenesque · 6 years

Text

Hurt!Magnus/Post 2x20

It was over. They’d won. Valentine was dead and the Downworld was safe once again.

It was supposed to be over… so how did he end up there – barely able to keep himself conscious and upright even in the position he was in, groveling pathetically on his knees.

Marred by Poison, Purged by Magic Chapter 2: Magic.

← Previous Chapter / AO3

Alexander was going to die. He was going to be ripped apart by the demon barreling towards him and there was nothing Magnus could do.

He tried to get his feet under him, to push himself up; to gather his strength and do something, anything, to prevent his worst nightmare for happening. But he couldn’t, Magnus could barely keep himself conscious and upright even in the position he was in, groveling pathetically on his knees.

How did it end up that way? The fighting was supposed to be over. Valentine was done, the Clave traitors had been dealt with; the Downworlder mutiny had successfully been averted, though Magnus couldn’t deny his shame for having a hand in almost causing the uprising to begin in the first place. But it was done. Valentine was dead, killed by the hands of his own flesh and blood; if that wasn’t karma then Magnus didn’t know what was.

So how did they end up there?

The skittering little buggers Magnus would have had no problem disposing off with just a wave of his hand any other time; why now? Why here?—why them?

There must have been a reason; demons wouldn’t usually attack with this much force without something else being at work behind the scene. The whole thing left nothing but a bitter taste in Magnus’s mouth, but that could have just been the blood he was coughing up.

Alexander was fighting all of them by himself and Magnus had never felt more powerless and useless than he did in that moment. It was a terrible feeling.

But try as he might, he just couldn’t get his feet under him.

It was a physical exhaustion unlike any he’d felt before and he had experienced plenty. Emotional and mental exhaustion; sadness beyond words and devastation; fear and anger bundled up into one overwhelming feeling of just rage. But that kind of bone deep tiredness; the inability to lift up his arms or even muster up the strength to gather his magic usefully, the kind where he could barely keep his eyes open much less even think about getting himself upright and keeping himself that way; that was new, and it was a terrible feeling. Especially because he could sense Alexander getting weaker and weaker behind him, his movements were getting much less graceful and precise. He was missing demons at his side that he could have usually killed with his eyes closed. Alexander was also beyond exhausted, and yet he was still there, he was still fighting while Magnus could do nothing but be a useless spectator in the fight. He didn’t think he had ever been more disappointed or frustrated at himself than he was at that moment.

All of a sudden there was a shockwave of demon energy and Magnus could smell the stench of the creature before he could even see its foul presence swooping down on them, fast. Too fast for Alexander to be able to do anything given his state; his entire body covered head to toe in blood, ichor and sweat, exhausted beyond words; he could barely lift his arms up past his shoulders and yet there he was swinging at the demons still unrelenting in their attack. Magnus had never seen a sight more beautiful and awe inspiring in his life, and yet, he could do nothing but watch from the sidelines as Alexander continued to put his body on the line and pushed himself to his absolute limit

Alexander was going to die bloody—like they all did—and Magnus could do nothing.

He could never do anything when it mattered the most; he couldn’t protect his mother from dying, he couldn’t protect Ragnor from dying; he couldn’t stop people from leaving him over and over again even though he would have done absolutely everything and given absolutely anything to make them stay. Ultimately whatever he did was never enough. Everything he was was never enough. He was never enough and deep down he’d accepted that he was never going to be enough.

And then Alexander showed up suddenly in that club and turned his world completely on his head.

It wasn’t going to last, he knew that, he expected that, deep down he was prepared for that; as prepared as he could ever be, but it never made it any easier standing by helpless watching the receding backs of the people he loved disappearing into the horizon.

He was watching Alexander’s back, but it wasn’t receding, it wasn’t disappearing into the distance out of his reach; walking further and further away leaving Magnus in the dust holding the door.

Alexander’s back was right there, within reaching distance but he might as well have been a million miles away because Magnus couldn’t get to him no matter how hard he tried. It was the most terrified he’d ever felt and he’d experienced more than most.

He was staring at Alexander’s back, but it wasn’t going away. He wasn’t going away.

‘I can’t live without you,’ he’d said—what did that even mean? That he couldn’t survive if Magnus wasn’t there to help him out with trouble—if Magnus wasn’t around to keep the wards intact and portal them every which way always? That he couldn’t carry on doing his job if Magnus decided to just stop being available to answer his or any of their calls for assistance.

Or did he mean that he couldn’t stand waking up and not seeing Magnus’s face the first thing he opened his eyes? That he couldn’t bear the thought of going to sleep at night without Magnus’s face being the last thing he saw before he closed his eyes? Did he mean he couldn’t imagine a world where Magnus wasn’t there showering him in kisses as often as compliments and looking at him like his existence was the last beam of the setting sun shooting out across the sky in the horizon? Or did he mean that he couldn’t live without Magnus’s presence in his life, the same way Magnus couldn’t live without his?

Could he have meant that?

Instead of turning his back and walking away, leaving Magnus to stare longingly; mourning all the memories they didn’t get a chance to make, the possibilities of a future he was taking away with him and the chance at happiness that he’d desired for so long; Alexander turned his back and stayed, when he should have walked away; when he should have run. Magnus would not have begrudged him that, in fact, Magnus would have given absolutely anything to have him run then, because the beast was barreling down on them, one of his father’s favoured creations for all the havoc and destruction they reined. But Alec was unmoving, steadfast and strong even though he was nearly dead on his feet.

And yet Magnus was on his knees, groveling like a wretch. Just earlier that day he’d called himself the High Warlock of Brooklyn, but look at him now. It might have been karma for the way he’d unfairly treated Alexander after their heartbreaking yet mutual estrangement. He found himself falling back on old, bad, habits and Alexander became the victim of his unfair and uncalled for bitterness.

Maybe this was his punishment for all the sins of his past—they were many—and he was doomed to keep on staring, reaching out at the back of people he loved walking away from him.

But Alexander wasn’t walking away.

And he was going to die because of it.

Then all of a sudden all he saw was red; blood red, clouding his vision and invading his senses. He could smell the stench of blood and the way it reeked like burned metal. It wasn’t his blood that he smelled.

It was Alexander’s.

He could smell the poison, he could hear the screeching, he could feel the vibration of Alexander’s heart thundering in his chest, but that could have been his own. He could feel the heat of the fire lapping at his consciousness. He could hear the cackling of voices; a myriad of them all combined into one echoing, thundering noise inside his brain. He could feel the palms of his hands getting hotter and hotter like his blood was boiling under his skin. His hands should have been charred and blistered – seared down to the bone, but he felt no pain because that fire was a part of him, it always was and it always will be, but over time he’d gotten used to ignoring the seductive voice calling his name with such familiarity.

The voice used to be his mother’s; the soft lulling tones that sang him to sleep at night. The older he grew and the more he began to forget what his mother’s voice used to sound like, it morphed into a voice that was more of the same and yet so different at the same time. The familiar enchanting purr that had the ability to make him do absolutely everything and Magnus did nearly everything for that voice—but he never accepted—and so Camille’s voice, twisted and mutilated, sounding like a low guttural snarl coming from a throat choking on wet coagulated blood would curse at him and spit at him and threaten everything he held dear.

But in that dark alley that night, with his energy completely drained and his magic depleted; with his barriers down and walls unprotected, he came to hear the voice again. This time, the voice reached deep inside his soul with a poisoned claw and grabbed onto his weakness; it tore through his already damaged barriers and latched on.

This time Magnus couldn’t turn away, he couldn’t pretend to be unhearing, he couldn’t focus on anything else besides the soft, deep rumble and the hint of the New York accent and the way he would sometimes skip the last syllables in a word in a way that was distinct only to him.

Instead of his mother’s soft soothing voice reassuring him or Camille’s seductive purr alluring him, this time the voice said only one thing in the voice that was so familiar and yet so unfamiliar.

‘Magnus,’ Alexander’s voice said, ‘Will you watch me die?’

And that was all it took for Magnus to let it in.

Magnus could hear the voice in his head howling with laughter, insolent and vindictive; cocky yet gleeful, but he could only concentrate on the overpowering ruby tint that now clouded his vision. He could feel the familiar tingle of magic accruing at his fingertips, growing larger and larger and more concentrated, swirling with tinges of pitch black that radiated off his very being. It wasn’t just his magic—the magic he kept locked away deep inside himself never to see the light of day. It was magic being channeled to him from a place far beyond reality and human comprehension; from a place he’d rather forget even existed and the ties he’d sooner severe with his own two hands.

And yet there he was accepting the power like it was his for the taking; like it belonged to him.

‘Magnus, will you let me die?’ Alexander’s voice said again.

And in that moment, Magnus no longer saw red; he could only see pitch black as everything in his surrounding melted into nothing until it was only him, Alexander and the demon, before the power exploded from deep inside him, eradicating every single Shax demon within a hundred feet of their position.

Magnus got to his feet and without even thinking about it, flicked his wrist barely a fraction and he felt rather than saw Alexander’s confused, pained yelp as he was flung through the air and crashed into the wall at the far end of the alley. He was down and he was unmoving, but he was alive and breathing and in that moment, that was all that mattered.

The Asmodei was close; Alexander’s blade had impaled it through the leg and already the limb was burning away like cinder ash in a fireplace. The demon was dying quick but not quick enough.

Magnus didn’t feel the talons when it pierced him through the chest, ripped through his insides, sending them both of them soaring deeper into the mouth of the alley and impaling him against the far end wall. Everything happened barely in a split second, all it took was a pulsating wave of magic before the already disintegrating demon perished in a blistering fiery burst.

But just before it disintegrated, he could hear the sound of an almost feminine voice laughing, coming from deep inside the demon’s fiery depths, her voice both melodic and gravely; the language she spoke wasn’t one he was familiar with, and Magnus was familiar with most. It was ancient, long forgotten, or not spoken at all, only by those who already spoke it. It was the language of the greater demons and yet Magnus could somehow understand it rumbling inside his head like the growling of a beast.

He could hear it spitting wrath and fury when it said, ‘Nephilim spilled the blood of my child; I will have blood as recompense, Wǽrloga, Child of Asmodeus.’

And then there was nothing.

No sound, no sight, no hearing; no nothing, only the feel of his heart pounding against his ribcage and the blood he could already feel backing up out of his damaged lung and into his windpipe. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t inhale oxygen into his body but there was no pain and Alexander was alive and for that moment, that was enough.

Everything after that happened as if Magnus was watching it and listening to it from deep under water; except that the water was a river of blood and he was drowning in it.

His mother’s body was drenched in blood much like that and for a moment, Magnus was nine years old again; he’d just seen his mother dead and his step father’s fury and he’d never felt more terrified in his life, but then Alexander all of a sudden appeared in his periphery and Magnus couldn’t keep his smile at bay even when his gaze slipped from Alexander’s beautiful concerned face and the dirty, unyielding ground came rushing up to greet him. He tried to prepare himself for the impact, not that he could have, his descent was too quick and the ground was immalleable; he couldn’t even muster the energy to bring his arms up to protect himself—did he even have arms still attached to his shoulders? He couldn’t feel anything other than frigid numbness.

But the ground stopped before it reached him, about a foot away from his face and Magnus could do nothing but stare dumbfounded at the filth and the grime on the stone pavement so close in his sight, and that was when the pain all of a sudden flared up.

It was like fire in his chest, raging through his insides; intense and agonising. It was like thousands of little needles lining his chest cavity, stabbing into his lungs every time he tried to take a breath. It was like inhaling burning lava through a straw while he was trying not to choke on his own blood.

It was like dying, or what Magnus assumed dying felt like; it was always such an abstract concept to him. People died, yes, but he knew he wouldn’t, and to suddenly find himself in that position; dying, choking on his own bodily fluids, feeling his insides burning and the blistering hot blood trickling down his arm and through his fingers; feeling it being pumped out of his body where it belonged, onto the cold pavement under his knees with each waning pump of his heart. It was an odd sensation.

Was this what people truly felt before they died—a bitter sense of disappointment and frustration instead of fear and sadness?

That was the only thing Magnus could think in that moment. He was dying. His body had failed him, or rather; he had failed to protect his body. He’d been stupid and careless and he let himself get caught completely off guard. Nothing in his four hundred years of experience had been of use. He let lesser beings get the better of him. He was going to die and it was disappointing and messy and it was ugly and he’d never been angrier at himself than he was in that moment.

But then all of a sudden Alexander was in his line of sight once again. His chest had exploded with pain and he heard himself cry out without even realizing the sound had left his lips but Alexander was there and Magnus remembered that he hadn’t walked away even when he could have. He turned his back to Magnus the way everyone in his life always did but it wasn’t the same. Alexander wasn’t the same. He was never the same. He was an anomaly that fell into Magnus’s lap and for some reason stayed.

He stayed when he could have left.

He stayed when he should have left.

Magnus found solace in the fact that at the end, he died to protect the person who meant most to him. He’d failed to do so, so many times in his life, in so many instances in his history. He’d watched the people he loved most walk away from him. He’d let people he cared about die bloody, but at the end of his long life, he died to protect Alexander and somehow, he was okay with that.

Alexander was speaking but Magnus couldn’t concentrate on anything else besides his eyes. Alexander spoke more with his gaze than he ever did with his words; it was a quality that was the most endearing yet the most frustrating because Magnus could listen to Alexander speak for hours, and yet, Magnus was always the one saying the most. But Alexander always spoke with the intensity in his eyes; the sparkling hazel that would occasionally bleed into the mesmerizing green; Magnus would always find himself getting lost in Alexander’s gaze just as he did in that moment. He could barely inhale oxygen into his body and the flames of agony raging through his chest were both frigid in his bones and like lapping fire in his veins.

Alexander was speaking and Magnus tried to listen because he didn’t speak often, but when he did, he’d only say what truly mattered and that’s what made Magnus love him so much.

In that instance, Magnus realized that it was true. He did love Alexander. Alexander said those words more than once, and he’d reciprocated more than once but there was still a small piece of his soul that kept questioning whether it was true; whether Alexander really did love him, or more importantly, whether Magnus really truly loved him back.

He’d loved many people, many times in his life, and every time they left they took a little bit of his love with them until a point where Magnus wasn’t sure whether he had any more love left to give.

But he did, and he gave it to Alexander with the hope that this time, his love would mean as much to the other person as their love meant to him.

Magnus was used to protecting others; it came with the territory. He was used to people needing his help, needing his magic, needing his knowledge and his riches; needing absolutely everything he had to give except his love. But Alexander didn’t want anything besides his love, besides him.

‘I can’t live without you,’ he’d said and Magnus wanted to say ‘I don’t want to live without you,’ in return but he could no longer find his voice.

Alexander was dipping in and out of focus; his beautiful eyes wide and teary, Magnus wanted to tell him not to cry, but he couldn’t find the words. He couldn’t remember how to speak. He could hear the sound of a voice calling him from the darkness; calling him a name that wasn’t his, a name that didn’t belong to him; he was Magnus and he would always be Magnus.

His mother used to call him a different name; his old name, the one he could no longer even remember. Sometimes he could still even hear her words; ‘Tidur, anakku sayang,’ that she’d say before putting him to sleep at night; before she realized what he was; before her care turned to fear; before her love turned to disgust; before he could only remember her words dripping with venom and her voice distorted and mutilated; back when he could hear her words resounding like a song in his ear and the way she used to roll her r’s; back when she was mother instead of another nightmare that plagued his sleep.

But the way Alexander called his name; the way he said it almost with reverence, like he took much pleasure in the way the name rolled off his tongue. It wasn’t like the way Camille called his name, like the name belonged to her and she’d say it with a seductive purr, almost in a sing-song voice, like she was both summoning him and teasing him at the same time. It wasn’t like the way Catarina called his name, like it was both a source of fondness and a source of great frustration at the same time; the same way she’d say Ragnor’s name in the exact same tone.

But that was back then, Catarina hadn’t mentioned the name Ragnor in a while and Magnus didn’t deign to remind her. It was still a topic of great sadness and tragedy for the both of them and most of the time, Magnus had to force himself to stop drinking at the point where he’d almost forget that he used to have a friend named Ragnor.

But the way Alexander said the name Magnus was like the name was meant to be said by him in that tone, with that voice and the way he was always so light on the M; like he was as fond of saying the name as Magnus was of hearing him say it.

He wanted to hear him say it one last time, but he could no longer hear.

There was only darkness.

The thing Magnus remembered the most clearly were the mosquitoes. There were always so many come the dusk, just as the light of the setting sun fully disappeared behind the hills in the distance, plunging the paddy fields and the little ramshackle huts scattered through the little village landscape into darkness. When the faintest of lights would shine out the windows from the oil lamps the villagers would burn inside their homes, and the distant crowing of the birds flying overhead and the mooing of the buffalos that plowed the paddy fields from their shed, resting for the night, would sound in the background.

Magnus always hated the mosquitoes but he always tried to not kill them regardless, up until the point when being in the immediate vicinity of him killed them anyway and that was before his mother realized what he was. Perhaps in a way, it had been the contributing factor to her realization.

Then she died; she killed herself in her own bed because she could no longer stand the shame of being responsible for bringing a monster into the world.

An abomination, she said. Malapetaka was the word she used; anak sial was what she called him. He would bring on the end of the world, she’d mutter in a hysterical rage and he could do nothing but pull his knees closer to his chest and continue listening to her tirade from his hiding place in the dirt and the sand under the house, leaning against one of the wooden stilts and watching her shadow walking back and forth above his head through the cracks in the ratty floorboards.

But he didn’t cry.

He never cried except once and he vowed to never cry again.

But then in this memory; the twisted nightmare of his past that he found himself reliving, all of a sudden his step father was standing in front of him, yelling at him, cursing at him in a language he’d long pretended not to know and Magnus became so angry he saw only red. His step father had his hands on him, holding him down, touching him; his skin cold to the touch almost like ice. Magnus hated the cold; he always did because that was the clearest memory he had of how he felt on the inside for decades; before Catarina, before Ragnor…

Before Alexander.

He knew an Alexander once and the onslaught of memories slammed into him like a battering ram; a sheepish smile; gorgeous hazel eyes opening slowly at the dawn, framed by a halo of shimmering gold, a grin; a head of tousled black hair and gentle hands, calloused and strong, reaching out to caress his face. But he blinked and once again it was his step father’s face bearing down on him, his expression ugly, twisted in rage. His hands were still on him but they weren’t just his hands, they were many hands clawing at him, tearing at his limbs, scratching his skin and ripping him apart and he found himself too powerless to fight back. He couldn’t lift his arms up to resist or to struggle, he couldn’t inhale oxygen into his lungs; it was like his chest was on fire and the oxygen was scorched ash, burning away like a rotten limb. It was a leg first and the sound of a terrible screech assailing his senses and the stench of a thousand corpses condensed into one horrid, mutated creature.

Alexander was going to die bloody and Magnus was too powerless to save him.

But he had. Alexander was alive. He killed the demon. He killed all the demons, even the one that raged within him; the one who sang to him with his mother’s voice and the one who seduced him with Camille’s; the one who spoke to him softly in Alexander��s voice, with his beautiful, kind face always hovering somewhere in the back of his mind like a fond memory that constantly lingered but was always just out of reach.

But this time Alexander wasn’t asking him a question, he wasn’t asking whether Magnus would sit back and watch him die. He didn’t ask Magnus to let him in. He didn’t ask Magnus to say yes. He said, ‘please…let us,’ over and over again with a voice that was too raw; a voice that was dripping with too much emotion; a voice that had seen tears and the sound of sobbing far too recently.

So Magnus listened this time. He was too tired, too drained. He was too powerless and he wanted to just lie back down and do nothing; he wanted to be nothing, just the way he felt on the insides too many times for too many years.

Alexander’s voice was too soothing and too close; the warm droplet that splashed onto his face felt too real and Magnus just surrendered to the darkness until he became nothing. He spared a small smile to the shadows before he was enveloped and then there was only pain.

Magnus had felt pain before, but it was a different sort of pain; the kind that couldn’t truly be healed by magic, only by time; the pain that always seemed to linger somewhere in his periphery like a shadow.

But even compared to that, there was little in comparison to the kind of all-encompassing sort of agony that all of a sudden assailed his senses. Once in a while for what seemed like an eternity, Magnus could perhaps forget that it was there for a moment’s respite. Other times the pain would come at him like a beast, unwilling to be ignored, up in his face like the hurt had just been inflicted. It was like the beast that raged within him, threatening to tear him apart from the inside out, clawing at his insides and tearing at his organs and burning the tissue under his skin.

It was agony.

It was terror.

It was like dying, over and over again for eternity and in that moment, Magnus actually wished for death.

But death never came, as it would never come for him. He’d been turned away over and over again, left at the door by everyone he loved and by death itself and it was an agony that he knew he’d never truly be free of.

But he could see eyes looking at him through the darkness and he latched onto the memory; he latched onto the voice; the sound of a woman’s voice, older and weary, singing a sweet tune in a language he couldn’t remember; the voice that mutated into that of a Siren, as beautiful as it was dangerous but he always found himself floating closer and closer to that voice no matter how much his heart warned him against it, no matter how much it pulled him away; the voice that morphed again and again; a woman’s voice, strong and steadfast and familiar; straightforward and no-nonsense; a man’s voice; perpetually pernickety with a soothing accent; a woman’s voice, begging for help and a little girl’s, scared and confused; and thousands of voices he’d heard through the centuries, every gender and countless languages and in the end it all faded away into silence but for a single, deep voice with a hint of a New York accent saying his name;

“Magnus.”

And then there was nothing.

Slowly; painfully slow, his senses started returning to him, one by one. Sound and smell and taste; everything was far too sweet and his surrounding was far too loud.

He remembered feeling the magical currents raging through his body, but it was like it happened in a nightmare. Like it happened to another person’s body and he’d been around, hovering like a spectator, helpless and unable to stop it. Unable to stop himself. It was his body and it was his magic, but at the same time, it wasn’t his magic. It was remnants of a power that didn’t belong to him, that didn’t have any business being in his body. He’d accepted the power; he’d let it in. He allowed the darkness to course through his veins and he knew, in a bitter part of his heart that fragments of that power would be left behind, latching onto his soul. He could feel it there, hovering, tainting him; bleeding into the bright spots of his mind and his spirit.

But there was also a darkness that hovered close; it wasn’t a darkness inside him, but a darkness that was familiar nonetheless; one that hung in the air around him, hissing at him, spitting at him, growling at him in a language he understood once when it spoke into his mind. It wasn’t his darkness, but the darkness was close to him and he could feel it bleeding into the air like a cancer.

All he could remember was the dark; all he could see was the dark; that, and the silence. It was suffocating and it was lonely and it was terrifying, but it was the pain that kept him grounded.

There were hands on him; there were spirits shining brightly around him. There were sounds of footsteps walking around and the hushed whispers of voices that he knew but couldn’t place. He was lonely, but he wasn’t alone, that was the immediate first thing he realized.

The pain not only kept him grounded, but it also kept him rooted in place; moving hurt, breathing hurt, thinking hurt, just existing hurt, like his entire body was one giant festering wound, but there were hands on his and somewhere in the darkest, most jaded part of his soul, he realized that he knew who those hands belonged to.

They were strong, the fingers were long and calloused, but they were warm and they were familiar and they were the hands that once upon a time stroked the side of his face with such gentleness that it unknowingly unlocked a part of his soul that he’d kept locked away for centuries.

Alexander… that was his name. That was the person those hands belonged to.

But Alexander wasn’t there, was he? He was… somewhere else—somewhere in a distant place, in a distant memory out of reach. Magnus could still feel the tip of fingers brushing against the hem of Alexander’s jacket. The jacket that smelled like leather and blood and sweat and metal and Alexander’s familiar musky scent. The jacket that had been torn to pieces and drenched in blood and grime and ichor. The jacket that he wore when he died, when the demon tore him in half; when the demon flayed him like cattle; when the demon ripped through him with its claws laced with poison and its teeth dripping with venom.

When Magnus threw him against the wall, out of its path; when Alexander hit the stone wall with the thump and a painful moan.

When he landed on the ground, hurt, but alive.

Alexander was alive, Magnus had to remind himself. He’d saved him, and the thought brought on an overwhelming sense of relief Magnus didn’t know he could ever have felt again.

Alexander was alive. That was all that mattered.

The ground wasn’t stained red with his blood and that was all that mattered.

Crimson, Ragnor would have said, as he’d always been a stickler for the details, as Magnus himself was, but seldom in regards to colour. To Ragnor blue was not blue when it was azure or teal and crimson and maroon and burgundy and carmine were not the same thing. To Magnus green was green and blue was blue and red was red. The only thing that truly mattered was how good it looked on him.

But hazel – hazel was a distinctive colour in its own special category.

Semantics, Ragnor would have scoffed with a derisive eye-roll and Magnus would have either argued about Ragnor being a pot calling the kettle black, or he would have shooed him off to go look at one of his gaudy paintings.

It was weird for a colour to bring on such an intense feeling of comfort inside him, especially for one that wasn’t even really a colour. Was it brown or green? That was always the pressing question; brown or green? Green or brown? Eventually Magnus realized that it didn’t matter because hazel came to represent just one thing most of all.

“Alexander.”

Seeing the way his eyes widened, the way the green was overlapping the brown in a way that almost made it sparkle; seeing the relief that flooded his expression and the way he almost exhaled the name when it came tumbling from his lips, it filled Magnus with such a feeling of warmth and a sense of relief that he found himself unable to do anything other than stare.

“Magnus,” came the almost hopeful cry as Alexander rushed to his side. “How are you feeling?” he asked, taking a seat at Magnus’s side and quickly reaching for his hand.

Magnus didn’t really have time to process what was happening; he could barely recall what had actually happened, but Alexander was there at his side, his worry as apparent as the redness of his eyes so Magnus latched onto him with as much desperation in return. “I’ve felt better,” he said, “I’ve probably looked better too.”

Alexander smiled at that and Magnus didn’t think he’d ever seen a sight more gorgeous. “You look absolutely perfect,” he said.

Once again Alexander proved that he didn’t have to speak often to be able to say the things Magnus wanted and needed to hear the most. “You on the other hand,” he found himself saying, “Look dreadful, my love. When was the last time you slept?”

“I think you slept enough for the both of us,” said Alexander. His tone turning bittersweet which sobered Magnus up instantly. “It’s been almost a week since the ambush,” he explained and all of a sudden Magnus could see every second of it stacked up high on Alexander’s tired shoulders.

“You’ve been here the entire time?” he found himself asking before he could even stop himself.

“Of course,” Alexander said, like he was offended that Magnus even thought to ask that question. “We all have,” he added.

“We?” For a split second Magnus couldn’t even begin to fathom who ‘we’ could possibly be, before there was a high pitched squeal sounding from the door and all of a sudden he felt a body – and then a second – almost barreling into him. It jarred the part of his chest that had felt strangely numb; causing him to wince when the ache came like a firecracker burst and an involuntary pained gasp escaped his lips. The figures half sprawled over him immediately stilled in place.

“Sorry,” said Clary and Isabelle immediately, looking up at him concernedly and half guilty. Magnus hated being the reason for that look so he quickly reached over to cup both of them by the side of their cheeks, running his thumb across the length of their cheekbones in a reassuring manner.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, my dears,” he said, and felt the warmness spreading through his insides when Clary and Isabelle both smiled at him.

It was an unnerving feeling, but not one that he disliked. It felt good to be wanted and to be missed.

He glanced over at Alexander who had straightened up and was standing back, giving Clary and Isabelle room at Magnus’s side, his expression melancholic almost, pensive, but he looked up when he sensed Magnus’s eyes on him and the smile that spread across his face then was worth all the precious stones in the world.

It felt strange being present and in the moment then, seeing the people who would walk in and out of his room – something he frowned on most of the time – from Clary and Isabelle to Jace and Luke to Raphael. Raphael took a bit of coaxing before he would even enter the room fully; much less actually approach the bed. Magnus couldn’t really blame him and he didn’t. The relationship between him and Raphael wasn’t something that could be explained simply. He considered Raphael almost like a son, but not really in a parent-child sort of way, not the way the Nephilim treated their offspring and definitely not the way mundanes did. But when Raphael made his way into the room, for the first time that day barren of visitors sans Alexander – who all of a sudden remembered that he was needed in the kitchen for some inexplicable reason – his steps strangely slow and cautious and his eyes looking at anything and everything except in Magnus’s direction, Magnus knew that something wasn’t right and deep down he knew what it was.

After all he’d felt the same kind of fear many times through the centuries.

The very real fear of loss.

But unlike his own experiences with it in the past, he was still there; he was still around; alive and kicking. He could still reach out and embrace Raphael when he buried his face in his shoulder and latched on like he was afraid of letting go; he could still hold on just as tightly with the kind of sympathy born from familiarity and experience, the kind he wouldn’t wish even on his worst enemies. He understood what Raphael was feeling and he knew that Alexander empathized with him the same way and that was why he stepped out, giving Raphael and his moment of vulnerability the privacy he would never have asked for. Magnus appreciated it on Raphael’s behalf just as much.

It was weird, to put it simply, everything that happened to him over the course of the last… couple of weeks? Sometimes it actually felt like he was on the outside looking in at all the people who kept passing through his life and his room. Clary and Isabelle were slightly less befuddling because he could somehow understand what they felt and the way they thought; they were more similar to him in that sense than most people. He understood holding on to a loved one and wanting to be near them, wanting to hold them close and in that he understood Clary and Isabelle the best.

The fact that he was the focus of their worry and their concern was something he understood maybe a little less. After all, he was more experienced being the worry-er, than he was being on the receiving end.

But between Clary and Isabelle and Luke and Raphael and the oddly absent Simon, Magnus didn’t know where to even begin focusing his confusion. It was something he could safely say that he’d never truly experienced in his four-hundred years of life. Sure he had people love him, or a version of love that felt good enough at the time; he had people care about him – perhaps the kind he’d come to associate as care because that was the only kind he ever really knew. But the kind of selfless love and care and worry that he found himself being the subject of… that was slightly more bewildering.

At first he thought that he was still stuck in some sort of dreamland, a fantasy he’d created to compensate for everything he wished he had in life, but the dream continued without a record-scratch and a fade-away to black, and at some point Magnus was forced to come to the realization that somehow this was actually reality; that this was actually real and it wasn’t happening just inside his own head. He was forced to realize that these people were actually there, they were real just like he was and their care and their concern and their… love? – was actually directed towards him and it didn’t fail to give him pause every time the thought of if crossed his mind.

And then there was Catarina.

Catarina was his oldest and closest friend in the world – really the only one left – so to see her by his side when he opened his eyes, her eyes sharp, almost a furious glare, really wasn’t the most unexpected thing. She’d gone off on him then, her grief half concealed and buried under a thick layer of anger that he could see right through so he just sat back and accepted it silently, it was the least he could do after what he put her through after all.

But when it was all said and done, after Catarina had released all the frustration and the fear that was in her heart, that was when her real emotions shined through and she frowned and hugged him and held him the way he hadn’t been held in centuries; not since he was eight years old and his mother didn’t yet look at him like he was her biggest regret.

Magnus finally let his tears fall the way they hadn’t fallen in centuries. Catarina just held him close but said nothing because it wasn’t her words that Magnus needed; it was just her.

Alexander on the other hand was an entity entirely of his own spectacular merit and amazingness. Magnus really had no words to truly describe Alexander to the common folk.

Alexander was special; the kind of person that comes into someone’s life only once and somehow, for some reason he ended up destined to be in Magnus’s. More so than that, he chose to do so; he chose to stay when so many in his place would have left, when so many had left and Magnus didn’t think there were words in the common tongue or otherwise to describe just how much it meant to him. But somehow with Alexander, he knew he didn’t have to. With Alexander he didn’t have to say much and he had even less to prove; he didn’t have to constantly prove his love because Alexander just knew. The only thing he had to do was love Alexander as much as Alexander loved him in return, and to Magnus nothing in the world was easier than that.

Alexander was easy to love; he might be hard to understand or get a grasp on a lot of the times, but to love him was the easiest. Magnus couldn’t tell what he was thinking most of the time but he could always tell what he was feeling, especially when those feelings were directed towards Magnus – it was easier to see than to believe sometimes but Magnus was trying just like Alexander was trying. Their very relationship was a poster child for trial-and-error – a Shadowhunter and a Downworlder – more so than that, a warlock (and some might argue, the warlock) who really could have ever imagined? Certainly not Magnus and certainly not the Clave.

But Alexander had just taken it all in his stride. It wasn’t easy, as it would never be easy, but Alexander stayed when he could have left. It would have been so much easier on him and on the both of them if he had. But one thing Magnus and Alexander both had in common was the fact that they were never about taking the easy way out, that’s what made them the kind of leaders they were – the fact that they didn’t easily back down. And if Magnus wasn’t the kind to back down in his beliefs and his life, he definitely wasn’t about to start doing it in his relationships, especially when it was obvious, perhaps for the first time, that the person he loved, loved him back just as much. If that wasn’t reason enough, then nothing else would ever be.

It was him and Alexander in bed that morning. Everyone else had finally left his apartment at his insistence. After the week they had, Magnus knew he owed them all breakfast every day for all eternity.

He could see the beam of the dawn illuminating the tops of the buildings outside his window. He was awake, as he’d been for at least a couple of hours. Really, he’d probably slept enough to last him a century over the last week or so and as it stood, there were far more interesting things to focus his attention on in that moment than boring old sleep.

Alexander was asleep beside him, his eye closed and his lashes thick and dark and almost brushing against the highest point of his cheekbones, one hand tucked under his cheek. Magnus couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight.

He’d known many Shadowhunters through his life and he always thought he’d had them all down pegged: a militaristic organization of mindless followers, creating havoc in the name of order and imposing their superiority at every turn. The last word Magnus would ever use to describe a Shadowhunter would have been vulnerable, but that was exactly what Alexander was at that moment; exposed, unprotected, with his barriers completely down, showing the kind of trust in Magnus that he ever only showed his own kind, perhaps not even then.

Magnus found himself reaching over and with the softest touch, running his thumb across the side of Alexander’s cheek. He wasn’t all that surprised when the briefest contact caused him to stir. His brows furrowing for a split-second before his eyes actually opened. The moment his gaze finally focused and he found Magnus staring back at him, he smiled. It was just a small quirk of the lips, but to Magnus it was the most gorgeous sight to behold.

“Hi,” he said, almost a whisper. His hand trailing down Alexander’s torso to rest on the curve of his waist, causing him to shudder slightly.

“Hi,” said Alexander, his voice slightly hoarse with sleep. “How are you feeling?” he asked and Magnus couldn’t help but smile at the question.

“Much better now that I’ve seen your smile,” he said.

“I’m serious, Magnus,” said Alexander with a small pout although he would undoubtedly deny it being such.

“So am I, Alexander,” he replied, “You just have the innate ability to make everything better.”

Alexander turned silent then, his eyes darkening slightly which made Magnus a little concerned.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly.

“What? Why? You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for,” he said, wracking his brain for anything that would have caused the sudden apology.

Alexander didn’t answer for a while and Magnus could feel his concern rising.

“I’m sorry you got so hurt,” he said suddenly, “I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to protect us both. It was my job and I failed at it. I should have been stronger or faster or –”

“Oh, Alexander,” said Magnus, raising a hand up to stop him, reaching out to cup the side of his face. “You didn’t fail at anything. You protected us both by yourself for longer than you should have had to. I was the one who should be sorry; for not being stronger, for letting you shoulder the bulk of everything, for not being able to protect us both. You were the strongest, most magnificent sight I’ve ever seen in my life, Alexander; we’re both only alive because of you. Sure, we didn’t come out of if completely unscathed, but the alternative would have been… even more unspeakable. So… please don’t apologize. Please don’t think you failed in any way. We’re both alive because of you.”

Alexander stayed silent through Magnus’s entire speech, gazing at him intently with his gorgeous eyes.

“Plus, I heard chicks dig scars,” added Magnus after a while, “I wonder if it applies to incredibly hot, tall, dark and handsome Shadowhunters as well.”

Alexander’s frown morphed into a smiled then, which then grew into a wide grin that Magnus would never get tired of looking at.

“I suppose I really have no other choice in the matter,” said Alexander, “I’ll just have to learn to live with it.”

Magnus couldn’t help it, he laughed at that. The sudden jolt was painful on his body but the laughter itself was like a balm on his soul, even more so when Alexander joined him soon after.

It felt good being alive. Magnus didn’t think there would come a time where he could truly believe those words in his heart again.

The End

A/N: Firstly, I doubt that they would be using Bahasa Indonesia as we know it in the sixteen hundreds, therefore the Indonesian phrases Magnus would actually know from his childhood would most likely be of the language they spoke back then, instead of the Indonesian language that’s used today.

That said; I’m doing it anyway.

The direct translation of ‘malapetaka’ means disaster, or something bad that befalls something, like in a biblical sense. It means the same thing in both Indonesian and Malay (which is my first language so I’m taking more from that instead of actual Indonesian). The online dictionary translates ‘sial’ as stupid or dumbass, but that’s not quite right; words in Malay—and I assume in Indonesian as well—don’t really have one particular meaning, it can mean a variety of things depending on how you choose to use it. As with the above word, it can also be used to describe something terrible in the biblical sense. My understanding of the words sial is something more along the lines of unlucky, not as is someone who is unlucky, but as in someone/something that brings bad luck to others. Anak sial means a child that brings bad luck, or something like a bad omen when used in this case.

‘Tidur, anakku sayang’ means ‘sleep, my beloved child.’

So yeah, that’s a 101 on Bahasa Melayu/Indonesia that you didn’t ask for.

Wǣrloga: traitor, oath-breaker, liar Declension of wærloga (weak) English: warlock

#shadowhunters #magnus bane #malec #alec lightwood #harry shum jr #matthew daddario #hurt magnus #reiven fics #reiven shadowhunters fics #fics: marred by poison purged by magic

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edream93 · 6 years

Note

prompt idea - something during harry's childhood or the hook siblings childhood if you wanna include harriet and cj. idk if you want specific prompts or not so just incase hmm.. maybe captain hook teaching harry (or all of the hook kids) to play the organ/piano/whatevs??

Hey anon! So…this may me a little bit of cheating…I say cheating because when I received this ask, I was actually working on a scene from Harry’s childhood for “We’ll Light the Fuse”. Not sure if it’ll actually make it to the next update but it doesn’t have an spoilers so…why not? I’ll also try to do the piano/organ thing too later. Don’t worry, though, you don’t need to have read WLTF to understand this.

But for now, hope you enjoy this product of coincidence?

(Note: My headcannon for now is Harriet is two years older than Harry and CJ is three years younger.)

–

Once upon a time… there were three siblings that could only depend on each other. One night, the eldest sibling left, wanting to start her own life on the other side of the Isle after years of looking after and protecting her younger siblings…

“Hey! Enough of those tears, Cali! They’re not gonna change Ettie’s mind!” a ten year old Harry Hook yelled throwing a somewhat clean rag at his crying younger sister. His gesture, though he meant well, only seemed to make the seven year old cry even more. He faced palmed.

And Uma calls me dramatic, he thought. The fact he knew the tears probably weren’t real and merely an old trick Harriet had taught her when CJ was still too small to be anything other than a distraction didn’t help him be any more sympathetic either.

Harriet had left in the dead of the night, collecting all of the few personal objects she had along with the red jacket that she had outfitted from one of their father’s old coats… Harry had suspected she would desert them for the past month now. She already had a ship, one of their father’s better ones given a month earlier when she had turned twelve, and her crew was easy to come by since most of their father’s crew all had children of their own who they had grown up with.

Good riddance! Harry thought bitterly, ignoring how much his sister leaving had felt like betrayal. He may only be ten, but he knew getting too close with anyone, even family was a risk. Blood wasn’t always thicker on the Isle after all. His strenuous relationship with a father who most of the time couldn’t bare to look at him was a prime example.

So he ignored how he would miss Harriet’s cackle of a laugh when he did something that really helped carve an impression into the minds of those of the Isle that he was a pirate not to be messed with. He ignored how he would miss their daily spars where woven in between sarcastic remarks and insulting names, there would actual be tidbits on not to get himself killed, much more helpful than his father’s suggestion slurred suggestion to just run himself with a sword. (The frequency that Hook made that comment and ones similar had started to wear off…that is until the old Captain actually tried to force his suggestion onto the boy himself.)

“You’re gonna leave me just like sissy did!” the young blonde cried throwing the rag right back back at him, anchoring him back to the present.

Harry refrained his desire to just shove her off the boat and into the murky water below but a voice that sounded too much like his older sister reminded him that all too familiar sneer of hers that if “precious Calista Jane” went overboard their father would have his neck. And Harry quite liked his neck.

“Stop that cryin’ right now! Ye hear me?” he growled, trying to repress himself from turning into a useless heaving ball, curled up on the deck of the ship, struggling to breathe and waiting for the world to stop spinning like he did when he first found Harriet gone.

He took a deep breath, causing CJ to look at him with wide teary brown eyes. For a moment, the young boy thought that one of his sisters was finally listening to him, that was until CJ stomped on his foot with as much force as she could (which was a lot for a seven year old) before kicking his shin.

“Holy crocodile! Ye little goblin!” Harry howled falling to the ground and clutching his lower leg.

“No!” CJ cried, stomping her foot, though this time thankfully nowhere near his own. “You can’t leave! You can’t! You can’t!”

“Oh shut up you idiot! I’m not going no where!” the boy rolled his eyes, flopping back on the deck of the ship. There was only a few of his father’s crew above deck at the moment, many of them somewhere else, roaming the island, or sleeping off whatever questionable moonshine they managed to get their hands on. He was bored. He idly wondered what Uma was doing and if she was stuck working her mother’s shop again.

“Promise?” CJ prodded, hovering over him, blonde hair knotted in a poor attempt at mimicking the braid that Harriet always struggled with taming into submission. Her bottom lip was trembling and the only tell that this wasn’t completely an act was the way the younger child bit the inside of her cheek. When Calista Jane was pulling a con she bit her bottom lip.

Oh Davy Jones, he thought sitting up. He was never really good when CJ got like this, when she looked at him expectantly as if he could actually keep a damn promise on this pitiful rock that they called home. He wasn’t stupid. He hadn’t made a name yet like Harriet. Still known to too many as just one of Harriet Hook’s bratty little siblings. But maybe…one day, with a certain sea witch, he would be so feared on the Isle that he could make a promise to his sibling without his stomach twisting at the uncertainty of being able to keep such a promise.

“Yeah, yeah. I promise,” he said pushing her away none too gently as he got up to his feet. “We’ll even go on a grand adventure one day,” he muttered, sarcasm heavy in his voice but CJ didn’t seem to hear it as her eyes grew wide, any remaining traces of her crying now long gone and she let out a squeal before running off to another part of the ship yelling “ADVENTURE!” and needing to go find that Freddie brat loudly.

Harry rolled his eyes again, glancing at the dock where a familiar turquoise figure caught his eye waiting impatiently for him, a mischievous smirk instantly fading away his concerns for the time being.

He ran down the ship’s board, his usual mischievous smile on his face until he caught sight of an unpleasant head of purple hair waiting next to Uma.

“Mal,” he ground out. Before turning to Uma. “Why’d ye bring her here?” he hissed.

“Yeah, I thought we were going to have some real fun, Uma.,” Mal sighed, sounding almost bored as she barely gave the boy a glance. “Didn’t know we were gonna spend the day with this charity case.”

“Ye wanna say that a bit louder, pixie?” Harry fumed through clenched teeth, taking a step closer to her.

Uma pushed her way between the two. “Both of you, chill!” she growled before tugging Harry off to the side. “What’s up with you? I thought you’d be up for causing a little bit of mayhem,” she said, glancing back at Mal before in a lower voice saying, “I heard about Harriet and…ya know, thought it would cheer you up.”

(Davy Jones.That weird stomach fluttering thing always seemed to happen at the most inconvenient of times, he thought, taking in her rare look of concern.)

“I do like causing mayhem but with ye, lass. But not with that purple tadpole. I just don’t see why ye would even want to hang out with her. She’s got no real substance! Everyone knows she’s just her mother’s clone. And not even a good one.”

Uma rolled her eyes. This wasn’t the first time Harry had made his feelings about her friend from the other side of the Isle clear.

“Look Harry,” she growled irritatedly, poking him in the chest. “Mal and I have each other’s back. We’re gonna rule this island and then we’re going to take over Auradon together and shove all those sugary sweet royal brats off their thrones. Now, I can do that with or without you, Hook, but if you’re with me then you need to shut your clam about Mal. She and I are partners.”

Harry knocked her hand away from him, ignoring the part of him that wanted to ask weren’t they partners.

“This is n’t going to end well, Uma. I can feel it. Mal. Is. Bad. News,” he said putting emphasis on the last few words. “And not in the way ya wanna mess with.”

Rolling her eyes, Uma turned around, speaking over her shoulder, “You’re too paranoid, Hook. Mal and I have a plan. Like I said, you’re either with us or against us. When you come to your senses, Mal and I will be the docks by one of your old man’s other ships,” she said before starting to walk back towards where the purple half-fae was smirking triumphantly at him.

(Damn pixie.)

The young boy bit his lip, holding back a curse as he watched them both disappear around a turn, hearing a faint conversation of needing to find something slippery and smelly for their next prank. His stomach twisted with a sense of foreboding that something irreversible was going to occur soon…

A few hours later, he would realize that he hated being right…and once again, he hated how he felt powerless in protecting what was his.

—

Yep, I bet you can guess when this took place… So I was going to cut it off right after Harry sees Uma but…then my fingers slipped across the keyboard…repeatedly…and…well, yeah…

Hope you enjoyed, anon! And I’ll try the piano thing at some point too.

#edream93 answers #disney descendants #descendants 2 #harry hook #harriet hook #cj hook #hook siblings #uma #mal #edream93 fanfiction #edream93 writes #edream93 fanfic #we'll light the fuse #descendants fanfiction

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sanguisx · 7 years

Text

buried within ;

here’s a question for your soul; how many times can a broken thing break? and the gods whispered: let’s see, shall we?

- nikita gill

It’s to agony that he awakes, the source of his discomfort narrowed down to his hands. His fingers, broken, the bones within shattered into what may very well be tiny, unfixable pieces, trapped within the confides of his skin. Unbendable, limp, the palms useless on their own. There is no magic without his fingers, no control perfected over years of practice. Without his hands, he is all but powerless; weak, vulnerable, defenseless.

He’d like to look at them, truly assess the damage done and yet as Leon forces his eyes to open, he can not bring them to him, a burn spreading across his wrists. Bound, by a rope he imagines, tightly behind his back. A grunt of pain escapes him, the test for wiggle room only bringing forth more hurt and the gasp that begs to find his lungs in a form of coping is met with a mouth unable to open, for that too, is bound tightly closed. It smothers his lips, his cheeks, perhaps even the back of his head. Tape, grey in colour and not easily broken his jaw soon learns, the fight to simply open his mouth a feeble one.

His legs are next, looking to stretch and test them, for perhaps there’s a way he can find his feet and simply run. Yet he can not part them, his ankles stuck together by the same kind of burn that plagues his wrists, restricted and aching, the blood flowing through his body not quite reaching his toes.

To a stranger or the mundane, perhaps this would look like nothing more than a man held captive, a prisoner like one would see on the big screen. But he knew better than that.

There were many ways to trap a witch. But this?

This was how you trapped Leon.

A simple thing, for one as powerful as himself.

He blinks into the darkness, one, two, three times in a fight to adjust to his surroundings. The floor beneath him is cold, wet, the smell of blood reaching his senses, metallic on his tongue despite the gag that efficiently quietens him. Leon shuffles this way and that, looking for a break in the ropes only to be met with his body touching something else no matter how he lay, no matter where he put his feet. It was... soft, almost, undisturbed despite the contact. He tries not to think about what might be laying there with him.

And it’s odd, really, how seemingly calm he is. Anyone in their right mind would begin to panic, would fight the restraints and perhaps attempt to call for help. But Leon simply lays there, breathing in and out through his nose in the beat of four, waiting for what he was sure would follow. It’s familiar, too familiar for his own comfort but Leon had built a kind of... tolerance to this things over the years. He’d been trapped so many times before, locked away in cages and dark rooms, small spaces with no room to breathe, bound in ways that left his body not quite right for days. See, his mother didn’t care for comfort, at least, not when it came to her pets.

He was stronger now. Braver.

He would not break.

Or so he thought.

The sound of her humming reaches his ears first, echoing from somewhere long before she reaches the door, the handle turning with a creak. He’d know it anywhere, rusty and imperfect, out of tune with no melody. She liked to make noises for the sake of it, perhaps as some sort of announcement that she’d be there shortly. Her victims would squirm in fear, because for them, it was the sound of torture coming their way.

But Leon can not, will not, believe it, swearing that his mind had begun to crumble, to wither away and leave nothing but tricks behind, something to torment him before he and Death met once more. They were intimate, see, and Leon knew now that Death would always be waiting, Mephistopheles at their side, ready to take him down into the depths of Hell. Leon had died many a time now. He knew where his soul would eventually come to rest.

And yet, the humming continues on, louder now for she’s in the room with him. A ghost, he tells himself, nothing more.

All too quickly, a light erupts into the room, hundreds of candles taking flame and Leon squeezes his eyes shut, refusing to allow them to blind him so easily. Footsteps approach, pass him, continue on further into the room and with some hesitance, Leon slowly opens his eyes.

And God, did he wish he hadn’t.

For here lies Leon, surrounded by the bodies of those he loved, their blood pooling beneath him in some collective sea, limbs pressing against him regardless of which way he struggled.

He rolls left, only to be met with Helaine. She lays on her back, staring at the ceiling and though eyes are dull, the life that once lingered in them gone, the light of the candles dance within her pupils.

He rolls left and it is Naomi curled beside him, her small and tiny form fractured and bent in nightmarish ways. She fits perfectly against his chest and if Leon closes his eyes, he could swear that she’s simply sleeping next to him, hiding away from the shadows that scare her so badly.

He tilts his head up, blonde hair blocking his view. Violet, still draped in his jacket, looks down upon him, eyes wide with the remnants of fear. The bruises still decorate her skin, like flowers among the weeds of fresh cuts still oozing red.

And just as he always did, unable to help himself whenever he entered somewhere new, Leon searches frantically for Zoe, a prayer in every language he knew for all the Gods he’d learned of screaming in his head that she be safe, that she didn’t lay here with him and those he’d come to love.

Leon moves onto his front, pushes himself to his knees, looking at the graveyard surrounding him. He sees Zeke, bent out of shape with his insides spilling from his stomach. He sees Jae, dumped on his front with his eyes closed, his jaw not quite sitting right. Bryce, his fearsome form nothing more than a lump in the corner, bones snapped and peeking through skin. He swears he sees Deacon sticking out from beneath a body too mutilated to recognise.

And then, to his dismay, he finds her.

Zoe lays among the rest in a heap, her throat slashed, crimson lingering around her mouth. Her body lacked any other wound and he knows she was left to suffer, drowning in her own blood whilst those she’d sworn to protect fell around her.

For that was his sister’s way, wasn’t it?

To make the guardians suffer failure in both life and death.

Through his anguish, Leon counts and for every number he reaches, there is a body belonging to the group he’d promised to protect to meet it. Except... one. It’s out of place, decay already eating away at the skin and bones a life had left behind. It doesn’t sit with the group, tossed aside and abandoned as though it didn’t belong.

And it didn’t.

Not here, not with them.

And though his hands throb in a torturous pain, Leon fights the simple bonds locking his power away, screaming into the gag that seals his voice. Not him, please not him. Not him too. A head of dark hair, soft curls at the ends, freckles adorning his nose, red dried and congealed all over him. Leon swears he can smell the snowdrops even through all the blood, a faint scent, delicate like the flower. A sign that spring was on the way. His spring. A house in the woods away from the rest of the world. A place that would always welcome him home.

And yet the body lay as still as winter.

With tears spilling down his cheeks, Leon turns in his grief to the woman who stood in silence, observing how her brother trembled. She still looked like him. They were twins, after all, though her cheeks were more hollow and her eyes, bloodshot and cruel, her long black hair still settled against her back straight and perfect.

The last time he’d seen her had been the day he’d slaughtered her without mercy within their parents home. He’d taken her heart, her head, melted it within the grasp of his blight. She was dead and gone. He’d made sure of it.

Lena smiles just as adoringly as always.

“Do you like it?” she asks him, skipping over the bodies of the fallen with glee, “do you like what I did?” She spins as she steps, arms open like a little girl dancing, giggling something manic the closer she gets. “Look at them, Leon! Offerings, to you. Their blood... their lives... they’re yours now! All yours!” She crouches before him, closing the space between them, her hands cupping his face. He recoils, shakes his head, fights to get her off of him but, Lena had always had a tight grasp. She would never let go.

Never.

“Oh please don’t cry,” she coos, rubbing thumbs across his cheeks, catching the tears as if they were children again, a sister older by just a few minutes mothering the small and sickly form of her brother. “I... I’m fixing it, Leon, I’m fixing it. You’ll be right again, I promise. We’ll get the good out. We’ll... I shan’t fail like mother did. I’ll fix you, I’ll fix you, I’ll fix you, I’ll--” Lena stares into his eyes, her own the same as his. She twitches, her laughter sitting in the back of her throat, drumming away as she combed fingers through his hair. “Shhh, shhh, I’ll make you right again. I’ll make us right again. Together forever, just like we promised... together... always... forever.”

Lena stands, pushing him down into the bodies of his loved ones as she goes. He falls onto Naomi and he gags, apologizing over and over in his head. She’s sleeping, he tells himself, just sleeping, far away in a better place. Safe from the dark. Safe from any harm. Nobody could hurt her any more.

“I understand, Leon,” Lena begins to sing, “I understand why you left. I’m not angry any more, I promise. I understand now, I understand better. You were... seeking something greater than mother could give. I know, I know. I found it too. The blood... it’s all in the blood. I understand, I understand, I understand. Mother was wrong-- She didn’t see it. Not like you... no... not like you.” She disappears from view further into the room again.

Leon forces himself onto his knees again, his chin pressing into the blood on the ground. He feels it drip from his chin as he holds himself upright, whimpering into the tape across his lips with every attempt at bending his fingers. He needed to get out, to work the knots of the rope and break free, peel the tape from his mouth and spit spells that would set them all free.

But Lena had known, hadn’t she? To break his hands was to break his power. She knew enough to feel safe leaving him in a pool of what should be an unending power, tormenting him with the means of escape just out of his reach. The sound of something heavy dragging along a floor echoes throughout the windowless room and Leon’s fight turns rigid with fear. It’s metal grinding along concrete, like nails upon a chalkboard, cutlery on a dinner plate.

A shiver runs down his spine.

Lena comes back into his view, her back to the bloodbath behind her. She breathes heavy, her body bending this way and that as the strength in her arms doesn’t match the weight of the thing she seeks to bring closer. She stops, moves out of the way, her hands running over their mother’s altar.

Another scream rips out from Leon’s throat.

He’d burned that thing with the rest of them, buried deep within the Blackwood manor. He’d set the house aflame, stood and watched it burn, the corruption rising into the sky within the black smoke that danced on the breeze. He’d waited until every last ember had flickered away, walking through the ruin to make sure he’d killed and rid the world of all the corruption, his family nothing more than a page in history, unchanging and eventually, forgotten.

Why hadn’t it stayed there within the ash?

“I’ll fix you, brother,” Lena tells him again, drawing a ritual knife from a bag set upon the altar. “I’ll fix you. I know how. Mother was wrong, see, she tried to get the goodness out. But no... I know what to do. We have to kill it, kill it kill it kill it.” She turns to beam at him, the smile never quite reaching her eyes. Leon always had always assumed it was down to the fact the woman never knew what happiness was, that she simply copied the action, placed it where she felt it fit to unnerve her victims.

It certainly did that now.

For every step Lena took towards her brother, Leon fought to push back away from her. He fell onto his side, his bound feet kicking at the ground, his frantic movements finding purchase on someone. He didn’t dare check who. He whimpers, every wriggle torturing his shattered hands, the bones rubbing together in pain.

Lena catches up to him, grasps the ropes around his ankles and pulls, dragging him back through the crimson sea. Leon shakes his head, kicks out, fights with all his might, his voice trapped inside his mouth, his pleas for her to stop falling unheard. She gets him to the altar and even from the ground, Leon can see the mess leaking over the sides, dribbling down the black wood and metal his mother was so fond of. His sister lets go of his ankles and Leon returns to the struggle of trying to crawl away when he feels her weight upon his back, her knee digging into his spine.

She hushes and coos, reaching the blade in her hand around to his face. It slips beneath the tape upon his cheek, slicing into the skin as she cuts it free, ripping the gag from his mouth. “Lena, please--” he starts to say, a meager attempt to gain his sister’s attention, to use her love for him to beg her to listen. But she shushes him and sets to work on freeing his damaged hands, cutting away the ropes that held him. She frees his ankles and stands, towering over him more than she ever had in the past. “Lena, you have to listen, I--”

“No.” The woman shakes her head, her head tilting with observation, an intense scrutiny that pierces daggers through his soul. “You will rise,” she hisses, “you will abandon this... this... this useless light you carry! You were the best of us all... You had a fate no one else could have.” Lena stamps a foot, splashing blood all over him and Leon tries not to think about who it had belonged to before Lena had drained them dry. “I wanted it!” she screams, “I wanted to be the one to lead this family to greatness! But you... you took it from me... You and your... your... your heart!”

Lena raises a foot and brings it down on his hands he’d so carefully brought to his chest, cradling the broken limbs as gently as he could. He yelps, rolling onto his stomach to crawl once more when a pain ripples down his back, cold and sharp against his spine, metal piercing his skin. It leaves and Leon gasps, using his elbows now to crawl when another sharp pain runs through the space between his shoulders. “I’ll kill it!” Lena shrieks, “I’ll take it away! I will fix you! We will be together, forever and ever. Always! Just like you said, just like you said!” He rolls over in time to see her raise the knife into the air again.

But he’s too slow, too weak to stop the impact, the blade driven deep into his chest. Leon kicks out in one final effort to fight back, his foot connecting with his sister’s abdomen. She doubles over with another shriek, holding her stomach as she cries.

“I won’t... be a monster, Lena,” Leon wheezes, panic rising so rapidly he swears he’ll never breathe normally again. He digs his elbows into the slick, wet floor, writhing with pain as he moves forward, passing the dead that lay in his wake. “I’ll never become what she wanted. Never.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

Around him, static fills the air. He doesn’t need to glance back to know what she’s doing and there’s a fear that perhaps, she’s right. For the spell that she begins to snarl is one he’s spoken himself over the years, one he changed to suit his needs.

The bodies of his loved ones begin to stir, to twitch and move with a new necrotic life running through them. Someone grabs his ankle, his leg, grasps the back of his shirt and Leon kicks them off, shoves an elbow into the unfortunate soul reanimated behind him, apologizing profoundly in his head. He could promise he’ll make it right, that he’ll lay them to rest once this is all over.

But it’s becoming all the more certain he’ll never make it out alive to see it through.

Helaine grasps his arm, digs broken nails into flesh. Naomi slips an arm around his torso. Violet grabs one leg, Jae clings onto the other. Zeke latches onto his waist. Zoe takes a broken hand in her own and squeezes it tight, the bones within grinding together so painfully Leon yells out. Her fingers do not trace his scars tonight.

And they bury him beneath them, body after body clambering over each other just to hold him still, obeying his sister’s wishes to keep him there. He chokes on every breath, blood and rot tasted on his tongue, in the back of his throat, the smell bringing a sickness up from the pits of his stomach. “It is over, brother. You will rise!” Lena screeches, “there is no other way! I shan’t let you go again, no, no no no. There is no escaping fate. You will lead us, you will rule. You will accept their sacrifice and--”

“No.”

With the weight of those who’d somehow wormed their way into his heart crushing him, Leon smiles. He’d never believed in fate, had never accepted that his story had been written, never to be changed, his choices never his own. He liked to defy the odds, go against the impossible if only to prove them wrong. And if this was to be his end, if this was to be his fate... Well...

Leon returns the grip Zoe has on his hand, forcing his thumb to brush over her cold knuckles despite the pain. “I tried,” he whispers to her, green eyes staring back, lifeless and long lost. “I tried to be a better man. I... I tried.” He shakes his head, blinks back the tears. “I won’t be a monster. I won’t.”

Sucking in a breath, Leon presses his other hand into the ground, flattening his fingers as far as they would go. He feels the bones within snap, feels them bend and protest, pierce through his skin. His palm finds the cold blood, feels it move at his will, his own blood mixing with that of those he’d lost now. Broken or not, for one last spell, it would be enough.

For once, he would be enough.

Forgive me.

The spell come easy, every syllable memorized and repeated in his head over and over for years, kept locked away for a moment such as this. He feels the air crackle with power, hears his sister begin to scream. Through the corpses drowning him, he sees great pillars of red rise. They twist and turn into something monstrous, long and sharp and they curl inwards towards the heap he’s buried within. He aims for his heart, for his lungs and his throat. He aims for every part of him.

He aims to leave nothing behind.

And Leon closes his eyes.

It’s to agony he awakes, writhing upon the kitchen floor. He coughs violently, clutching his torso as he wheezes, dragging air into his lungs. He spits up red, splattering the titles as he rolls onto all fours, mouthful after mouthful leaving his body.

It pools beneath him, the bodies of his friends reflected in the crimson.

And he cries.

#event: house of horrors #; para #blood tw /#death tw /#gore tw /#abuse tw /#violence tw /#uhhh i dont think ive missed anything but #YEAH ANYWAYS

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astxlphe · 7 years

Text

Bow before the dead

For the DGM Fanworks Initiative.

War; Hardship; Violence

(I’m late again. I didn’t have time to finish it yesterday)

Summary: Komui lives through the war. His family doesn’t. Character death (a lot), nothing graphic though. Just a small mention of decapitation and dismemberment, again, not graphic.

The first time Komui was confronted with the death of an exorcist, it hit him harder than he expected. He was used to death. He had read every thing he could about the children who died from the experimentation, and he had seen dead finders every day since he joined the Order.

Reading and seeing were vastly different things. The exorcist had been a fifteen years old girl, Susan, the daughter of one of Reever’s subordinates.

The accusing look he received when they came back with her body, torn and bloody, her parasitic type Innocence mercilessly ripped from her chest, would stay with him until the end of his life. He had been the one who sent her, the one who chose her mission and who decided she was qualified enough for it. Strong enough.

He had been wrong.

Her father resigned the next day, and they never heard of him again, but Komui would never be able to erase his eyes from his mind. They followed him everywhere, even in his nightmares, and yet he couldn’t find it in himself to blame him for his rising stress and sleepless nights.

He held Lenalee close as she cried for her fellow exorcist, and wondered if one day it would be her turn.

———

He spent way more time studying potential mission than he used too, staying up all night drinking coffee and making sure it was the right choice, that Tina didn’t risk severe injuries in this particular mission, that Kanda wouldn’t have to use too much of his regenerative abilities. He tinkered for hours after sunset, making better golems and better barriers because the finders needed them to stay alive.

Paperwork cluttered his desk, but he didn’t care. Signatures weren’t more important than preserving human lives.

———

Every day, he assigned a new team to a new location and waited for them to send their reports or find Innocence and hopefully come home alive.

Every day, there were some that never did.

He looked down as the empty coffins. There were no bodies to burn, the latest casualties having been turned to dust by Akuma.

He could do nothing but close his eyes and tilt his body forward, thanking them for their sacrifice.

And then he went back to his office to riffle through files and select a team for the next mission.

———

The two new exorcists weren’t found; they came to the Order by themselves.

Lavi and Bookman came in at a bad time, there had been a huge battle and many lives had been lost, and they weren’t exactly allies. They wouldn’t even know they existed if they hadn’t decided to come. They were there only to record, and it was by pure luck they had chosen their side.

Still, Komui welcomed them, and first sent them to the Head Nurse for a physical check up. He needed to know everything he could to make sure that their new not-exactly-allies would survive, and decided not to think too much about why the Innocence didn’t make them Fall if they weren’t really on its side.

Lavi was around Kanda’s age, and Komui smiled at their antics. Daisya immediately took a liking to the redhead, and while Kanda didn’t like the boys’ carefree attitude, Lenalee thought their relationship was funny.

It was nice to see her bonding with people her age — even if they were boys — but it still saddened him to think that those four were children.

It shouldn’t be up to them to save the world.

———

He didn’t really know what to expect of Cross’ apprentice of three years, but it certainly wasn’t a skinny fifteen year old. Cross was never one to care about people, so why would he even take an apprentice? Maybe his cursed eye had made him interesting for the General…

Still, it looked like that the only new exorcists were children, lately. And parasitic type one. He would have to study him carefully before sending him on any mission.

He spent the night reviewing Timcanpy’s records as well as what he knew about his arm and deciding who would be Allen’s partner for his first mission.

He had a new family member to keep safe.

———

“From General Tiedoll’s unit: Daisya Barry. From General Sokaro’s unit: Kazaana Reed, Chalker Laboun. From General Cloud’s unit: Tina Spark, Gwen Flail, Sol Garen. A total of 6 exorcists, all dead. Including the finders, it’s a total of 148 death confirmed.”

They hadn’t suffered such a loss in years.

Komui listened to Reever’s list of names, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he hadn’t been good enough.

As always, he bowed, thanked them, and welcomed them home.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it — about those families who would never know their relatives were dead, about his men who were losing hope. He needed to think about victory, but he wouldn’t forget that he had failed them.

He didn’t dream about the eyes anymore. Instead, he saw his family dying and it was his fault.

It wouldn’t stop him; he wouldn’t let it. He needed to keep working, to keep the Science Section busy making better equipment.

He wouldn’t fail them again.

———

The weeks following team Cross’ departure from China had been exhausting. Allen had died, but survived thanks to his Innocence — if anyone had told him he would one day thank the Innocence for anything, he would have called them insane. A Level 3 informed them that the other exorcists had reached Japan, and that was everything they knew. It wasn’t exactly reassuring, but after days without news from both teams, they were thankful that they were even alive.

And then they came home.

All of them, including Cross. It was a miracle.

Of course, things couldn’t stay joyful forever, because as soon as they were settled in the infirmary, Central decided to poke their self-righteous nose into the Ark incident.

He felt dread settle inside him as he realized that, once again, his exorcists weren’t threatened by Noah or Akuma, but by the Order itself.

Lenalee had fallen into Leverrier’s hands once. He wouldn’t let that man get his sticky fingers on anyone else.

After all those years as Supervisor, the exorcists’ well being was one of his priorities. It was like a mantra running around his head, motivating him to be better, more efficient.

Keep them as safe as possible. Keep them alive. Make sure they can always come home.

He had come to the Order looking for his only family and found himself with the responsibility of a bigger one. He couldn’t allow himself to let them down.

———

Komui hated being so weak.

He could do nothing but watch as a Level 4 slaughtered scientists and finders. The barriers he had made and improved so the finders could protect themselves and fight against Akuma had been useless.

He had to watch has his men’s blood splattered, as their heads were torn off, as an Akuma invaded their home bringing death and destruction with it.

Dozens of dead and even more wounded, Headquarters in ruins, their numbers so reduced that they would need to bring scientists from different branches, because Komui had failed again.

Lenalee once again bound to something she hated. Allen, unconscious, controlled by his own Innocence. All the exorcists had suffered some wounds. It should have been their safe place to rest between battles.

But no, everything had been destroyed and Komui had been unable to do anything. It seemed like the only thing he was good at was, as usual, bow before the dead and thank them for their hard work.

———

He had thought things were bad before, but they went even more downhill after that. They had to move to a new Headquarter. Allen was the 14th’s vessel. Cross was gone, probably dead. Allen wanted them to kill him if the Noah took over. Every day brought its new package of bad news and Komui wasn’t sure how he could still keep the cheerful facade up, but he did.

They were all tired, irritated, frustrated, and Central’s constant presence in their new home only made things worse. Link wasn’t a bad guy, but he worked for Leverrier, and Komui couldn’t trust anyone working for Leverrier.

Of course, to make things even worse, the Order had dropped to a new low by not only recruiting a nine year old but also by starting human experimentation again.

It was like they hadn’t learned their lesson nine years ago. Whatever the Epsteins had been doing, it would inevitably end in a tragedy.

———

His and Bak’s prediction had been right, and Komui had been once again powerless. They had lost Kanda, Bookman and Lavi, Allen was in prison and half the exorcists were stuck in the infirmary.

Keep them alive, his mind supplied. Keep them as safe as possible. Always welcome them home.

He couldn’t afford to break down, even when Allen was declared a traitor. The exorcists needed him, so he smiled and took break from work to play chess with Timothy and make cute golems and Komurins. He was too exhausted to enjoy it, but he couldn’t let them now. He was their fixed point; the person waiting for them at home with a hug and a smile on his face; they couldn’t see him fail.

———

He sent General Tiedoll with Miranda and Krory in Russia. There were rumors of Innocence, and Akuma were gathering in a small city.

They came back with God’s crystal, and Miranda’s funerals were held the next day.

The Supervisor gritted his teeth and tried not to cry as he held Lenalee against him.

He needed to be better.

———

Komui’s current exhaustion didn’t matter; the war wouldn’t wait for him to rest. So he ignored his need for sleep, drank coffee, and worked. The exorcists and finders needed better, stronger weapons and only the Science Section could provide.

“Keep them alive,” he muttered to himself, bent over calculations.

He ignored the strange look he got. He ignored the whispers born from the differences between the man and the rumors. People always said he was lazy, constantly sleeping, always joking and never working. Yet it didn’t seem to match Komui anymore.

It wasn’t that much of a surprise. War changed people, and even though he had been leading the European Branch for almost a decade, the past year had seemed to go faster than any other.

It was like they were at a critical point and everything was currently being determined. People were anxious, scrambling to put things back together and trying to gain some advantage.

Nobody was fooled, though. They never had any advantage and gaining some was unlikely.

All they could do was to try their best, and thanks those who sacrificed themselves for a war they had no hope of winning.

———

Allen had been seen somewhere in Europe. He sent Kanda, now General, along with Lenalee and Marie. They came back with a seriously injured Kanda and reports of silver eyes turning gold.

The Order didn’t organize funerals for traitors, but it didn’t stop them from mourning.

———

It was Komui’s responsibility to take care of everyone. To keep them from breaking. His cheerful face, eccentricities and usual antics didn’t make anyone smile or roll their eyes anymore.

Lenalee started to tell people to keep walking forward. Those who were desperate, who wanted something to cling on, to give them hope, listened.

Timothy wasn’t doing well either. He was way too young for this, and the others did their best to keep him happy. But Allen was gone, and Miranda dead, and Lavi missing, and he was starting to understand war better than ever. He tried to be strong, but they knew it was hard on the ten year old.

Komui’s heart broke a bit more when Timothy stopped crying. He just stared blankly as Cloud’s body was cremated.

Komui wished he could do more for those children.

———

The dead kept piling up.

The Noah twins killed Krory. He took them down with him, but it was only a small consolation.

A week later Sheryl Kamelot defeated General Sokaro. Thankfully, Timothy, on a mission with the General, survived. He was harshly interrogated by Leverrier, and revealed that the Fourteenth, Cross by his side, stepped in and messily dismembered the Noah of Desire.

The boy was never the same again. His eyes were haunted in a way that was almost painful to look at, and Komui spent hours helping him fall asleep without nightmares.

He went to the chapel and bowed in front of the coffins waiting to be burned, thanking them for their efforts and promising again that he wouldn’t fail next time.

He wasn’t sure he could do it, but he had to try.

———

The extermination of the Noah Clan had started again. It was like the Fourteenth and Cross knew exactly where each mission took place and made a point of showing up. It was probably Link. The CROW had been seen with them several times, despite all evidence of him being dead.

Of course, the dead didn’t always stay that way.

———

After the Fourteenth and his allies started to kill the Noahs, things went even faster. They also regularly made a polite conversation with an exorcist to update them on the situation or, more precisely, on the always rising number of dead Noahs.

Considering him an ally was a mistake Komui wasn’t willing to make, despite Leverrier’s attempts to convince him otherwise. The Inspector believed he could control the Fourteenth despite Cross’ presence, that he would only attack other Noahs.

Kanda had to die before the man realized no one could control him.

He had promised Allen to kill the Fourteenth, and he never stopped trying. He was killed and Mûgen shattered by the traitor of the Noah Clan.

Logic told Komui he wasn’t at fault. When it came to the exorcists, Komui had stopped listening to logic and started praying.

(He didn’t like relying on God but he was desperate. He tried to reassure the exorcists, it felt fake and they knew he was broken too.)

———

Between the Fourteenth and what was left of the exorcists, there were maybe four Noahs left, including the Earl.

He found an old file in his office and looked through it before letting out a bitter laugh. He wished missions were still about finding Innocence and the Heart.

 It was like both side had realized what kind of shitty situation there were in and were trying to kill each other off as quickly as possible, while the Fourteenth got rid any exorcist hindering him on his path towards the Noah Clan’s destruction.

They had lost Chao Ji and General Tiedoll because of him. The former General, Marian Cross, seemed to be an exception to his disdain for humans, but Komui had no idea how long it would last. Link hadn’t been seen for a while now, and people thought the Fourteenth had gotten rid of him.

They had three exorcists left, not including Lavi and Bookman, who had been declared dead. Sometimes, during wars, people just disappeared and were never heard of again. They had their own, empty graves next to they comrades’, and Komui regularly visited them to apologize. He didn’t promise to be better anymore; he knew he would never be.

“Don’t stop.” he whispered to an empty room. “Keep walking forward.”

He wanted to remember what it felt like to have hope.

———

The Earl and what was left of the Noah Clan were dead, and the remaining exorcists came back.

Komui bowed deeply in front of the three black coffins. The war was over; he didn’t need to pretend anymore. He was allowed to break down and cry.

He couldn’t. He felt empty. Dead inside.

‘Thank you for your hard work,’ he managed to say, his eyes burning but still dry. ‘And welcome home.’

———

There was a note on his desk with an address on it, with the words “just in case you want to see them”.

The note took him to a church in the countryside. An old woman took one look at him and sent him toward the small graveyard, where the Fourteenth was sitting, facing a bunch tombstones.

“What happened?“ Komui asked.

“Mana killed Cross,’ the Fourteenth answered. “I killed Al and Mana.”

The Order didn’t hold funeral for traitors and deserters, so the Fourteenth did.

(Still, Komui couldn’t look at him, not when he had killed exorcists and wore the face of a family member.)

“Mana?”

“The Earl, my brother. We were family, all four of us. Then Mana went crazy. I had to save him. I had to kill him, I didn’t want Al to die but—”

Komui just nodded.

“We still won,” the Fourteenth added. “I should be happy. We won.”

“It doesn’t feel that way.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

———

The Fourteenth gave him a tight smile and left, and Komui could’ve sworn there were tears on his face. He never saw him again.

The war was won but everything else was lost.

#dgmfanworks2k17 #dgm #d gray-man #komui lee #black order #exorcists #noah clan #the fourteenth #character death #a lot of them #well that was morbid #loony's writing

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cosmicdvst · 7 years

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❝ L eave me at the road side and hang me up and out to dry ❞

He’s not sure where he is anymore; he’d driven relentlessly. Driven for hours with a frenzied feeling pumping at his gas, chasing him down concrete roads that had long since dissolved at the mouth of a gaping desert—red, dusty and hollow red.

It’d been three months since he’d received the news; Kerberos mission lost, pilot error, dead. It’d been three months since he’d assaulted the Galaxy Garrison’s central office in response, demanding answers—he couldn’t accept it, wouldn’t accept it. He’d known Shiro, had been witness to his ability and promise, had therein known that the possibility of a pilot error was every piece absurd… and even if he’d dared to entertain the thought, why the hell weren’t they out looking for him? When they’d commissioned him to begin with?

It’d been three months since the appointed head of the institution had ordered him out, quite literally dragging him from the premises in a kicking and cursing mess, volatile like fizzling acids bubbling from their beacons in consequence to a mounting heat. It’d been three months since they’d reminded him that he was absolutely nothing special. A prodigy sure, but in time replaceable. Replaceable with something tuned to taking orders, someone conditioned to respect and maintaining model behavior, someone overall better, appealing, whole, and pristine. Stark opposites too what he was, what the world had dictated him as; lacking, disinteresting, broken, and ruined. An orphan with little promise when coupled with his temperance and bite. An orphan far too wise to the truths of existence to fall prey to the false enchantments offered by life’s fleeting moments and bribes.

Truths of existence. That’s what he felt that he was half the time—truths that no one wanted to acknowledge.

The truth that he was now was found sprawled on his back against a sandy tomb in the midst of nowhere, gazing up bitterly at a nighttime sky he’d once loved so dearly. A sky that had personified his dreams in its cosmic folds, an infinite realm adorned with bursting stars that breathed in vivid colors and exhaled opportunity just as infinite as space itself. A sky that now glowed back treacherously and empty, that last feeling striking past the boundary separating earth and a seeming heaven. An emptiness that rushed forward with the weight and shape of an asteroid as it seared the atmosphere and crashed against his chest. It ravaged skin and split it open, it’d broken ribs, splintered bones, and exploded in a suffocating sensation at his core. It nestled inside, erupting in waves of a corrosive heat that manifested along the plains of his aching body; shaking limbs, conjuring fists, and gritting teeth before slowly subsiding to a numbing silence, subduing his natural fires altogether.

He was so empty now. He’d done his run with anger and he’d courted it in a way that only he’d known how for years—it’s what he was, after all. What he best understood: molten anger. A language spoken in striking fists, cutting looks, set jaws, mapped bruises, and bloody ends. It’d helped him survive, saw him through so much, and above all, it cushioned the more painful blows of feelings he’d attempted to gut from his chest with the sharp edges of knives and blunt carvings of fingertips. It was his defense against a world that sought to wear him down, his only motive and fuel… and now, it was gone.

Gone like everyone else.

The Kerberos mission falls heavier, feels larger, because it’s not just Shiro’s he’s lost—it’s everyone. His mother, his father, his family, and his friends back at the group home. Everyone… gone.

His breath shudders and his fingers dig into the ground beneath his leathered palms. Nails bleed under the pressure of biting sand and bits of dry dirt. The surrounding night envelopes him in a cold that makes him shiver with its clawing breeze, turns paling skin to deathly ice. He doesn’t care. Why the hell should he care?

You’re nothing special.

You’re lucky to even have a last name.

Cursed words swim through his mind as he closes his eyes, attempting to steady his breathing in the wake of this mess—he can feel hideous and liquid things boil at his throat and sear at the corners of his eyes: tears. He wants to incinerate them because he doesn’t want them. He doesn’t want to submit to them because they’re so useless, they’ve never once done a thing for him, they never will—tears, tears, just go away. Nevertheless, despite his naive hoping and pushing, they resonate inevitable. How long could he hold back the storm that had had years to brew and gather momentum? A storm that now wiped and raged with this last impossible weight of a loss, feeding into clouds that hung ashy and thick? A storm that demanded its fall and presence, a storm that clutched at the edges of this emptiness and forced itself up to reach through into reality, to stain and to bleed a stubbornly violet gaze.

All too suddenly it’s apparent that he’s never once been a simple fire. He’s not some forest rage lashing at whatever came into his way, destroying without cause and simply sparking in mindless flickers. He’s volcanic. There’s magma like blood running through the roads of his veins, burrowed in deep like the heat at the heart of this planet, intrinsic and natural to his physiology. Magma that simmers up at the faults, the fallouts, and triggers. Magma that gathers and builds and morphs into something grand and threatening, like now. Magma that conceives that storm and it’s obvious that those clouds don’t weigh in rain, it’s all fire. It’s liquid fire. It’s lava that finally bursts through to the surface at the intolerable pressure, and it’s done. It snaps and roars and explodes and he erupts.

The tears stream down his cheeks as he chokes on a gasp. His hearts pounding to the strain. He’s powerless… and so he cries.

He cries. He cries. He cries.

He cries because he’s empty, he’s alone, he’s nothing. He’s an orphaned boy stranded in the middle of a desert at eighteen, and oh god, he’s already eighteen but he’s also only eighteen and no one cares. He’s got no discernable future and no discernable past. He’s as lifeless as this desert, he’s as vacant, he’s as hollow, and he’s as red.

The sky watches in a cold apathy as his breath tangles, as the tears burn, as they scar at his cheeks and cut down the edge of his jaw. Divinity ignores as he lifts a single and dirtied palm up and out to its nebulous depths, pleading now. He’s pleading for resolution, for absolution, for hope. He’s begging the stars but they refuse to bleed.

They refuse him like everything else.

His lungs burn as his sobs tear faster, louder past the tunnel of his throat. His eyes sting and blur with the bitter reality that further serves to steal his breath, that mounts on shaking shoulders and smothers him into the dirt, and for the first time since he was seven he lets it. He lets it because this was all by his design to begin with, he’d landed himself here, he’d given his demons this opening by loving something that could die. A fatal lesson that he’d thought he’d learned by now… let this moment teach and seal, then, let it be the last.

He turns onto all fours, grime and dirt clinging onto his jacket and clumping into wild and dark hair. He’s gritting his teeth against the pains running rampart through his chest, shredding up to his eyes and ringing them for all their worth, spilling onto dusty earth and scaring it with the tangibility of his hurt. A hand pressed against the flat of the ground curls into a tight fist as he struggles through desperate breaths, and just because he’s in the middle of this spiel, just because he’s already cracked and scattered pieces on this floor, strewing his gore along desert dust, he leans forward as if to kiss salted earth. He leans forward and opens his mouth around a scream.

It’s raw and it’s loud and it resounds in a withheld agony. It’s piercing, it’s like razors spilling from his throat, and he can taste the acrid dirt on wet lips, but that doesn’t stop him—he’s screaming his anthem to the sky, to the ground, to this empty space that’s his throne and kingdom.

And as his damning voice fills the desert, serenades the moon and stars, there’s an accompanying roar. A roar like a lions, synergizing his own. There’s a sudden pulse to the ground that forces him to still in a gasp, eyes widening in their puffy and red rimmed mess. The blade secured to his back burns, heat sinking past the sheath and his clothes, thrumming with the same beat of life that so suddenly fills the once listless land.

He’s pushing himself up now in quick motions, standing on shaking limbs and staggering as he looks around with heavy breaths—what is that?

And as nature dictates, lava that flows out from an eruption eventually cools, turns to glinting and sharp obsidian.

#( wo w ok so this is a snippet of how i personally had my keith deal with the kerberos mission.... )#( snippet i say as this shit is a little over 1.5k )#( this is honestly more of me going into his overall issues a bit.... and being totally extra af lmao )#( ★ :: ► drabbles; ❝a traveler of all time & space.❞ ◄ :: ★ )

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readnowsleeplater · 7 years

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The Glass Arrow

FTC disclosure: I received this book free from the publisher for promotional consideration.

Hi everyone! I just received a copy of Kristen Simmons's standalone novel, THE GLASS ARROW. I haven't had a chance to read it yet, but I'd love to share some info about the book, an excerpt, and a Q&A with the author for those of you interested in reading this.

The Glass Arrow

Kristen Simmons Tor Teen, 2015 (paperback edition 2015)

Once there was a time when men and women lived as equals, when girls were valued, and women could belong only to themselves. But that was ten generations ago. Now women are property, to be sold and owned and bred, while a strict census keeps their numbers manageable and under control. The best any girl can hope for is to end up as some man’s forever wife, but most are simply sold and resold until they’re all used up. Only in the wilderness, away from the city, can true freedom be found. Aya has spent her whole life in the mountains, looking out for her family and hiding from the world, until the day the Trackers finally catch her. Stolen from her home, and being groomed for auction, Aya is desperate to escape her fate and return to her family, but her only allies are a loyal wolf she’s raised from a pup and a strange mute boy who may be her best hope for freedom. . . if she can truly trust him.

Excerpt

“Run, Aya! I feel them! They’re coming!” I know a moment later what she means. The horses’ hooves are striking the ground, vibrating the gravel beneath my knees. I look to the brush beside us and quickly consider dragging Metea into it, but the horses are too close. If I’m going to save myself I don’t have time. “Get up!” I am crying now. The salty tears blend with my sweat and burn my eyes. “Leave me.” “No!” Even as I say it I’m rising, hooking my arms beneath hers, pulling her back against my chest. But she’s dead weight and I collapse. She rolls limply to one side. I kiss her cheek, and hope she knows that I love her. I will sing Bian’s soul to the next life. I will sing her soul there too, because she surely is doomed to his same fate. “Run,” she says one last time, and I release her. I sprint due north, the opposite direction from the cave where I hope Salma has hidden the twins. I run as hard and as fast as I can, fueled by fear and hatred. My feet barely graze the ground for long enough to propel me forward, but still I can feel the earth tremble beneath them. The Trackers are coming closer. The Magnate is right on my heels. I dodge in my zigzag pattern. I spin around the pine trees and barely feel the gray bark as it nicks my arms and legs. My hide pants rip near the knee when I cut too close to a sharp rock, and I know that it’s taken a hunk of my skin, too. No time to check the damage, no time for pain. I hurdle over a stream-bed and continue to run. A break in the noise behind me, and I make the mistake that will cost me my freedom. I look back. They are close. So much closer than I thought. Two horses have jumped the creek. They are back on the bank now, twenty paces behind me. I catch a glimpse of the tattered clothes of the Trackers, and their lanky, rented geldings, frothing at the bit. The faces of the Virulent are ashy, scarred, and starved. Not just for food, but for income. They see me as a paycheck. I’ve got a credit sign tattooed across my back. I run again, forcing my cramping muscles to push harder. Suddenly, a crack pierces the air, and something metal—first cold, then shockingly hot—winds around my right calf. I cannot hold back the scream this time as I crash to the ground. The wire contracts, cutting through the skin and into the flesh and muscle of my leg. The heat turns electric, and soon it is shocking me, sending volts of lightning up through my hips, vibrating my insides. My whole body begins to thrash wildly, and I’m powerless to hold still. The pressure squeezes my lungs and I can’t swallow. I start to pant; it is all I can do to get enough air. A net shoots out over me. I can see it even through my quaking vision. My seizing arms become instantly tangled. “Release the wire! Release it!” orders a strident male voice. A second later, the wire retracts its hold, and I gasp. The blood from my leg pools over the skin and soaks the dirt below. But I know I have no time to rest. I must push forward. To avoid the meat market, to keep my family safe, I must get away. I begin to crawl, one elbow digging into the dirt, then the next. Fingers clawing into the mossy ground, dragging my useless leg. But my body is a corpse, and I cannot revive it. Mother Hawk, I pray, please give me wings. But my prayers are too late. My voice is only a trembling whisper, but I sing. For Bian and for Metea. I sing as I push onward, the tears streaming from my eyes. I must try to set their souls free while I can. Out of the corner of my eye I see the boney fetlocks of a chestnut horse. The smooth cartilage of his hooves is cracked. This must be a rental—the animal hasn’t even been shod. An instant later, black boots land on the ground beside my face. Tracker boots. I can hear the bay of the hounds now. The stupid mutts have found me last, even after the horses and the humans. I keep trying to crawl away. My shirt is soaked by sweat and blood, some mine, some Metea’s. It drips on the ground. I bare my teeth, and swallow back the harsh copper liquid that is oozing into my mouth from a bite on the inside of my cheek. I am yelling, struggling against my failing body, summoning the strength to escape. “Exciting, isn’t it boys?” I hear a man say. The same one who ordered the release of the wire. He kneels on the ground and I notice he’s wearing fine linen pants and a collared shirt with a tie. If only I had the power to choke him with it. At least that would be vengeance for one death today. His face is smooth and creaseless, but there’s no fancy surgery to de-age his eyes. He’s at least fifty. He’s wearing a symbol on his breast pocket. A red bird in flight. A cardinal. Bian has told me this is the symbol for the city of Glasscaster, the capitol. This must be where he plans on taking me. He’s ripping the net away, and for a moment I think he’s freeing me, he’s letting me go. But this is ridiculous. I’m who he wants. Then, as though I’m an animal, he weaves his uncalloused, unblistered fingers into my black, spiraled hair, and jerks my head back so hard that I arch halfway off the ground. I hiss at the burn jolting across my scalp. He points to one of the Trackers, who’s holding a small black box. Thinking this is a gun, I close my eyes and brace for the shot that will end my life. But no shot comes. “Open your eyes, and smile,” the Magnate says. With his other hand he is fixing his wave of stylishly silver hair, which has become ruffled in the chase. I do open my eyes, and I focus through my quaking vision on the black box. I’ve heard Bian talk about these things. Picture boxes. They freeze your image, so that it can be preserved forever. Like a trophy. I’m going to remember this moment forever, too. And I don’t even need his stupid picture box. Excerpted from THE GLASS ARROW © Copyright 2015 by Kristen Simmons. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.

Q&A with Kristen Simmons

Q: Please introduce us to Aya and share some general background on THE GLASS ARROW.

A: Aya has been one of my favorite characters to write. Born into a world where women are endangered, where girls are condemned as breeders and misogyny is the norm, she's learned to adapt and survive by flying under the radar. With her family - a small group of free women - she hides from those who would see her sold into domestic slavery. Aya is tough: she hunts, fishes, defends her family. When she's captured and brought into captivity at the Garden, a training facility for girls, her life is turned upside down. All she can think about is reconnecting to the people she loves, and reclaiming her freedom, but she has to be smart in order to escape, and that may involve trusting a very unlikely ally.

Q: What inspired you to write THE GLASS ARROW?

A: A few stories on the news, and some social issues that seem to continue rising, but mostly my own experience. The transition into high school was difficult for me, as it is for many people. Before that time, I remember feeling like I could do anything, be anyone. I was valued because I was creative, and interesting, and smart, but once I stepped foot into high school, things changed. It didn't matter what kind of person I was; all that was important was if I was wearing the right clothes, or had my hair done the right way. If I was pretty. Boys judged us based on a star system - "She's an eight," they'd say, or "Her face is a nine, but the rest of her is a four." And worse, girls began sharing that same judgment, trying to raise these numbers to be cool, and popular. They'd compare themselves against each other, make it a competition. This, as I quickly learned, was what it meant to be a young woman.

That experience transformed into Aya's existence - her journey from the freedom of the mountains, where she was important for so many reasons, to the Garden, where she is dressed up, and taught to be, above all things, attractive. Where she has to compete against other girls for votes come auction day. On that auction stage, Aya's given a star rating based on her looks, which is what her potential buyers will use to determine their bidding. It bears a direct correlation to my life as a teenager - to the lives of many teenagers.

When it all comes down to it, I wanted to write a story where worth is determined by so much more than the value other people place on your body.

Q: A lot has happened in the "real world" since the novel first came out in 2015. Does it feel surreal looking back at the book now?

A: Ah, I wish it did! Unfortunately, I feel like a lot of these issues are still very, scarily relevant, not just for young women, but all people. It seems like every time I see the news there is another incident of someone being measured by their looks rather than their internal worth, of women being degraded and disrespected, and of advantage being taken of someone's body and mind. It frightens me that these issues persist, but I never claim that THE GLASS ARROW was a look into the future. To me, it was always a way of processing the present.

Q: Congratulations for the surge of attention the book is receiving, thanks to things like the Hulu adaptation of THE HANDMAID'S TALE. What do you want readers to take with them after reading THE GLASS ARROW?

A: Thank you very much! I am delighted by the mention, and honored to be included in the same thought as the great HANDMAID'S TALE. If people do find their way to my book as a response, I hope they take away that they are so much more important than the sometimes superficial and careless values other people assign to them. As Aya says in the book, I hope they know that there are not enough stars in the night sky to measure their worth.

Q: Besides other classics like Margaret Atwood's book, do you have any recommendations for readers wanting to explore more dystopian fiction and speculative fiction works?

A: How about METALTOWN by Kristen Simmons? That's a great dystopian! Or the ARTICLE 5 series, about a world where the Bill of Rights has been replaced by moral law... Ok, ok, I'm sorry. That was shameless. I always recommend LITTLE BROTHER by Cory Doctorow, THE PASSAGE by Justin Cronin, Marie Lu's Legend series, and of course, THE ROAD by Cormac McCarthy. Those are all thrilling, and excellent looks both at the present, and the future.

Q: What are you working on now, and when can readers expect to see your next book?

A: I have two books coming out in 2018, and can't wait to share both of them. PACIFICA will be released March 6, 2018, and is about a world after the polar ice caps have melted, and a pirate girl and the son of the president find themselves in the middle of a building civil war. It's a story largely informed my my great grandmother's internment in World War II. In the fall, I'll have a new series starting. THE PRICE OF ADMISSION, first in the Valhalla Academy books, is about a girl accepted into an elite boarding school for con artists. I hope readers love them both!

Q: Where can readers find you online? A: I'm always available through social media - Twitter and Instagram at @kris10writes, and Facebook at Author.KristenSimmons. I'd love to hear from you! Thanks for taking the time to read this, and remember, you're worth more than all the stars in the night sky.

About the Author

Kristen Simmons is the author of the ARTICLE 5 series (ARTICLE 5, BREAKING POINT, and THREE), THE GLASS ARROW, METALTOWN, PACIFICA (coming March 2018 from Tor Teen), and THE PRICE OF ADMISSION (coming Fall 2018 from Tor Teen). She has a master’s degree in social work and loves red velvet cupcakes. She lives with her family in Cincinnati, Ohio.

#Kristen Simmons #Tor Teen

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