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yandere-wishes · 4 years

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⭐Yandere Joestars⭐

(Parts 1-7 + Bonus Charcter: Joseph and Johnny’s characterizations are based off @dear-yandere ‘s interperations) I tried to write this mostly in the Joestars' POV. Their respective darlings resemble lifelike dolls rather than human beings to further illustrate how out of touch with reality the Jojos have become.

Warnings: Gore, kidnapping, dehumanization.

Edited: By the amazing Peri!! (@tealyjade-libran )

⭐Jonathan Joestar is possessive. ⭐

It's only when you lose something, that you start to cherish it...

It's an old saying, one that Jonathan remembers from an antique storybook his mother use to read him. It didn't mean anything back then, when he was still an infant too young and new, to fully comprehend what "owning" and "losing" was. But as the years ticked by faster than any clock could keep track of, things started to change. What had once been a passing quote in a chivalrous story about knights and dragons, soon turned into the epitome of Jonathan Joestar's life.

Soon love wasn't about saving a princess or impressing the neighborhood girls with his boxing skills. No, all too soon love became about own and guarding.

There may have been a time -long before "Jojo" and Dio met- when Jonathan was just like any other gentleman. Tender and sweet, flirtish at gatherings and charming in ladies' companies...but that was a Jonathan from a could-be-past that had been demolished the minute Dio Brando stepped foot onto the Joestar estate. From then on things depleted all so quickly. Everything Jonathan had come to unconsciously cherished had been so easily stripped from him by his beloved new "brother".

Everything he loved had been killed, destroyed, or broken in some inhuman way. His friends had abandoned him, his lover had distorted him, his father didn't even notice him...

"It's only when you lose something, that you start to cherish it". The second time he hears that phrase, it freezes him to the pavement, his body star-struck like he just received a message from the heavens. Although it's rather peculiar, why "heaven" would convey a message to him in such an unholy place.

With Dio having practically kicked Jonathan out of the mansion and countryside. Jojo had no other place to go but the back allies of London. Sure he still tried to be home for supper and bedtime and any other time his father may get an inkling of his absence. But when there was no need to 'appear' Jonathan took to the London streets away from Dio and his lackeys.

In fate's bizarre game, it's in a backstreet that reeks of days old licker and rotting flesh of paupers that no one has bothered to bury. That Jojo hears that life-defining idiom once more. His dulling sapphire blue eyes follow the mist of those melodious words. Staring until they're practically itching to cut through his sockets and run after those little words. But they stop right before they can leave their eyelets, they stop and stare at the figure that strolls out of the shadows, in such a way, that would make Jojo's father slap him across the face for being "barbarous".

It's luck or fate or maybe even destiny that leads the heir of the Joestar legacy to meet his darling in the slums of England.

"How my heart resonates when I lay my weary eyes on your enchanting face..."

There's an odd sweetness about the naivety that surrounds his little friend. A sort of innocence that comes with not knowing about the hell that he's gone through. It's charming in a moderate way, his darling can't come to despise him if they haven't got a clue who he is. Keeping both his worlds as far apart as possible is really the only option left. Dio and his friends can't hurt his new friend? Lover? Companion? In actuality, Jonathan really doesn't know what you are to him. At first, you're merely a distraction from his crumbling, lonely shell of an existence. A sort of invisible pillar holding up London's bridge before it collapses into the River Thames. Sure he views you as another person, unlike the other noblemen Jonathan has no desire to treat you as anything less than a respectable young lady despite your social statutes.

Dio can have the noblemen and ladies, he can have all of George's affection and favor, Heck Dio can have the whole goddamn world for all Jonathan cares. So long as he has his darling, his sunflower, his only means for living, then he will be content.

Jojo lost everything he once loved, but he swears it to every star in the night sky that'll preserve his darling from the wickedness that runs this cruel world. He'll cherish her while she's still in his arms...

He'll protect her, just like the knights did in the old bedtime stories his mother would tell him.

"...I swear on my honor as a Joestar that I shall never lose you to the likes of anyone, I'll be a true gentleman, a true knight and I'll protect you from any who wishes cause you harm."

⭐Joseph Joestar is Protective and all so patronizing.⭐

Why must Love hurt so much?

It's solitude, pure utter solitude that attracts Joseph to his darling. Oh sure, he must have known them from an earlier time in his life, back when the words Hammon and Ripple just sounded like fancy dessert names. Back when he was still a naive kid wishing on every goddamn star that he could just meet one of his parents for a fraction of a second. Back when life was easy when everything made sense. That's when he first met his darling. Although all so many years ago he probably just thought of them as the little sister he never got a chance of having.

There's a numbness growing inside him now that his life has slipped off its axes, hurling into unknown darkness that plagues him in the form of Pillarmen and red gems.

Everywhere he looks there's a reminder that nothing's going back to the way it used to be. No waking up to Granny Erina's voice calling him down for breakfast, no running around chasing Old Man Speedwagon. Everything is gone, replaced by Lisa Lisa's brutal training and Ceaser's endless taunting.

Day by day nothing changes, but once he looks back every little thing is different. Ruptured and mangled into something unrecognizable.

But then there's his darling. Someone -or rather something- that's still the same. Just like before. Her smile is still the same as ever, bright and cheery as she runs up to him wrapping her arms around his abdomen muttering about how much she missed her "Dear Big Brother".

(Y/N) is a comfort, a familiarity in a strange new world. She's something so frail and vulnerable, not to mention naive. Thrusted into a world where horror writers don't dare venture into. It's so likely that she'd be captured by one of Kar's zombie vampire things or -even worse- charmed by Caesar’s silver tongue.

It's thoughts like these that haunt Joseph at night, keep him up and wandering into her room just to gaze at her sleeping form. He's lucid enough to know how it might look. Like he's the bad guy trying to take advantage of a defenseless little girl. But he can justify his actions, he's her big brother, he has to watch over especially when she's at her most vulnerable. If Ceaser ever tried anything or some vampire freak snatched her away in the dead of night, Joseph would never forgive himself!

But what does he get for all his efforts? What does he get for all his sleepless nights and hours upon hours of worrying? Just a small smile and a fleeting kiss on the cheek. No sincere, "Thank you big brother," or, "You're my hero Joseph!" Nothing, nothing worthwhile anyway.

Now it's a competition, a battle to the death if it has to be -funny how he takes this more seriously than his match against Wamuu.- He's competitive by nature and he's willing to do anything to earn his darling's affection once more. He doesn't care who he has to beat within an inch of their life so long as he can have his darling back in his arms.

There is an aftermath to all of these, once all the fighting has ended and the battle's won. Once Joseph has finally claimed his prize. There's a certain way his darling has to act. She’s got to smile and play the role of the dotting little sister once more. Just so Joseph can justify his actions...

"And your next line is, 'I love you more than anything else big brother Joseph!'...at least I wish it was."

⭐Jotaro Kujo is cold and sadistic.⭐

Never learned how to love...

A lover by Jotaro's book is nothing more than a walking, talking doll. Someone who cooks meals, irons clothes, and kisses him on the cheek before he leaves for the day. Sure they have other uses, in flares of passionate moments, they're something to hold onto, another pair of limbs to get tangled in. Something hot and solid, someone to push down, to weigh his force on.

That's it, that's all there is to it...

A lover and a convenient toy are one of the same.

He knows it's wrong to think about someone that way. To deprive a living thing of all their thoughts and feelings just so it's suitable for him. But at the end of the day who wants to hear idle chatter and gossip or go outside for walks in crowded areas. All too social, it's all so troublesome. All Jotaro wants is a closed-off life, away from the scums of the earth...away from people in general.

It's such an inconvenience to seek out a lover, to hassle through dates and meetups in hopes of finding someone that clicks. Jojo would even go so far as to call it wishful thinking. So it has to be a pure accident that he even meets his darling. They're just someone who gets tangled in with the crusaders. A perfect living perception of 'wrong place, wrong time'. Someone who's life gets blown to bits and shambles just because fate decided to play a cruel joke on them.

And that's what piqued Jotaro's interest. The desperate, depleted look of pain cemented over their face. The sparse dying gleam of determination that blazes within their eyes. Oh, what Jotaro wouldn't do to snuff that little ray of hope. To watch as what little purpose they have is ripped from their arms. What he wouldn't do to see them in pain...

Pain is submission, that's really all Jojo wants. A darling submits, not out of their own free will, but because every little thing they've ever loved has been slaughtered, all that they cherished has been stolen from them.

But it's not enough

It's never enough

Although Jotaro adores the looks of anguish that decorates his lover's face. There's something more satisfying about maltreating them. About leaving marks all over, about leaving bruises that never lose their violet glow. He's claiming his darling, physically and mentally. Not a single day goes that Jotaro doesn't remind his lover who they belong to. From verbal taunts that plague his darling's mind day and night, to punches that break bones leaving them paralyzed on the floor begging for help, to cuts that are just a little too deep to ever heal properly.

Even when his darling is behaving, even when the poor little thing does everything her lover tells her to do, there's still going to be some sort of violence directed at her. Some backhanded remark about how useless they are just because they couldn't follow his mother's recipe. Some sort of blow just for greeting him 'too late'. Trivial things morph into punishments, just for Jotaro's sick amusement.

At his core, Jotaro is an unresponsive man, one with no regard for how others feel. He's distant, it's a trait he can't change. He likes how he does things, how there's no room for slip-ups when it's only him. Even his darling isn't someone he'd consider opening up to. Their opinion of him doesn't matter and their feelings are irrelevant. Most days he's gone until the last possible moment, leaving his darling an endless amount of time to mull over every word and scar.

But here's the catch.

As the clock ticks by, as the nights and days begin to merge into an endless existence, as all hope burns in the pits of hell, darling's mind is also going to stray. Ever so slowly losing its perception of reality.

'Maybe' spiders begin to spin webs of doubt through darling's empty cranium. The isolation begins to bite at her skin like the razor-sharp fangs of frostbite. They start to crave Jotaro's harsh touches, they start to miss the venom-like words. Every insult and slap to the face is welcomed, all the misplaced anger and death threats start to feel like sweet kisses and flowery touches.

Poor darling no longer sees big scary Jotaro as a monster. They've lost the ability to see him for what he truly is.

And what happens when Jotaro does finally come home? Oh, how little (y/n) will ravish in the gut kicks and loathsome words. How she'll take every beating with a sweet sugar-coated smile.

Cause this is her life now. A meaningless existence that revolves around Jotaro and his bleak personality. A life that's only worth living when Jotaro is around.

Is it even a life?

"Yare yare daze you're such a hassle, be glad I keep you around...”

⭐Josuke is obsessive with delusional tendencies.⭐

Maybe I'm the one you'll fall in love with next...

Just like his "father" Joseph, Josuke is stuck in a perpetual state between diaphanous and phantasm.

There's something all too wrong with Morioh nowadays. The narrow streets and verbose buildings have started to feel like a transparent cage. The town has always been small, barely reaching a population of 3,000 despite all the new families that keep moving in.

Nevertheless, everything has dulled, faded, and withered into a monochrome collage. The layers of repetitiveness had finally begun to pick at Joskue's nerves...

And yet somehow, by some diabolical twist of fate. In the mists of the oceans of familiarity, Josuke’s eyes grab onto some shimmering pearl lounged into between the crowd of familiar faces.

Sure he's seen this girl before, but he's never actually seen her. Never stopped to look at the odd way their eyes twinkle like newborn stars or how their skin shimmers with the glow of a thousand suns.

One second is all it took, a fleeting compliment as you passed by Jojo in the peppermint flavored afternoon. Your hair flowing like a tapestry of the galaxy as you disappeared in the crowd of dead pulsars. Not a care in the world, not for him, not for anyone.

Destiny was definitely up to its old cruel tricks again.

He's not stalking. Josuke will swear on his grandfather's grave that he'd never "stalk" a harmless little girl, like some distorted maniac. He just happens to bump into you at the beauty parlor when he's picking up a new brand of hairspray. And it's totally an accident when he meets you out in the abandoned fields! Honest! It's not his fault fate wants the two of you to keep meeting, it's not his fault that you guys are meant to be!

It's not technically a friendship that you two start to build up, it's far from one. Friends don't dream about sugar-filled kisses behind school walls. Or about ice cream that tastes like scandalous touches and candy induced moans. No, Joskue isn't your friend, he NEVER wanted to be your friend. He knows that! He knows what he wants...but with each passing day, he's beginning to doubt that you know that.

He'd never realized he's been so sensitive on you. So entranced by your out of tune voice that muttered rather than spoke. He's seldom been so eager to throw a punch and crack his knuckles on someone's skull, just for saying you looked "lovely today".

Whenever his eyes don't land on you, a rage-filled volcano bubbles in the pit of his gut, uncontrollable anger that festers inside of him, like lava waiting to spill out and burn anyone that wanders too close. His palms itch with the need to hold you, to feel your soft skin rubbing against his.

The jealousy is always there, pricking at his skin like rose thrones. Until they inevitably cut through his flesh and make him lose his composure. He's ready to kick and punch and hurt and kill anyone that comes too close to you, anyone that saunters off their orbit and makes a beeline for you, disturbing the balance of solitude that Josuke so eagerly sets you into.

Sometimes in the dead of night, when the world has finally dozed off, Joskue's mind begins to wonder. He thinks the way he feels about you is the same way an addict feels about his drugs. Maybe to him, you're even more addicting than heroin and ecstasy...and yet he can't quit you, he just doesn't want to quit you. Nothing in this world could compare to your sweet voice that tickles his ear when you lean in, to whisper a secret, or the may your full lips move when you throw another honey-filled insult at him.

He prefers when you're alone when he's the only one you talk to.

Sure there are exceptions like everything in life, although in the end

there's a sort of backhanded irony.

It's those exceptions that are going to hurt him in the.

Josuke trusts his friends, he knows that Okuyasu and Koichi would never do anything to hurt him...

But you're not on that list and to be fair you're surely the only one who can truly hurt him.

You fall for a friend of his. Not him, not the boy that's been driving himself insane just to earn a smile from you, not the boy that let you get away with insulting his hair and poking insults at his look, not him never him, it just can't be him.

"You're like an older brother to me"...Did you wash your mouth with acid before you spat those words at him? Did you intend to lace your words with knives and blades and rubbing alcohol before you stabbed him? It's figurative, sure. But it might as well be literal. No pain, no cut, no punch from any stand would ever hurt so much! You really don't know what you do to him, do you?

"I'm happy for you," it's a lie, blank and simple. Automatic words that he's practiced in the mirror a thousand and one times. He'd rather watch you suffocate on your own blood than in the arms of another man. He'd rather break every bone in your body than watch you kiss one of his friends.

How on earth had he ever come to love you? Someone as cruel and cold. Were you even human? You resembled some ice stand more than a flesh and blood person. HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO HIM.

He really hadn't meant for it to become an addiction, he hadn't meant to get all so used to the crunch of bones beneath his foot, and the bloodied lips quivering, shuttering out apologizes for having the gall to utter your name in his presence. But there's only so much a teenage boy can take, only so much torture that he can bury inside with a moonlight smile.

Addictions really do funny things to semi-sane people, huh?

It's a split-second decision, done in the heat of an all so regular moment. It's just a simple half-hearted punch when you beat him at another videogame. Then another

And another

Then a crack, another and another, and before either of you knew it you're on the floor screaming out in pure agony.

Josuke vows he's not being cruel when he breaks your bones so delicately. He can justify every crack, every fracture. Although it's rather repetitive and in certain cases borderline petty.

Five broken bones on your left leg just for "kissing" your new boyfriend. Your right leg is bent at an angle you're sure it's not meant to be. All because you hugged said new lover before going to class.

Josuke's once liquidy blue eyes that held the softness of clouds have been dulled over by a sort of thick mania. His once soft touch is nothing but nails digging into already bruised tissue. His lips wobbling as stray tears flow past his eyes. Muttering apologies and stuttering curses at both you and himself.

It's not really like his darling can leave after that incident. Josuke is known around town as the boy with a diamond heart. There's no way in hell anyone will believe what he did to you. It's just better, safer, to stick close to him, to swallow the indignities and paint a loving smile over your face when you gaze into his depraved eyes.

It's better to pretend to love him, rather than have another limb broken...

"Come on (Y/N), it's just a little crack. If you promise to give me a tiny kiss I'll let Crazy Diamond fix you right up."

⭐Giorno Giovanna is sneaky and manipulative. ⭐

Sono pazzo di te. Sei la cosa più bella che mi sia mai capitata...

There's a sleekness to Giorno, a cunning that's hidden behind layers of charisma and charm mimicking that of his birth father's. It's so easy for him to fool his darling into believing that he's a charming prince from a storybook. He's the good guy trying all so damn hard to make his dream a reality. He's admirable, he's noble, he's Giorno Giovana, the golden boy.

It's not like he ever intends to hurt his darling. He'd never dream of laying a hand on them, he's all too familiar with the wounds that come from endless beatings. The bruises and phantom pains, that get worse as the days slip by. He knows real pain, and unlike all so many others on both sides of his family, Giorno doesn't want his lover to experience an uncia of it.

He'd never repeat what his stepfather and mother did to him. He's going to try and do everything he can to make sure that his darling is safe...

Because isn't that what's important? To make sure the one you love is safe. To make sure they don't get swept off their feet by some masquerading drunkard or taken advantage of by some fanciful sadist.

Giorno will do anything to keep his darling safe, even if it means tampering with their mind a little. Nothing too serious, he'd never even considered changing anything about them. Although isolating them isn't completely off the table and a few verbal threats are fine from time to time. Just for precaution...

Giorno is a rather determined boy, he'll go to any lengths to isolate his lover. Scaring away friends by letting Gold Experience give them a small out of body experience. If they're persistent then he can't guarantee that that out-of-body experience will simply remain an experience much longer. It's not out of malice, but it's what must be done for the sake of his darling, the only other thing he cares about.

There's a shift, a difference between the young naive Giorno Giovanna, the golden boy with starry eyes, and the new boss of Passione, the Mafioso who holds the whole country in the palm of his hand.

Oh sure, as a simple Soldato Giorno was dangerous in his own right. But Don Giorno? He's the sort of monster written about in the grimmest fairy tales. Wearing the appearance of a true king but underneath the luxury suits and priceless watches, he's just another greedy, fire-breathing dragon.

As the Don of Italy's most influential gang, Giorno's manipulation tactics have gotten rather ....hazardous. He doesn't have time to waste getting rid of every single person that poses a threat to his darling. If someone looks their way, he'll send some goons to take care of them.

Although it's so much easier to keep his lover locked away, he even has the perfect excuse now. He's the head of the mafia, he has all so many enemies who jump at the opportunity to hurt him in some way. So he has to keep his defenseless little lover locked away in some mansion that's all so far away.

He's also a bit more violent now. Giorno's more physical, ready to break a bone just for a wrong word or a cracked jaw from a punch for even asking to go outside. He blames it on the stress of running an organization...although it's more likely that all the power from passion has begun to rinse away Giorno's caring side.

"Cuore mio, Resta con me per sempre"

⭐Jolyne Kujo is clingy and obsessive and delusional.⭐

I can't stay away from you...

Jolyne is a rather condescending yandere. Her rough ragged exterior does little to hide the clingy neediness that writhes inside her shattered heart.

She's soft, dependent, desperate at best. Wanting her darling to approve of every tiny trifling thing she does. Needing their words of praise and approving smiles to have the courage to live another day.

At times it seems like the only thing keeping Jojo alive is the "good girl!" and "I'm proud of you!" her darling throws her way. Chanting the words of praise with closed eyes and fluttering smiles of anxiety.

It's difficult to make her sweetheart realize how virulent this relationship is, far too hard to call Jolyne a Yandere. The derogatory term applies to someone who ceases all control from their lover, who locks them in a basement, and throws away the key. It applies to murders and

stalkers and lunatics that roam the streets in the dead of full moon nights. It applies to those who were thrown into Green Dolphin for a reason.

Not to some girl whose life has been demolished over and over and over again.

Not to the girl with a star birthmark that follows her darling around like a lost puppy in the freezing rain.

But even Jolyn has her limits. She's been let down time and time again, abandoned and framed by those she thought she loved unconditionally. From friends to boyfriends to even her own father, everyone leaves, they take what they want, and then they leave.

Flesh like strings, stitched into a web of antithesis and distraught moods, act as a solid, interchangeable reminder of who really holds the power in this relationship. Of how Jolyne can go from needing her darling to controlling her darling in just a fraction of a heartbeat. She loves them, she swears she does...but they need to stay close to her, they need to only think about her.

Her addiction gets worse as the days tick by. It's less romantic, less loving. Morphing into a dependency, a compulsion. Rotting thoughts of her darling suddenly leaving, plague her every waking moment. The once semi pleasant conversations between her lover and her friends, get cut off like a severed limb.

Even Hermes and Foo Fighters aren't "good enough" to be around Jolyne’s lover. She's all so, scared they'll try to take them from her. Stealing the ONLY good thing in her life.

There's a certain degree of control that Jolyne's willing to give to her darling. A sort of freedom to make, revolting appalling choices, so long as they include her. A freedom to boss her around and make her submit. Her darling is free, so long as that freedom revolves around Jolyne.

"(Y/N)~ don't look at them! You should only focus on me! I'm supposed to be your world!"

⭐Johnny Joestar is sadistic and manipulative.⭐

Arrogance disguised as affection...

It's all degradation, all harsh words that sting worse than bullet wounds. Glares from dull wicked blue eyes that might as well kill, cause it's better than the alternative. Smirks that make being alive so damn distasteful. Kisses that engrave the lingering taste of rotting lead into your tongue.

Johnny isn't sweet, he doesn't smile at his little sweetheart. He doesn't pat their head and kiss their temples while uttering sweet nothings into their blushing ear. No, his lover doesn't deserve a honey-coated life. They don't deserve to have what was stolen from him by his so-called "loved ones". Instead, he uses them as a living dart board, for both his acid-laced words and bullet-like fingernails.

There's no love when it comes to Jojo. He doesn't want to waste time on something so frivolous as a "significant other". But he does like having someone -or rather something- to play with, a form of entertainment that bends at his will. Not a pushover, not someone who's too proud either. But a living doll that can take a few verbal spats and survive an armada of fingernail bullets through the stomach.

Oh, sure he wants to break them, having a toy that's so conflicted, that questions their own sanity is so much more fun. But it's the intervals that count. Johnny wants to be the one to break his darling. To engrave the helpless look of distress into his memory. He wants to preserve every scream, every tear. That's the whole purpose of even keeping a darling.

Johnny rarely lets his darling out of his sight. It's so much easier to play with their mind if he's the only one they ever talk to. They'll become so easily dependent on him if he's their only companion. Although sometimes Gyro can get a little too touchy and friendly. And there will be occasions when Hot Pants start to pry into the darling and Jojo's personal life. But the incidents are few and far between. Not like Johnny minds, if anything these minor secondary "meetups" are useful to the paraplegic jockey. They refill his darling with the most precious thing..." Hope". Just so Johnny can beat it out of them all over again.

There's a darkness that resides deep within Johnny. A toxicity that laces his actions. His life is miserable and he's damn well sure it'll always be that way.....

So why not take his lover down with him?

"Don't you love me darlin' ? Cause I certainly don't love ya."

⭐Jorge Joestar is delusional and obsessive.⭐

What if we lost our minds, together?

A love story better than his parents, that's all Jorge wants. Flower field dates, and quick lingering kisses before midnight. Something sweet, that doesn't have a macabre end. A romance without body-snatching vampires and zombies that shed their flesh. Something normal, gentle, lovable.

Although with the family he's been born into and the kind of things that keep finding him. Jorge doubts he's ever going to get such a hopeful love life. He's all so desperate to carve a life for himself outside of his family's shadow, but in the end, it's simply eager wishing.

He's not exactly sure what he's even looking for in a lover. Someone sweet but strong-willed, an average answer. Someone who bears a sort of resemblance to Lisa Lisa. Not physically but rather mentally, he's not a coward, he swears he's not, but he just wants someone who can protect him. A fair exchange in his eyes. His lover will guard him against the bullies and freaks of the island and in turn, he'll protect them from the grim ghouls that run amok through the world. Although when push comes to shove he isn't sure if he'll really be 'protecting' his lover or running away and hiding somewhere with them.

He just wants to fall in love and not go insane, a reasonable request, if he hadn't seen the worst that the world has to offer. It's just wishful thinking, sweet dreams for a boy designed to attract trouble.

He doesn't want to have conversations with his dead lover's head. He doesn't want to wear their skin and waltz around town. He doesn't want any of that creepy, supernatural stuff that destroyed his parent's love.

He just wants normal. But as the years slip by Jorge's grip on "normal" slowly begins to decay.

Normal is something, but what that something is has become a blur. Normal isn't vampires and zombies and ghost clowns that throw nooses around people's necks...Yet on the other hand maybe it is?

He's so far gone that he can't even differentiate between methodical and irregular. His brain's capacity to understand the difference has gotten so altered and broken.

Once he finds his darling he does try to act like the ordinary people of the Canary Islands or England, depending on where he's residing at the time. He tries to follow the mode, just to impress his lover. It's a façade, a bloody masquerade that's bound to deteriorate once he and his lover have settled down.

Although a poetic, domestic life had always been Jorge's dream, he soon comes to learn that it just doesn't suit him. Jorge's paranoia starts to increase. It's comical at first, the way his eyes dart to closed doors, half expecting a killer to emerge. Although the same paranoid tendencies can become rather smothering at times. He's all so certain something is going to jump out of the shadows, some creature with sharp fangs and knife-like claws is going to rip his lover's body to rags.

He's gotten rather umbrageous now that he's the one who's married and living in the Joestar estate. His tendency to run away from any form of conflict has morphed into a rogue-like sense, much similar to a rabid dog barking at anyone who gets too close to its territory. He keeps his darling locked away inside, triple-checking the locks to make sure no one or thing can get in. He avoids the probing disquieting neighbors who still speak ill of his widowed mother and murmurs about the "curses" bestowed on the Joestar bloodline. Sometimes even getting physical when the insults shift towards him and his new lover.

Punches are thrown.

Insults exchanged.

And then the door and windows are locked once more.

Leaving both Jorge and his darling in the chilling company of the semi alive shadows.

It's safer in the basement. It has to be safer down there. After all his mother kept his father's severed head down there for decades before anyone found it. So it's only sensible that his lover will also be safe, tucked away in the darkness of a brick room some few meters under the earth. He's not acting like his mother -and deep down he prays that this isn't something his late father would ever even consider doing- It's a thin line of justification, but he can reason with himself so long as he knows it's not something his other family members have ever done. He does try to keep his darling comfortable down there. Buying them the most luxurious furniture and comfortable bedding. Constantly bringing them new forms of entertainment.

Keeping them in this preserved state is what any reasonable person would do. Not just another insanity driven Joestar.

"It's for your own safety" he's repeated that phrase an umpteenth amount of times, although every time the sculpted words leave his tongue, Jorge becomes less sure of who he's really trying to convince.

Jorge is all so sure that he's doing all of this for both his lover's safety and to erase whatever misfortune follows around the Joestars, like an airy plague. Even his enrolling for the great war is done with this mindset...

Even though in the end it's also this mindset that gets him killed. Leaving his darling a wide window to freedom.

"Darling, what do you think when you look at me?"

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

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hopelikethemoon · 4 years

Text

Moros (Ezra x Reader) || {Moonbeams} || [smut]

Title: Moros Rating: Explicit Length: 3,900 Warnings: Mild angst, pregnant!reader, and light sexual content in the form of masturbation. Notes: Honestly, I think the first half of this is some of the best writing I’ve ever done. Part thirteen of the Moonbeams series.

Taglist: @princessbatears @djarin-junk @absurdthirst @hdlynn @legally-a-bastard @opheliaelysia @heather-lynn @sabinemorans @crazinessgraveyardsandcartoons @pedrospunk @maybege @chews-erotically @katlikeme @lose-eels @youmeanmybrain @theindiealto @irishleesh93 @seawhisperer @hdlynn @demigod-dragonrider-schoolidol @grapemama @roxypeanut @kochamcie @kiwi-the-first @hellomothermoon @soft-fanfics @spacegayofficial @storiesofthefandomloversreblogs @kindablackenedsuperhero @goblinqueen95 @nominalnebula @wheresthewater @letmybabysleep @hayley-the-comet @corrupt-fvcker @i-ship-it-ironically @mrsparknuts @the-feckless-wonder @gamingaquarius @findhimfives

Despite how disparagingly Ezra often spoke of Lykaios — as far as moons went, it was actually beautiful. It had a lush forest, rolling meadows, and at least two seasons.

If that was where you would have to call home for the foreseeable future, you weren’t going to complain. You just had to look past the trio that wanted to hurt you and the semi-feral werewolves that also called it home.

Arcadia, on the other hand, was surreal. Even from above the planet during your descent, you were struck by the planet’s beauty. There were snowcapped mountain peaks, expansive fields cut through by wide rivers that led to the sea, and waterfalls.

It made your heart hurt to think that just beside Lykaios was a planet that had everything Ezra’s heart longed for. How many times had he told you that he missed the sea?

You landed in an open meadow and armed yourself with your stun gun and a long armed blaster loaded with the silverline Shiva had given you. Proctor had made numerous visits to the planet — it couldn’t be that dangerous, right?

Though you did wonder why Sybil didn’t know about it. What was he keeping from her?

You ventured out towards one of the rivers you had spotted from above. There appeared to be an outcropping of rocks that looked similar to lunaxium deposits you had seen on Lykaois. That was the key — you just had to find out whether or not the planet could sustain Ezra’s need. You hesitated to call it an addiction, because he did actually need to take the substance.

But sometimes it reminded you of Ay-7 and the illicit affairs that could be found in the back rooms of popular cantinas. That blissed out, out-of-body look. At least Ezra came down off of it fairly quickly, though you sometimes wondered if he only took enough to bide himself through the discomfort until you were gone.

You trusted Ezra with your life, but you didn’t trust him to not lie about his own life. And maybe that had nothing to do with being a werewolf and everything to do with being a drifter. You had to build up walls to keep yourself safe.

You wore your heart on your sleeve, but you weren’t afraid to do what had to be done.

Sometimes you caught yourself wondering if you would’ve even liked Ezra if you had met him on a prospecting venture. He could be grating at times — especially if he knew more about a topic. He’d go on and on about it until you forgot what had sparked the discussion at first. He hated being wrong, but he was quick to apologize. Plus, you knew he had a long list of dead partners which made you wonder if that would’ve been you too.

It stung to even think of that because you knew what it was like to stare down the barrel of a blaster held by someone you loved. And that was why Alia was never discussed.

But Ezra wasn’t Mars or Alia or anyone else that you had given misplaced emotions to. As irrational as it seemed — Ezra didn’t seem like the type to pretend, even if he was just lonely. He was too brutally honest to mislead you.

You holstered your stun gun on your thigh as you approached the river. It must have rained recently because it had risen up over the edge of the bank, running rapidly downstream towards the sea. The water was a vibrant shade of blue, a mirror reflection of the brilliant sky above and the shiny stones that lined the riverbed.

You knelt down and dipped your fingers into the water, wiggling them in the current as it flowered around them. There were fish — which was a welcome surprise. Lykaois had no major water sources, aside from the occasional shower or snow.

You pulled your fingers out of the water and watched your reflection in the smooth surface of the water. Your face was distorted by the current and the edges bled out into waves of darkness that seemed to sink into the riverbed.

“What the—“ You murmured to yourself as you reached out and dipped your finger into the water, watching as it cut your reflection in two but the darkness seemed to pulse with life.

You stood up abruptly and took a stumbling step away from the riverbank. The darkness seemed to rise up and out of the flow, before fanning out across the ground beneath you.

You scrambled to your feet, spinning around to look for the darkness but it was gone and all that remained was your own shadow.

You grabbed your longarm off your shoulder, aiming it at the ground. “What are you?” You questioned, keeping your finger trained on the trigger.

Your shadow expanded across the ground, growing upwards before it spoke. “I have encountered many mortals who have found their way onto this planet, yet not one that came before you tried to shoot their own shadow.” The rich masculine timbre of the figure’s voice made something quake within you.

“You didn’t answer my question.” You retorted, not letting up on your aim.

The shadowy figure chuckled lowly as it moved beyond your shadow, stepping to the left and shifting into a new shapeless form. “I am only what you make of me. What do you see when you look at me?”

“I see…” You squinted as you tried to focus on the darkness, but every time you thought it came into focus it transformed into something unrecognizable. “I don’t know.”

“A path unset. Fascinating.” The figure stretched out across the ground, before rising upwards and taking on a new form. The darkness was thick and yet you could see straight through it.

“You came here seeking answers,” The voice questioned, turning an accusatory tone towards you. “You think you can defy the verdict of the fates because of love.”

You took a step backwards, glancing behind you towards the river before looking back at the figure. “I didn’t come here to defy anyone. I came here because someone I love was unjustly cursed because of the actions of someone centuries ago. I just want to find somewhere we can go together safely.”

The figure must have noticed the way you unintentionally passed your hand over your stomach.

“A child.” He spoke, moving towards you. “One of the few creatures in the universe that spring up with an unknown future laid out before them. Born innocent, clean… No other offspring have such autonomy. Seedlings sprout up, destined to nourish the earth. Mice are born to feed the snake and hawk. But a baby…” A hand stretched out from the darkness, reaching towards your stomach.

You took a step backwards, teetering on the edge of the riverbank. Trapped between the darkness and the rushing water. “Don’t touch me.”

The voice laughed harshly. “You have already been touched by me. These hands have wrapped themselves around you, around Ezra, and around the star in your belly. Everything that lives has been touched by me.”

The shadow grew, the transparent tendrils knit together into the flowing robes of a physical being. But before you could wrap your head around what you saw the riverbank beneath your feet gave way and you sank into the mud.

You braced yourself to be swept away by the river’s flow, but instead you landed on smooth stone. You opened your eyes, heart beating rapidly as you took in your surroundings.

Grand columns sprang upwards with roots winding around them. The columns shimmered blue like the river stones you had marvelled at. The walls were chiseled out of stone, covered with brilliant murals and intricate designs. Depictions of epic battles and tender moments.

“Hello?” You called out, slowly walking through the cavernous space. Your voice echoed off the stone, rippling through the emptiness like a pebble skimming the surface.

The path you took wound its way towards a narrow corridor. Within the corridor — suspended between the darkness at either end — was a thin red string that was drawn taut.

Something told you not to touch and you heeded that quiet warning. You took a step backwards, despite the desire to step into the corridor and follow the thread.

The darkness seemed to swell, engulfing the thread as the stone wall sealed the narrow passage closed.

“You are steadfast.”

You spun around to face the figure from before. The dark robes billowed out over a transparent shadowy form.

“I have seen the bravest warriors succumb to the temptation of knowing. How quick the threads were cut.” The shadowy figure beckoned you closer and you obeyed. “There is a way to break the curse that has become a plight for the one you love. But it won’t be easy. It won’t be free.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“You don’t.” His voice dripped with amusement. “The one before you — Bernard. He was close. A breath away from knowing the taste of freedom, but there were debts that had to be repaid.”

“Are you the reason he died?”

“No. That was the folly of man. Only a fool thinks he can outrun fate.” The figure traced his tendril like fingers over your forehead. “They tried to pry him from your mind, didn’t they?”

“Yes.”

“But you resisted by sheer power of will.”

“I guess you could say that.”

“I have a proposition for you.”

You arched a brow, “I’ve made a lot of bad deals in my life, but making one with a shadowy figure seems like a mistake.”

“It could be. That’s the beauty of choice. You can walk away now. Or it could be the answer you seek.” The figure told you briskly. “I could untether your beloved from the moon and he could float far beyond your reach…”

“That doesn’t sound like a deal I’m interested in.”

“But how sweet would it be to know that he would still choose your company if he were no longer bound to Lykaois. That’s what you want to know, isn’t it?”

You swallowed thickly, “And what would I have to do?”

The shadow chuckled darkly, “You would have to keep our secret. You would come to me on each departure and do my bidding as I please. Once you have done all that I desire, I will release him from the chains.”

“What about my child?”

The shadow seemed to consider that, “I cannot interfere with a life not yet known. A pity, truly. But perhaps I will feel munificent when we part at last.”

Were you really going to do this?

“So in exchange for Ezra and our baby’s freedom from Lykaois, all I have to do is keep a secret and spend time with you once a month doing what you tell me to do?”

“Indeed. The tasks you find here will not be simple, but you will find yourself better for them. Choice has a way of bolstering mortal morale.”

The dark shape extended its hand to you, “Do we have a deal?”

You hesitated for a mere second, before reaching out to grasp at the hand. Your palm burned, white hot heat searing through the lines in your palm as you sealed your fate.

A beeping sound cut through the darkness swimming in your mind. You opened your eyes slowly, taking in the dim light of your quarters. You were in your bed…

The mechanical whir of your ship’s engine caught your attention.

And the beeping.

“Shit.” You mumbled as you snatched up your datapad and tapped the notification. It took a second for the connection to go through, “I’m so sorry, Ezra… I must’ve fallen asleep.” Had you though?

“I was worried,” He drawled out. “You said you would check in once you got into orbit and that should’ve been… ten hours ago.”

Ten hours?

You clicked off the connection channel and looked at your call log. He’d tried to connect with you a dozen times over the last ten hours.

“I must’ve laid down to rest my eyes and… ten hours?” You rubbed at your eyes as you moved to get out of your bed. “I didn’t mean to worry you, Ezra.”

“Don’t apologize, moonbeam.” Ezra assured you. “I am just relieved to hear your voice. Your condition has changed, it’s expected that you would need to sleep more…”

Ezra continued rambling and you tuned him out momentarily as you made your way to the cockpit to check the systems. There was no trace of your landing on Arcadia.

“Moonbeam?”

“Sorry, sorry!” You told him quietly. “I sat my datapad down to check on the flight path. I didn't intend to fall asleep that long.”

“Are you well, little lamb?”

“Just groggy.” You assured him. “How are you?”

“Better now that I can hear your voice.” Ezra drawled out warmly. “I thought the worst.”

You frowned as you looked at the datapad, “I’m sorry, I really am. I don’t know what happened.”

But the tingling in your palm reminded you of what did happen. The secret you had to keep from him. The choice you made that could’ve been a mistake of epic proportions.

“I can’t say we got much sleep your last night here,” Ezra pointed out with a short laugh. “You were probably fatigued.”

You felt your cheeks warm as you sank back in the jump seat. “I think you’re right. You wore me out, Ezra.”

Silence lingered between the two of you for a moment, before Ezra spoke again, “I miss you.”

“It’s only been half a day.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He retorted smoothly. “The second your ship departs this moon, I feel the ache of your absence.”

“You should try your hand at writing poetry.” You teased, “And then tell me how you pine for me.”

“I do pine for you, moonbeam.” Ezra assured you, his voice like honey and easily melting away your worries. “I sit here in this metal coffin and count the seconds until I’m not alone without you.”

“I’ll be back before you know it.” You reminded him. “I just need to see the medic, handle a few things with Shiva, and then I’ll be on my way back to you.”

“I wish I was there with you.”

“So do I.” You sighed quietly, flipping a switch in the panel before heading into the living area. “Do you want me to bring anything back?”

“Just you.”

You snorted a little as you stretched out on the sofa, “So no food, huh?”

Ezra grumbled, “I wouldn’t say ‘no’ to more honeysticks.”

“That’s what I thought.” You laughed softly, propping the datapad up against your legs. “I can’t imagine you turning down sweets.”

He hummed, “You can always surprise me, moonbeam. I think you know what my tastes are. It’s often difficult to know what I miss when it’s been so long.”

“I’ll see what I can bring back for you.” You assured him, already thinking about what you could track down for him on the Block.

“Where are you in the transport?”

“On the sofa.” You told him, “I go from one soft surface to the next.”

He chuckled heartily, “Still groggy?”

“A little.” You chewed on your bottom lip, “I don’t know if I’m just hyper-aware of my condition or things are starting to change.” It wasn’t much, but you definitely noticed that you felt different and that had nothing to do with what happened on Arcadia.

“Just take care of both of you,” Ezra said with an edge of emotion in his voice that made your heart hurt. “It is still a surreal event to know that I have brought life into this world.”

“Tell me about it.” Your hand went to your stomach. “I still think it’s a dream.”

“A good dream?”

“The circumstances may not be ideal, but it’s still a good dream.” You told him warmly, wishing you could reach out and smooth the worry line between his brows. You could picture him so clearly, that swirling look of concern in his kind eyes. “Have you used your lunaxium today?”

“Yes.” He huffed. “I am fine, little lamb. The beast has been sated for now.”

“I bet the beast misses me too.” You teased.

“You have no idea.”

You blinked slowly as you stared at the datapad. “Oh?”

Ezra chuckled, “You know how the beast feels about you.”

“Do I?”

He groaned, “Don’t be cruel.”

“You’re right.” You said with a put-on mournful tone. “But I’m just laying here on my sofa thinking—”

“That you’re going to drive me mad?” Ezra questioned, breathing heavily. “Fuck. I think about that night whenever we’re apart. Five years I went without feeling another person’s touch and then there was you… I tried to ignore how it felt to have you in my arms — you were injured, you needed my help.”

“I remember laying in your bed and marveling at your book collection.” You mused quietly, listening closely to the raspy sound of Ezra’s breathing on the other side of the com.

“You marveled in my bed.” He retorted, a quiet groan escaping him.

“That’s it, Ezra.” You drawled out, knowing exactly what he was doing right now. “Are you picturing that it’s my hand?”

“Mouth.” His voice cracked.

You smirked to yourself, “Look at you, letting me take care of you.”

He swore under his breath. “I love your mouth.”

“I love your cock.”

Ezra hissed out your name and you knew he’d reached his end. He was quiet, but you could hear his labored breathing as he came down from the high of the moment. “Moonbeam, I—“

“Go to sleep, Ezra.” You told him softly. “You’ve been wound up worrying about me and you should relax.”

“I’m very relaxed right now.”

You laughed softly, “I bet you are.”

“When you get back to the Block, call when you can.” He urged. “I want to know how your appointment goes.”

“I’ll try to call you every night.” You promised him. “Take care of yourself during the full moon.”

“I will.” Ezra sighed softly. “I love you, moonbeam.”

“I love you too.”

“Do you have something to say?” You questioned as you stepped around Shiva to get to the display of hyper cables. “Otherwise that look is starting to creep me out.”

“I have a lot to say.” Shiva retorted, pointing at the white cables, “You’ll want those.” They gave you another lingering look. “Unfortunately the surplus merch doesn’t carry common sense.”

You rolled your eyes as you snatched two of the cables off the rack. “Is this about what I think it's about?”

Shiva lowered their gaze to your stomach, “I clearly don’t know Ezra. A few days camped out on the moon with him and I thought he was the pragmatic sort, but nooo.” They folded their arms across their chest. “You’re really going to keep it?”

You shrugged a shoulder, brushing past them in pursuit sealant tape to repair some of the damage to the hull of Ezra’s transport. “It wasn’t a decision we came to lightly. Ezra wasn’t thrilled at first, but…” You looked back at Shiva. “It’s something we decided together.”

They narrowed their eyes at you and dropped their voice low, “You don’t even know if you’re carrying an actual werewolf.”

Quinn popped his head over the top of the shelving unit, “Did you say you needed the aero rustant?”

“Yeah.” You nodded. “Did you find any?”

“No.” He snapped his fingers, “But I did decide I’m going to call it puppy.”

You glared at him, “You should be so thankful that I’m unarmed right now. You have such a pretty face, it would be a shame to see it ruined.”

Quinn looked to Shiva, “Did you hear that? She called me pretty.”

“Find the aero rustant.” Shiva said dryly, jerking their head in a “get lost” motion. Quinn’s interference didn’t get you off the hook, however. They turned to look at you again, “I just worry about you. We don’t know what you’re actually having, he could change his mind, something could happen to you again…”

“Trust me. We’ve considered all of it.”

“I mean, what if those guardian people get ahold of you?” Their hands went to their hips, “I’m not going to put up with you not remembering who your child’s father is. Especially if it’s going to come out furry and canine.”

“Kevva preserve me.” You hissed, stepping around Shiva. “Can I please just look for what I need in peace?”

“No. Someone has to be the voice of reason around here.” Shiva insisted. “Just don’t get your heart set on this. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“I get that.”

Quinn strolled down the aisle towards the two of you, “I found the rustant.”

“Thanks.” You held out your hand, but he didn’t pass it to you.

“The warnings say pregnant individuals shouldn’t use it.”

“Quinn.” You snapped.

He grinned cheekily and tossed it to you, “Feisty. I always liked that about you.”

You brushed past him and headed for the clerk towards the front of the store to purchase everything.

“When’s your appointment?” Shiva questioned, leaning against the counter beside you.

“Three days.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Right now? Pissed off.” You shrugged.

“I just want to make sure you’re thinking everything through.” They insisted. “I’ve seen you after heartbreak and it isn’t pretty. It’s not too late to walk away.”

“I can’t Shiva.” You took your parcel of goods from the clerk and started out of the store where Quinn was loitering. “This isn’t like before. Ezra and I have a deeper connection.”

“He definitely loves you,” Quinn pointed out. “As much as it pains me to admit it, but I actually liked him.”

“Yeah, I liked him too.” Shiva admitted dejectedly. “He wasn’t what I expected.” They looked at you, “The way the two of you seemed in sync with each other was surprising.”

“So does this mean you’re going to eventually become like him?” Quinn questioned. “How does it work?”

“That’s not something either of us want for me.” You made a face. “I’m still trying to find a way for us to have a normal life… Keep researching for me. Anything you can find on Arcadia… the curse.”

Quinn smiled a little, “I can do that. Actually meant to have more for you, but those damn debt collectors wouldn’t leave me alone. Finally got that settled.”

“Who settled that for you?” Shiva slapped the back of his head.

You arched a brow, “You gave him money?”

“Quinn’s a useful idiot to have indebted to you.” They shrugged. “I was mostly doing it for you. He’s got good connections and you need them.”

“Shiva—“

“I don’t have to like this, but I do have your back.”

“Thank you.”

They shrugged, “The only thing I ask for in return is that you take care of yourself.”

“I’m trying.”

You fell into stride beside Shiva and Quinn as you headed back to the shipyard. You were trying to take care of yourself. And Ezra. And your baby.

The line on your palm tingled and you wondered if you had blindly thrown yourself into a debt that no one could help you get out of.

#ezra (prospect)#ezra x reader #pedro pascal ezra #ezra (prospect) x reader #pedro pascal x reader

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echo-bleu · 4 years

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straight through the smoke (3)

Summary: After Magnus breaks up with Alec and chooses to align with the Seelie Queen, pulling the Downworld Cabinet with him, Alec is arrested by the Clave for high treason. Will Magnus find out in time to save him from a death sentence?

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

On AO3

Ten minutes left.

Alec stumbles when his guards push him roughly toward the center of the courtyard, struggling to regain his balance with his hands still cuffed in front of him. One of the guards swipes his stele along the cuffs to remove them, and Alec flexes his wrists to help the blood flow back into his hands. He takes a pause to steady himself, then raises his head high and walks the rest of the way.

The large rune carved in the stone of the courtyard hasn’t been used in a long time. There hasn’t been an execution in the New York Institute in over a century. Alec has to fight himself not to look down as he steps in the middle of the rune, instead holding Imogen’s gaze until she looks away.

Beyond the no-man’s-land created by the rune and its safety circle, the courtyard is crowded. They’re all familiar faces, people Alec has led for most of the last decade. There is no hunger, no blood-thirst in their eyes. In fact, the atmosphere of the courtyard is muted and heavy. Disapproving.

Imogen is in front of the crowd, holding an adamas staff. Behind her, the Institute’s core stone of adamas has been set on a small platform, waiting to power the staff. The staff would normally be handled by a Silent Brother, Alec knows, but there must not have been any within the warlocks’ wards. Imogen is taking it upon herself to do the deed, just like she almost did with Valentine – or the man she thought was Valentine. Alec is looking at his executioner.

The anger has settled in him, and then evaporated. There is no time left for bitterness, not when he has mere minutes to live. Imogen doesn’t matter.

He tears his eyes away from her to survey the crowd. Even the youngest Shadowhunters of the Institute are here, some of them barely turned thirteen, and Alec is immensely grateful that his parents took Max back to Alicante as soon as he was stable. He couldn’t stand to look at his little brother today.

He wonders if Imogen has deemed it necessary to inform his parents, if they’re raising hell to save him from this, powerless, in Alicante, or if they secretly think he deserves no less. He’ll never know.

Despite being crammed around the safety circle, his people are standing apart from Imogen’s goons, like they’re showing their disapproval by isolating the Clave’s envoys into a group of their own. The Institute’s Shadowhunters are all standing at attention, in their formal uniforms, the Institute’s insignia on display on their chests. Alec chokes up. Every one of them seems to be wearing the—his Institute’s symbol instead of the more conventional Clave insignia for such an occasion – it’s a deliberate show of support to him, one that Imogen can’t take away from them.

Alec locks eyes with his second-in-command Jens, his mentor, who looks back at him with his gaze full of rage and sorrow. He breaks his stance to place his hand over his insignia, just above his heart. Alec nods at him, trying to make his gratitude apparent in his expression. Jens will handle the Institute until Imogen or the Consul appoints someone else – maybe Jace again, unless his association with Alec has tainted him irremediably.

Alec tries to meet everyone’s eyes, even briefly, in the time Imogen gives him. Sixteen-year-old Kara Svec, a recent transfer from Prague, who Alec has been taking under his wing. She’s crying silently, her head held high, and Alec gives her a tiny smile. Sandra, his favorite IT specialist and Alec’s de facto secretary, since the Clave has yet to assign him a real one. They won’t need to anymore. Andrej, the weapons instructor who replaced Hodge, and his herd of teenage Shadowhunters. Underhill, his brand new Head of Security. Even Lindsay Wayglide and Carson Strongmill, who grumble at each of Alec’s new briefings, are wearing their Institute insignia.

Jace and Izzy are standing at the front, their expressions a mix of horror and trepidation that even their best attempt can’t hide. They’re holding hands tightly, not bothering to stand at attention. It’s clear that they’re still hoping that something will stop the execution, but it’s too late for that now. Alec wishes that he could hug them one last time.

Magnus isn’t there. Alec wonders if he hallucinated his presence yesterday, or if Magnus is out there somewhere, trying to stop Valentine. He has his people to think about. Alec berates himself for hoping that he’d be able to look into his lover’s eyes as he died.

“Alexander Gideon Lightwood, you have been declared guilty of high treason, and sentenced to death by immolation,” Imogen declares, her tone emotionless. “Do you have any last words?”

Alec, turns away from Imogen, clasping his hands behind his back in one last show of respect in the direction of his people. He looks down at the rune on the floor and tries to put his thoughts together, swallowing.

“I was lucky,” he says quietly. The silence in the courtyard seems to grow deeper, expectant. “I was lucky to fall in love with a man as wonderful as Magnus Bane. A man who is a warlock, a Downworlder. Someone that my entire upbringing had conditioned me to despise, and yet the man I met and fell in love with was nothing like what I had been told.”

Alec blinks back the tears coming to his eyes, letting his memories of Magnus wash over him. He can barely remember, now, why their breakup felt so important, why he didn’t run to Magnus and apologize, to spend one more day, one more minute with him. Wasted chances, all of them.

“Nephilim, Downworlders, Mundanes,” he continues, this time raising his head high to meet the eyes boring into him. “We’re all people. When it comes down to it, we’re all the same, with the same faults and the same hopes. I love a Downworlder, and if the Clave is going to execute me for that, then so be it. I am not ashamed, and the only regret I have is that it took me too much time to understand how deeply we Shadowhunters are failing at fulfilling our duty.” Alec turns to look at Imogen, letting his hands fall to his sides. He refuses to show her any more deference. “Our prejudices deform our understanding of the world until it is unrecognizable, and that is how ideas like those of the Circle are born.”

Imogen opens her mouth, but Alec turns away from her again. “The coming times may bring war and grief to our doorstep,” he meets Jens’ gaze. “I am sorry that I will not be there to meet them at your side. But when there comes a time when you have to take a stand, I urge you to think. Is caring for other people a crime that should be punished, just because those people are different from us?

“I love a warlock, and I will not apologize for treating him and his kind like people.”

Alec lowers his head to signify the end of his speech. He traces the rune under his feet with his eyes, once more, then catches Izzy and Jace’s eyes. I love you, he mouths, opening the parabatai bond wide to push through all of his love. They’re the ones who will have to stay behind, and keep fighting.

Jace pushes back fearstrengthlove and Alec nods at him just a fraction. Izzy has tears running down her cheeks. Alec takes all the courage he can get from their gazes and tries to send some back, before he turns back to Imogen. He will not let his siblings see his face as he burns.

Imogen doesn’t look at him as she raises the staff and touches it to the core stone. The entire courtyard seems to hold its breath, watching the tip light up like a stele, ready to activate the fire rune on the floor.

“Pulvis et umbra sumus,” Imogen declares. Her posture tightens when the only ones who repeat it are her Clave soldiers, but she turns her staff to the rune without stalling.

Alec closes his eyes.

This is how his story ends. Burnt to death in the courtyard of his own Institute, under the eyes of his siblings and his people. This is how he dies.

Twelve hours left.

“He wasn’t supposed to plead guilty! We were supposed to have more time!”

Isabelle is pacing the length of the small bedroom, while Jace sits immobile on the bed, staring at nothing. He looks in shock, incapable of processing. Clary looks at Magnus with pleading eyes as Jace fails to react to her pats on his arm.

Magnus pinches the bridge of his nose. “The Clave called off the search for Valentine,” he says. “He got through the wards around the city. He’s on his way to Lake Lyn as we speak, and the Consul is going to welcome him with open arms.”

The three Shadowhunters stare at him in shock. “The Consul is part of the Circle?” Isabelle asks with wide eyes.

“Alec said it was the only explanation. I told him during the trial.” Magnus closes his eyes. “Maybe that was a mistake. He pleaded guilty to speed up the trial, so we could get there faster.”

“Fuck!” Jace mutters through his teeth. He rams his fist into the mattress in desperate rage.

“That sounds like Alec,” Isabelle sighs.

“What do we do?” Clary asks, wringing her hands. “We have to stop Valentine, but we can’t let Alec get executed!”

Magnus feels himself flinch at the word once more. Executed. If they don’t find a solution fast, Alec will be burned to death by his own people, for the crime of loving him. Of being a good person, in spite of everything he’s been taught.

Clenching his fists, Magnus forces down the magical outburst he can feel coming and instead conjures a timer. “We have twelve hours,” he says, starting the magical clock with a wave of his hand.

“If Valentine is already in Idris, he’ll be at Lake Lyn long before that,” Isabelle says. Her face distorts before her next sentence. “Stopping him has to be our priority. We can’t let him succeed.”

Magnus shakes his head. “I agree that he’s the priority, but we can’t leave things as they are. This isn’t just about Alec. Even if we succeed in stopping Valentine, if Alec is executed tomorrow and word gets out about why, we’re looking at an all-out war.” He takes a gasping breath, the guilt eating him alive. How much of all this is his fault? He knows, he’s known for centuries that the Seelie Queen can’t be trusted. He chose her side over Alec. And if the war that’s brewing happens, he’ll have doomed his own people as well as Alec.

He leans against the wall, struggling to breathe through the panic. “Magnus?” Isabelle asks, squeezing his arm.

Magnus shakes himself. He can’t give in to the fear. Not yet. “The Seelie Queen betrayed us all. And your Clave is about to execute one of its own Heads for associating with the Downworld. This is a fuse that will blow it up to massive proportions.”

“But what can we do?” Clary asks.

“We need to split up,” Jace breathes, meeting Magnus’ eyes as he understands his intent. “Some of us need to stay behind. To organize.”

“Yes,” Magnus confirms.

They all look at each other for a moment. It’s not an easy decision. “Magnus,” Isabelle says softly. “You’re the best equipped to fight Valentine, especially since Jonathan might be with him.”

Magnus sighs. As loathe as he is to leave Alec, he knows she’s right. “I’ll go. I’ve already spoken to Luke and Raphael, they know where I stand. You can coordinate with them.”

“What about the warlocks?” Clary asks. “There’s still the wards over the city.”

“That’s also why I need to go,” Magnus says. “I’m the only one here who can go through them. I can take one of you with me. The warlocks won’t get involved beyond lowering the wards when I tell them to, unless war is officially declared.”

“The wards are useless now, though,” Isabelle remarks.

“Maybe not,” Jace says. “If you take them down, we expose ourselves to the Clave, and we know we can’t trust them. Right now every Shadowhunter in New York is in the Institute. That could work to our advantage.”

“An insurrection?” Magnus asks curiously.

“Maybe not that far, but Imogen is a minority right now. Our people are loyal to Alec. We may be able to use that to stall, if nothing else.”

Magnus nods. “Buy us more time.” He eyes the timer. “We could use that.”

“Clary, you go with Magnus,” Jace says.

Clary frowns. “You’re a better fighter than I am.”

Jace shakes his head. “You have your runes. And I’m needed here. My name and Izzy’s contacts will go a long way.”

Jace doesn’t add that if Alec is executed, it will incapacitate him and make him useless in a fight, but Magnus can see it on his face.

Clary nods and stands up, checking her pocket for her stele. “Magnus, do you think you could summon me a blade from the armory?” she asks. “I don’t know if we’re still on house arrest, but I’m sure we’ll be watched the second we step out of this room.”

“Of course.” Magnus visualizes the armory the best he can and pulls. The blade he finds in his hand isn’t Clary’s usual one, but Clary doesn’t seem to be bothered as she grabs it and clips it to her belt.

“Alright, Biscuit,” Magnus takes her shoulder. “We can’t waste any more time.”

He watches her hug Jace tightly, then Izzy, and the steel band around his chest tightens a little more at the thought of Alec, alone in a cell, waiting for his execution. He doesn’t let himself wish that they could have had more time, that they could have talked. They will.

“Isabelle,” he says. Isabelle turns to him and hugs him a well, but Magnus can’t quite return the gesture. He’s too tense. “If we don’t make it back in time—”

“We’ll do everything in our power,” Isabelle promises. She doesn’t say what, specifically. She can’t promise more.

Neither can Magnus. “If Valentine succeeds,” he starts instead, swallowing. “Tell Alec that I love him, and I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, Magnus,” Isabelle murmurs. “You’ll get to tell him yourself. Have faith.”

Magnus nods. “I love you, too. Alec is my family now, and that means that so are you.”

“Go kill Valentine for me, then,” Jace says, punching his arm. In another context, it could have seemed callous, even rejecting. But the look on his face says everything, and Magnus suddenly remembers that Valentine raised him. That Valentine is his abuser.

“For all of us,” he chokes out. “Brother.”

They’re brothers in battle now, not just in their connection to Alec. They strive toward the same goal. Jace nods, pursuing his lips in the way he does when he’s trying to hide his emotions.

Magnus opens a portal, layering it with a shield meant to pierce wards, both those of the Institute and the ones around the city. Clary takes his hand, and in a second, they’re gone.

Eight hours left.

They’ve set up in the training room. It’s something Alec once started, Izzy remembers, in the first year he took over the Institute. He was sixteen, not even an adult in Nephilim eyes. She remembers that he had to get Jens to sign every single report before he could even send them to their parents because his own signature held no weight, even though he was effectively running an entire Institute.

Their parents still came back for a few days every month back then, and after dressing Alec down for some minor mistake, they’d kicked him out of the Head’s office like his work meant nothing. So Alec had swallowed his pride, changed into workout clothes, and held every single one of his planned meetings in the training room, under the guise of fighting hand-to-hand.

He kept doing that as long as their parents still held some pretense of running the Institute whenever they were in New York. The practice came in handy when first Lydia, then Aldertree and later Imogen took over the Institute and Izzy watched Alec more than once discreetly listen to his people’s complaints and needs while kicking their ass on the training room floor, or letting them pretend to watch him fight Jace or Izzy herself.

Today it’s Izzy and Jace on the mats, sparring without conviction. It’s past midnight, and the benches are full. They’ve had to wait until Imogen retired for the night, leaving only one of her henchmen to watch over the ops center while the Institute works are reduced capacity. They can’t leave the bounds of the city, when they would usually handle calls as far out as New Jersey, and half of the regular patrols have been canceled because of the events of the day. Anything involving Downworlders has been put on indefinite hold.

Izzy straightens with a silent nod to Jace, untangling herself from his grip, and heads back toward the nearest bench to grab her towel. Jens hands her a bottle of water, casually standing up next to her, just outside of the line of sight of the Clave guard in the other room.

“Clary’s training all night,” Izzy says. “I need someone to cover for her. It’s her final exam.”

Jens nods gravely. “Is she on her own?”

“No,” Izzy shakes her head. “She’s getting some help.” She makes a small hand gesture low at her side, imitating Magnus’ style the best she can.

“Good,” Jens nods. “I hope it will be enough.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Izzy sees Jace gesture to her. It looks like he’s got Lindsay to distract the Clave guard, and he has his back to them now. Jace runs his hand across his throat. The sound of the surveillance system has been taken down. The guard won’t notice as long as he’s not looking. They have a few minutes.

She signals the Shadowhunters around her to come closer. They gather around her just as Jace joins them, still looking like an accidental grouping but close enough to listen.

“I think you all know that the crimes Alec is accused of are unfair and that he’s innocent. It looks like the Clave is corrupt far beyond what we thought. I’m reaching out to people we trust to try to overturn this decision, but I need you to be ready.”

“Ready for what?” one of the Shadowhunters asks.

It’s Kara Svec, Alec’s little protegee. She’s at the bottom of the Institute hierarchy, still a trainee, and she’s speaking out of turn, but Izzy doesn’t point it out. She knows it, Izzy can see it on her face. She loves Alec and she’s terrified.

Alec was her age when he took over the Institute, Izzy realizes. She didn’t understand how young that was at the time. They were teenagers, ready to take on the world, and she and Jace must have caused Alec so much trouble with their unruliness. Izzy can barely handle the thought of leading the Institute now, let alone when she was sixteen.

Izzy puts an arm around Kara’s shoulders to comfort her, though the young Shadowhunter is taller than her. “We’re going to do everything we can to get Alec out of this,” she says. It’s looking less and less like they’ll succeed while staying within the bonds of Clave law. Izzy and Jace have tried everything they could already, from calling their parents – they didn’t answer, and Izzy has a feeling that Imogen is purposefully keeping them away – to Jace directly trying to convince Imogen to change her mind. Izzy has been through all of her contacts in Alicante, and the only thing she got was a promise from Aline that she’d call back as soon as she got hold of her mother.

“If we have to, we’ll stop the execution and break Alec out,” Jace says, his voice deep and more confident than he is. “We won’t ask any of you to put yourself in a position to go against the Clave, but we need to know that you won’t stop us.”

Jens steps up at that. “Alec is our Head, and what’s happening is wrong. I am loyal to him before the Clave.” Izzy nods at him. The older Shadowhunter is Alec’s mentor in many ways, the one who taught him how to run the Institute when their parents left. Alec broke traditions when he made Jens his official second-in-command, despite him not being a fieldworker.

“He’s the best commander I’ve ever had,” Underhill declares. “I stand with him. We’ll help in any way we can.”

Kara nods emphatically at that, tears in her eyes, and she’s followed by all of the others. Everyone here has a reason to be thankful to Alec, and that’s exactly why Izzy chose them.

“We’ll do things by the book for as long as possible,” Izzy says. “But be ready. Pass the word to anyone you know you can trust.”

“Time’s up,” Jace signals.

They break ranks immediately, going back to the benches as Jace drags Underhill out to the center of the room. Izzy sits down next to Jens, making a show of unwrapping her hands.

“Whatever happens tomorrow,” she murmurs. “Thank you. For your support, for all these years. Alec wouldn’t have made it without you. None of us would have.”

Jens lowers his head. “I wish I could have protected him more. He took on so much more than he should have had to, and now they’re punishing him for it.”

“Imogen hates Downworlders. Hell, the Clave hates them. Alec knew that when he made his choices, Jens. None of this is your fault.”

“Be careful tomorrow,” Jens whispers. “We’re on the brink of war. If you free Alec and side with the Downworld, you’ll be hunted by every Institute.”

“I hope it won’t come to that, but it’s better than Alec being executed,” Izzy murmurs. She looks around her and spots Kara with her face in her hands, trembling slightly. “Jens, tonight, will you watch over Kara? I’m worried about her. She’s really attached to Alec.” Izzy doesn’t know all the details of the abusive situation she escaped in her previous Institute, run by her father, but she knows enough to know that Alec saved her life by pulling her out. The fear of losing him could pull her right back to the traumatized state she was in when she first got to New York.

“I know,” Jens says sadly. “I’ll take care of her. What about you? Are you going to be okay?”

Jens is one of the few people in the Institute who knows about Izzy still being in recovery, and how stressful the last few months have been.

“I’ll hang on until morning,” Izzy smiles weakly, touched by his concern. “I have Jace. And I have a mission. I’ll be fine.”

Two hours left.

“For the last time, the Inquisitor is not allowing any visitors,” the Clave guard growls, his hand ostensibly on the hilt of his seraph blade.

Izzy fights the urge to roll her eyes. “Come on,” she pleads. “He’s my brother. He’s gonna die tomorrow.” She almost chokes on the last sentence, and it’s far less of an act than she’s willing to admit.

No. Alec isn’t going to die. They’re going to get him out of there.

“I have orders,” the guard says. “I’m not letting you through.”

Izzy sighs. She’s been trying to get to Alec for a while, coming back here every hour, but it’s not happening. She turns on her heels and walks back to the elevator. Jace joins her just as she gets out on the third floor and comes with her to her room. “Any luck?” he asks.

“No.”

“Me neither. Still nothing from our parents, and Clary and Magnus aren’t answering their phones.”

“Fuck,” Izzy swears through her teeth. She throws herself on her bed. It puts her face to face with Magnus’ timer, which now read 2:03. They’ve got two hours and three minutes left to save Alec, and they haven’t made any progress. What are they going to do?

The only positive point so far is that Luke and Raphael are still alive, answering their texts, so Valentine hasn’t succeeded in making the Wish. Yet. Clary and Magnus have been out of contact since they portalled to Idris, so there’s no way to know if they’re even alive.

Izzy’s phone buzzes in her hand, and she brings it up to see the text, only now realizing how tightly she’s gripping it. Jace sits down beside her to look over her shoulder.

It’s Aline.

Mom has got the Council together in an emergency meeting. The Consul is out of reach, so she’s calling the shots. What do you need?

Izzy breathes out. Finally, something is moving. Just as she moves to answer, her phone starts ringing.

“It’s Clary,” she breathes. Jace immediately straightens. Izzy taps the screen to answer the video call.

“Clary?”

“Izzy!” Clary’s face appears on the screen, bathes in sunlight. It’s almost midday in Idris. Magnus comes into the frame beside her, and Izzy lets out a breath she didn’t know she held all this time. They both look okay, if a little out of breath.

“We did it,” Clary says. “We got Valentine. He’s dead.”

Izzy closes her eyes in relief – or maybe just exhaustion. Jace says something under his breath and squeezes her against him tightly.

“He raised the Angel, but I got to him before he could make a wish,” Clary continues.

“Thank the Angel,” Izzy sighs. A part of her registers that the Angel she’s thanking is the one who would have annihilated the Downworld on Valentine’s command. “I mean, thank you, in this case. You’re certain he’s dead?”

“Yes,” Clary answers. “Magnus killed him while I talked to the Angel.”

Izzy chokes on her breath at Clary’s nearly casual tone. “You talked to Raziel?”

“Yeah,” Clary laughs. She sounds more shell-shocked than happy. She’s had a long night. They all have, but Clary and Magnus perhaps more than anyone else. “Not my first rodeo with an angel, remember? I told him that we didn’t want to make the Wish today, and he left. The Wish is safe.”

Izzy takes a moment to breathe and process that. It’s too much at the same time, she doesn’t know where to even start, but she has to keep it together. For Alec. Alec needs her to figure out their next step, and the next. He needs her to get him out of this.

The news of Valentine’s death should feel more earth-shattering than it does, but they still have work to do. Izzy puts that aside for now. They can celebrate and think of what almost happened later.

“What about the Consul?” she asks.

“We ran into him while walking to the lake,” Magnus answers. “We had the element of surprise, since he didn’t know we knew he was a traitor. We had to fight off his goons, but I think we got them all. The Consul is dead.”

“Good. Do you have conclusive proof that they were with the Circle?” Jace asks.

“Is this enough?” Clary asks, switching to her phone’s second camera. It moves for a moment before it stops on what is unmistakably Malachi Dieudonné’s face, the Circle rune prominent on his neck. “I think he had a glamour on it that fell when he died.”

“Definitely enough,” Izzy says, taking a screenshot. She thinks for a moment, as Clary brings the camera back on herself and Magnus. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to get in touch with the Council.” She pauses as Magnus nods. “We need to make sure that you’re untouchable, especially Magnus, in case there are other Circle members in the Council. You record a video of you two explaining exactly what happened tonight. Jace authorized Magnus’ portal as Head of Field Ops and Magnus will get paid for his services, so we’re in the clear on that front. Make sure the video shows Malachi and the Circle rune clearly, and that you don’t implicate yourselves. Then send it to the Institute’s servers. It will make several backups just in case.”

“Okay,” Clary accepts. “We’ll do that. Can we come back now?”

Izzy sighs. “No. I’m sorry, but if you aren’t there when the Council sends a team to the scene, this will all have been for nothing.”

“Alec only has two hours left,” Magnus says, anguish in voice.

“I know, Magnus. I’ll do everything in my power to make sure he’s still alive when you get back, okay? But you can’t leave Idris, or you’ll get thrown in jail too, and it will all have been for nothing.”

Magnus pinches the bridge of his nose, but nods.

“Magnus, can you get the warlocks to bring down the wards? We’ll need you and whoever they send from the Consul to be able to come through.”

“Okay,” Magnus says. “I’ll be there the second they let me go.”

“Me too,” Clary affirms. “Guys. We’re gonna make it through. Valentine’s dead. We’re gonna save Alec. Okay? Just hold it together.”

Izzy takes a breath and gives her a small smile, feeling Jace do something similar at her side. “Thanks, Clary.”

They’re all inches away from crumbling, but they need to hold on for a bit longer. One hour and forty-eight minutes left, according to the timer.

It’s a terrifyingly short amount of time that somehow feels like an eternity. Izzy sends the screenshot of Malachi’s Circle rune to Aline, along with a quick summary of what happened, and transmits Clary and Magnus’ video to the Council as soon as she gets it. Jace paces the length of the bedroom, fists clenched. After a while, Izzy takes his hand and pulls him down to the floor, where they sit cross-legged, across from each other.

“I think Alec could use some calm right now,” Izzy gestures to Jace’s parabatai rune, swallowing her tears. It’s almost seven. Outside, the sun is rising, coming through the stained glass windows.

Jace lets out a near-sob. They still don’t have an answer from the Council, and Clary and Magnus aren’t responding to Izzy’s texts. With no official backup coming, all their plans are crumbling one by one until they’re only left with the last resort.

“Breathe with me, brother,” Izzy murmurs, holding out her hands. “Send him strength. And love.”

Jace links hands with her and closes his eyes.

They don’t move until Jens knocks on the door, fifteen minutes before the end of the timer. “It’s time,” he says when Izzy opens the door. “They’re prepping him.”

Clary and Magnus haven’t made it back.

They’ve run out of time.

#shadowhunters #malec #alec lightwood #magnus bane #mine #echo's fanfiction #hm discord #malec discord server #straight through the smoke #angst

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whumping-out-of-timee · 3 years

Text

Rematch

Cw: Broken bones, Cursing, Knife injury, Sadistic whumper, Demons, Hopelessness, Blood, Character consuming blood, Implied threat of cannibalism, Falling from heights, Vengeful whumper

Previous: Welcome to hell

Red Masterlist here

*****

Niko was asleep, he hadn't strayed far from where Reyo had left him food and water. Scared that he might never find it again in the reflective glass. It all looked the same, the sky above tinted red in its inverse image.

Reyo appeared in a mess of white noise, startling Niko awake.

Crap, he's here

Niko's gaze settled on the small blade Reyo held in his hand. His thoughts raced as he jumped to his feet, ready to flee.

Reyo looked disinterested in that, his eye only a small slit of orange. The annoyance surfacing in his voice.

"Oh please. Sit down, or I'll give you a reason to run."

Niko sat at those words, defeated. What else could he do?

There's no where to run anyway

"You know.. I wish you'd talk more. It would make things more fun"

"I- I'm sorry-" Niko started to respond.

But, Reyo interrupted him, unbothered.

"Today I want a rematch, I've given you time to heal. If you can kill me, then I'll set you free. But, we both know what you did was cowardly. I suspect you'll be paying for it instead." At that, the corners of his mouth turned up slightly.

"Ok, I- never meant-"

Reyo glared a warning, "nevermind, shut up. There's nothing interesting you have to say."

Niko fell silent, confused.

I hate him. I want to kill him. I have to kill him.

"I hate you." Niko grumbled, not learning from last time.

"Awe, that's more like it!" He threw out his hand, the dagger flying through the air. It whizzed over Niko's head, clanging somewhere very distant behind him.

"Fetch, angel. I'll give you a head start. I'm sure you don't need it though, right?" He taunted, sarcastically.

Reyo raised his hand to the sky, his eyes had a predatory shine as he stared down at Niko.

Niko quickly arose, no time to worry about whatever Reyo was doing. Breaking from his gaze as he turned around.

Spotting the knife, he broke out sprinting towards it, coming to a dazed stop as the ground shook. Large patches of glass raised, reaching towards the sky. Creating an intricate matrix. He caught sight of the weapon, as the glass beneath it became slightly raised.

Great, at least I know where it is. But, I'll never see him coming in that mess. It's a losing battle

His disheartened thoughts were interrupted by a spiteful voice. "What are you waiting for? I'm not going to wait much longer. You'll be sorry if you don't play along."

Niko sprinted off towards the knife again, not paying attention to the fading laughter. He climbed up onto the platform as he came to it, turning his momentum upward with his wings. They were still foreign to him, but he managed.

The knife was cold in his hands. He turned around to see the place Reyo had been standing, he had vanished. Panicking, he turned around in every direction, waving the knife threateningly. But, there was no trace of Reyo anywhere.

Can Reyo fly? I can't remember. I can't fly well. But, I can't be on the ground if he can. The only chance is to stab him before he gets a solid hold on me. I need a plan, or it's hopeless. I have to stay calm until he comes for me.

Amused laughter caused him to nearly panic again. It distorted in every direction, resonating through the strange landscape.

I can't tell if he's close. I have to stay calm, get to higher ground

Niko curled his toes over the edge of the platform, preparing himself to fly. Flying was extremely tiring, but he didn't know what else to do. He looked up towards the structure above, a slight 20 degree incline through the air. It was very far away, a massive dead space between.

It looks too steep. And it's too far, I don't have the endurance, but I have to try. He has the upper hand down here.

Niko spread his wings in a strong downward motion as he jumped from the edge. Shaking under the immediate stress of holding his body stiff. His muscles were aching in his back, making it obvious to him, that he wasn't meant to fly. He managed to hold himself up in the air by his wings. Unsure how to move his webbed wings upward, without dragging him down. Instead he strained, holding himself in a glide for a few seconds.

I'm not going to make it

He tucked his wings closer to him, spiraling down to gain speed. Then he flared his wings, trying powered flight again, this time angling his wingtips differently. Acceleration caused him to soar upwards into the sky. Tense muscles shaking under the increased wind resistance. He made it to the platform, trying to swoop upwards gracefully before impact. Instead he crash-landed, holding the knife at arms length to protect himself form it.

Niko quickly clamored to his feet in the silence, looking over the edge of the platform. He saw nothing. Heard nothing.

That's a bad sign, what's that insane bastard up to? Surely he saw me in plain slight on my way up here

He went to turn away from the edge again, but something slammed into him hard from the side. He stabbed blindly and felt the blade meet resistance multiple times before his arm was grabbed. His heart skipping a beat with hope, before the pain of impact reached his senses.

Did I really- will he die from that?

His hope betrayed him when he caught sight of Reyo. The upper part of his left arm was bloody. There was no trace of a smile in his expression.

I stabbed him in his blind spot- figures. He's not going to be happy. Fuck, I'm going to die. There's no way I can kill him

His arm was twisted in an unnatural way, snapping as Reyo swung him around hard, letting go of him just in time to kick him off the edge.

Niko could barely move enough to generate the lift to break his fall. He fell slowly in a spiraling mess. Impact traveling up through his legs, making everything so much worse. The knife had gone flying elsewhere, he heard the crack of glass under it. But he couldn't focus on that. His hip and side burned, arm was sickening to look at. He leaned against the glass, struggling to breathe.

Reyo was there, behind him, and reflected in the glass before him. Both watching him between their two orange eyes. That smirk had returned to his face, despite his unmoving arm, constrained by the red snaking over it. Head slightly tilted as he took in the sight. Clearly savoring his revenge.

"What's the matter, hard to kill me in a fair fight? Want me to turn around, so you can stab me in the back again?!" He broke out in chilling laughter, breaking from the normal range, as he took a step towards Niko. He raised the retrieved knife to his mouth, licking his own blood off it.

That's sick. And, he's truly laughing at me now. This is his revenge, I have no purpose now. He's going to kill me. It's all over, no one will even know what happened to me

Niko was too hurt to move as Reyo closed in on him, trapping him against the glass wall. He rested the blade across Niko's throat, the bloodlust in his eyes was icy cold.

"Are you at least going to beg for your life little angel?"

No, I wont give him this, it's all I have left

Niko thought, as he stayed silent, only whining slightly in pain.

"I'll find something creative, I've never really liked the taste of blood. But, you know what I do like?" He paused as Niko started sobbing. "Well, maybe one day you'll find out." The second part of his statement seeming to snap out of his sadistic spell.

"That will be a sad day for you," he added. As he stepped back away from Niko, taking the threatening blade with him. Arm wounds closing before Niko's blurred vision as Reyo stared at him with an unrecognizable emotion. Unshifting eyes dangerously hiding his true emotions.

If I think he's capable of feeling pity, I'm stupid. He's a coldblooded monster

Thoughts affirmed by the next statement. "I'm going to make you suffer endlessly here. Even when you beg me to kill you, it won't be enough."

At that, he disappeared into nothing. The walls shifting back into a flat plane. There was nothing for Niko to lean against anymore. He fell to the ground, crying out as his body made contact with it.

All I see is red. Forever in every direction. Suffering forever, with nowhere to escape. Not even deserving of pity.

All alone forever. Living where I'll die

*****

Next: The origin

Taglist:

@abitefullofeverything

#whump #demon whump #nonhuman whumpee #oc whump #whump series #broken bones tw #blood tw #cursing tw

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shouldhavebeenyou · 3 years

Text

The Storm

Its not fair.

Its been seven years since I fell in love with you. Every single day since then, my life has been turned upside down. It was raw, rough, passionate, incredible, painful, young love. I had no clue what I was doing with a girl like you. You were so high above me, all I knew was that I wanted it to last forever. You had the dopest soul I ever encountered, and I never knew I could care for someone so much. You may never know the effect you had on me. The moments we spent together replay in my head over and over, eroding away my will to live with every painful memory.

But are the memories really painful? No, I suppose not. Those memories are full of complex emotions; happiness, sadness, longing, regret, love, despair, hopelessness, and yes, pain. Those memories are all I have left of our time together, aside from a few obscure landscape photographs where you were just out of frame. I try not to look at them.. but when I do it brings it all back. I wish I kept more of a record of us. As time goes on, it gets harder to remember. I lay awake at night just trying to play it all out. Just trying to remember your beautiful face, the feel of your lips, the sound of your laugh, the smell of your skin, the endless puns and witty jokes. The places we discovered and adventured together. The trouble we got in.

Its not fair.

I can’t sleep. It’s been a few years of this. Each night is filled with hours of replaying my mistakes in my head, hours of picturing your face inches from mine, hours of remembering the nights spent at your childhood home out on the trampoline talking, replaying the memories of taking so long to leave that your dad flips the porch light on and off to say “hurry up.” After hours of recalling the best and worst of it all I might finally slip into an exhausted state where I just can’t think anymore. It’s like sleeping, but altogether different too, like a restless trance. Images flash through my head, some of them memories, some of them inventions of the dreaming mind. About every hour I’ll awake from this trance for a few moments, my heart racing and feeling broken, only to slip back into this nightmarish world of what could have been. Should have been.

Its like a slow, drawn out death. With every restless night the next day gets harder. The last time I truly felt alive was with you. The last time I truly felt in love was with you. The last time I truly felt, was with you. The last thing you said to me runs through my head over and over daily. I’ve held on to that memory since then like it was my only shot at freedom, at redemption, at life. Its naïve, I know, but I still think maybe, just maybe, we’ll run into each other on that crowded city street and pick up where we left off, just like you said that day you last left me.

Its not fair.

I did everything I thought I was supposed to. I’m such an idiot. You said to go to finish my degree, move away, and maybe when I’m finished with it we would run into each other on that crowded street. Well I’m done, I got that expensive piece of qualifying paper. In my fight for it, I lost sight of you. I became romanticized, deluded. In my degraded state of emptiness without you I became ravenous for something, anything, that would make me feel again. I tried more things to fill that void than I would like to admit, but the one that stuck was skydiving. The rush of air beneath me, the sky around and above me, the horizon seemingly stretching endlessly in every direction, the deafening roar of wind, and the feeling of soaring miles through empty space are the closest I have felt to you since you left. And yet, it falls so short that even hundreds of skydives couldn’t make me forget you, couldn’t measure up to the way you made me feel. If only I told myself to ditch the parachute and fly to you before it was too late. You are truly irreplaceable, and I can only hope he knows that as well as I do.

You have become the Daisy to my Gastby, the green light at the end of the dock across the bay, the unobtainable end to my story. I don’t know who I would be without that force driving me, but sometimes I can’t help but think I would be better, happier. Like Gatsby gone to war, I have probably romanticized your memory too much in those years since you left and I moved, distorting the dope soul I once knew and loved unconditionally into an impossibly perfect idea of you. Before I knew it, I was done with school, left skydiving by the wayside, and trapped myself with someone who reminded me of you. Someone who sparked something in me for just a moment, and gave me hope again. I chased her hoping it would come back, but it didn’t. I don’t know why I settled. Maybe after the exhaustion of sleepless years I just wanted to take the easy way out, and be done with the chase. Maybe I didn’t feel like I deserved you, and I gave up before really even trying. I hate myself for that. I feel like a masochist torturing himself because he just doesn’t know better, or perhaps because he thinks the pain and despair will make him stronger. Well, it hasn’t. I’m weak. Broken. A shell of the man I used to be. I was once able to smile, genuinely. Now, it’s like I’ve lost the muscle memory to smile or laugh. I look back at pictures of myself before I moved to this fiery hell, and that man is unrecognizable. You can see the hope that was once in my eyes, the youth in my face, the ambition and energy. Its all gone now.

Its not fair.

I tried to move on. I spent hours reading, occupying my mind with something else. I’ve read hundreds of books just trying to think about you less. But some days, I just can’t help myself but to look you up and see how you’re doing. I always regret it. It pushes me back into that deep depressive state where I just can’t do anything anymore. It breaks me nearly every time. Your engagement broke me. Your wedding broke me. You look so happy with him, and that alone is maybe the only thing that keeps me alive, albeit hanging on by a thread.

I tried to focus on the future, and not dwell on the past. I tried to fully engross myself in my relationship, my work, my hobbies, to find some source of happiness outside of you and your memory. Finally, one such source came. I was going to have a daughter. A new love of my life. Someone who maybe could finally make me happy again, give me a sense of purpose, of hope, ambition, the energy to get out of bed in the morning.

Its not fair.

She died. The only thread of hope I had, the first taste of feeling anything real since you left. Gone. I thought I had known pain and depression before, but this cut through me like an icy blade. And it just kept cutting. I saw her, I held her lifeless body in my hands, her precious form only the size of my palm. It killed me. I remembered you. You had once told me you always had a feeling you could never physically have children. They say that God has an ironic sense of humor, but I don’t find this humorous at all. With some sick twist of fate, it was not you, but I, who could not beget. Months of pain and anguish went by, as I slipped deeper into my state of peril.

I’m 25 now. This was a hard birthday this past weekend. I couldn’t stop thinking about you and how over and above you always went with gifts and birthdays. I also couldn't stop thinking about how the only thing I wanted was my daughter back. I had some sick day dream that maybe you both would come back to me, the best birthday gift possible. I fought it. I pushed hard against the thoughts that crept into the dark corners of my mind, the thoughts of us. I wanted the pain to just end. I fought against it for a few nights, until last night. Yet another sleepless night filled with memories, flashes, flooding into my closed eyes and keeping me restless. Irrationally I thought “Maybe if I could just see her face, it would hurt a little less.” I was wrong.

Its not fair.

You have a daughter of your own on the way. Due nearly the same time as mine was, in the Fall. We always loved Autumn. The leaves, the air, the color, the fading daylight and cool breeze. It always reminds me of you, and our naïve “Something Day.” I’ll never forget we chose our favorite month, October, and our favorite number, 4, that we just happened to have in common. Its a painful day every year. Its not fair. Why does my daughter get taken from me the same time you’re given one? Why does everything I love get taken from me? Why am I not deserving of the life I wanted? What did I do to deserve this life of consistent pain and inadequacy? I hate it. I want out. I don’t know how much longer I can live with this pain. A scene from one of our darker days plays on repeat in my mind. You wanted to meet near the library to talk. It was late in the summer, the middle of monsoon season. In typical monsoon fashion, there were clouds all around us, thundering and flashing with lightning, though immediately above us a hole penetrated the clouds, allowing the sun to shine through on us. It seems like a scene from a novel, the weather meant to foreshadow what was about to happen in my heart. You looked more broken than I had ever seen you, with your eyes downcast and wrists bloody. That sight alone shattered my heart. You told me all your friends, the people that made you happy, hated that we were together. It was your last year of high school, I would’ve hated myself if you were miserable at school your entire senior year, all because of me. You said you couldn’t do it anymore, and that we needed to break up. It might not have been our last break up, but it was the most painful. Perhaps it was all amplified by the scenery and my young, dramatic, broken heart. We parted and I sat in my car there at the library for hours, sobbing uncontrollably and praying to God asking why. The storm that was raging around us quickly descended upon me, and upon my heart, ripping a hole through the middle of it like the hole of sun that was above us. Before I knew it my tears were one with the downpour that was all around me.

That scene is all I can think about now. The storm is so vivid, I could paint it with the minutest detail. A new hole has been rent through my scarred heart and left there by my departed daughter, reminding me of the hole that was first left there 7 years ago by you, and which has been repeatedly reopened and scarred over since. I’ve tried to heal, but I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel true happiness again. I don’t know if I’ll ever find true passion again, like I had with you. I don’t know if I’ll ever know true hope again, like when my daughter was alive. Its not fair. You’ve moved on. You’re happy with him. You’re creating a beautiful family with a new daughter. Here I am, stuck in the past, unable to let go of the storm you left in my heart.

Its just not fair.

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lligkv · 5 years

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the smartest person who doesn’t do anything

Alison Rose, the daughter of a psychiatrist and a wealthy housewife, was hired as a receptionist at the New Yorker in her 40s—her first “real” job—and ended up writing “Talk of the Town” columns in the 1990s, striking friendships with writers like Renata Adler, Harold Brodkey, and George W. S. Trow along the way. Reading her memoir, Better than Sane, it’s clear it took Rose a long time to really achieve something, to grow beyond what she calls the “ancient feelings of freakishness” that her childhood left her with.

Her father is authoritarian and volatile. He mocks his patients and his family; he’s constantly on the verge of losing his temper with his wife and daughters. He calls them all scathing names. His wife and oldest daughter, Alison’s sister, are Babs I and Babs II, and Alison herself is Babs III, or “Personality Minus,” since she’s so quiet. Alison’s mother is glamorous and removed. She seems to treat Alison’s father as a fact of the world, one she can only accept, as she goes on to do what she likes—for instance, having children with him though he doesn’t really want them. She speaks up for her daughters sometimes, but the protests are fairly mild, in the way they might be when you’ve come to accept that the world is as it is, detaching yourself from it enough to remain sanguine.

Rose, as the product of a glamorous, abusive, inscrutable sort of childhood, is a master of the weird swerves that come from idiosyncrasy. Early in the book, she’s talking about her childhood friend “Squirrel.” “Before Squirrel’s arrival,” she tells us, “I had three mops as best friends.” “My first love, though,” she adds, “had been my pencil collection,” each member of which she names and comes to treasure. She loves the pencils because they are reliable, faithful, quiet: all the things she’s missing. And when her mother sharpens them—whether it’s by mistake or on purpose, Rose doesn’t say—it’s genuinely affecting:

Their faces were obliterated and unrecognizable. Some of them were a lot shorter, too. It was as if everyone I knew had a different head and face on a now stunted body. I couldn’t look at them anymore, all distorted like that, so I abandoned them. In the years that followed, I would see one of the pencils around the house, by a telephone, vaguely recognizable, but dead.

I came to like Alison for her humility along her halting path to some sort of accomplishment, some sort of wholeness. You could look down on her for looking up to so many famous writers, like Trow and Harold Brodkey, but her childhood left her so deeply pressed into timidity that her attachments to these magnetic figures she’s somehow become so close to is touching. Even Alison’s attachment to a youthful paramour, Billy the Fish, is touching.

Billy is Burt Lancaster’s son, whom Alison dates while she’s living in West Hollywood in the 70s, trying to become an actress. He’s a cool character, with his ironic attitude, his charisma, his “certain air of separateness”—Rose calls him “the Fish” because “it was as if he lived in its own element… [a fish] who came up for other people’s air, curious, but not very often”—and his boredom with the whole world at just twenty-two. “T’s to my E’s,” he says—short for Tears to my eyes—when he’s given a gift; “Cringe,” he says, aloud, when he feels like cringing; the people who love him, he seldom treats well. It would be easy to roll your eyes at him and wonder why Alison stays with him for seven years, on tenterhooks and speed much of the while, if her love for him weren’t so clear and so honest. “My heart liked him,” she says, simply. And the closest she ever got in life to what she calls “normal pie”—“this thing men and women get married about”—was with him.

“All of us,” Rose writes—the people who knew Billy in LA—“loved him, but he couldn’t feel it, I don’t think,” and she isn’t the type to blame him for that; she knows too well what not being able to feel love feels like. She forms deep attachments to charismatic people, the way you do when you’re raised to doubt yourself—and she’s not afraid to talk admiringly about the people who shaped her, those who challenge her notion from childhood that she’s “unsuited for human connection.” And I like that a hell of a lot more than the alternative: saying nothing or being shaped by no one.

What’s more, her self-doubt is belied by the wit she so often demonstrates. For instance, her retort to Brodkey as he calls lovingly out to her in the New Yorker’s hallway:

“My Bride,” Harold calls to me in the corridor.

“My Conscience,” I answer.

Or to Trow as he teases her when Brodkey isn’t around:

“Since Harold’s gone, why not throw a little attention my way?” George asked me that same week.

“I thought you might find it repellent,” I said.

“Not as long as you keep coming up with those snappy answers.”

In still another, more sober moment, Brodkey is trying to convince Alison to find someone other than George to bring to dinner with him and his wife. A real interest. “But Harold,” she says,

“I don’t have an appropriate suitor. You know that.”

“Not a suitor. No one likes you all that much.”

“Maybe that’s true,” I said.

Shit!

He tried to be comforting. “But nobody likes anybody all that much—it’s just moments, you know that.” After a pause, he added, “I’m the one who likes you that much, but if you get to know me better your life will be considerably shorter. Hang up now or I’ll start to cry.”

Seeing moment after moment of such quick wit from Rose, and pure honesty—such willingness to say what’s true and such refusal to sugarcoat—you see why Trow, Brodkey, and Penelope Gilliatt, another writer who often stops by Alison’s desk, like her so much. And why they seem to believe she has talent even when she does not. Anytime Rose says something Trow particularly understands, he tells her: “Darling: Write that down.”

The college-degreed writers in the office call the New Yorker “the magazine”; Alison, out of place as a Californian with no college education or work experience of any kind, calls it “School.” And the name is apt for deeper reasons than the one Alison gives, which is that she gets to write “notes to boys” like Brodkey and Trow. It’s an education. And it’s a second shot at a real life, with people who take pleasure in her mind.

“For nearly four decades,” Rose writes, she struggled with “enemy thinking”:

people deciding that the way I saw things was punishable by exile. Enemy-thinking people seem to have a ceaseless, brutal, active desire to punish; perhaps it made them feel superior and powerful. The writers at this School, who in their context were superior and powerful, were a divine present to me—their ease, which created a freedom from worrying about enemy thinking. The destruction it had done to me so far, like my conviction that I just plain didn’t belong in the world, was gone, or it felt like it.

The narrative rolls on. Alison, whose job performance is always a little erratic, is let go from her receptionist position; Trow—who tells her, in a memorable moment, that she cannot keep being “the smartest person who doesn’t do anything forever”—becomes determined to get her another place at School as a “Talk of the Town” writer; she gets the position and stays there for a while, until she leaves. Better than Sane is a force-of-personality book, and most of the things that happen in it go only elliptically explained.

But there is one narrative driver. The trauma that keeps Alison adrift can’t be gone until she confronts the people who instilled enemy thinking in her in the first place.

In the final chapters, Rose describes returning to her mother’s house in Atherton for her mother’s 90th birthday. Alison’s father drops out of the narrative after its first few chapters, but her mother has recurred throughout, often as a provoking presence in Alison’s life. And at the party, so close to her again, Alison’s character regresses. She becomes very clingy with her dog Puppy Jane, clutching Jane to her so she doesn’t have to be spoken to about anything but the dog. She behaves in alienating ways because she fears being alienated, on-the-outs with her mother and sister; better to fit their perception of her as the “crazy” one.

The crisis doesn’t resolve until Alison and her sister Belinda track down their old housekeeper Nita, now living in neighboring Richmond, to ask her about their childhood. In the conversation they have, Alison’s father returns and again comes to seem like the real enemy: “He was cruel,” Nita says firmly. “Very cruel.” “There was one person,” she tells Alison, “who wasn’t nice to you. Your father. He was real mean and your mother was so nice.”

Is what Nita says true? It’s hard to be sure. It’s certainly plausible, but Alison’s mother is a little too distant and arch for you to get a clear bead on her character, and as you hear her comment on the family’s drama, it’s clear Nita herself sees the family at some distance (which is healthy, for a housekeeper). But it is true that the person who terrifies you, as Alison’s father terrified her and her mother, is a force of nature. You don’t talk about him; you certainly don’t talk to him. Instead, you treat him as a fact of the world. You might harm yourself (or your children) as a result. Or you leave, and you push the person who terrifies you into the past. And usually the damage is still done. The anger that is permitted is the anger you feel toward the ones who are nice to you, at least sometimes, who seem as though they could be convinced and reasoned with and moved to act on your behalf yet refuse to respond to reason or persuasion or pleading or need. At the same time, terror of her father, and her mother’s seeming implacability, leave Alison timid, unable to express any of that anger or feel confidence in herself. So she wanders for years, not doing anything. And it takes Nita telling Alison, “Alis’, it was a crazy house. That’s all” for Alison to realize she can let it all go.

These final chapters—in which Alison, having finally accomplished something with her life, and having been recognized and loved by the writers at School, goes home and learns the truth, that it was her family that was crazy and not her, and is redeemed—do feel a little pat. But Better than Sane was published in 2004, and maybe that was before we all became cynical about the memoir form from seeing the familiar arc (a normal or painful childhood, an experience of crisis and failure, a fall to the depths, an opening to others, a redemption, a happy ending) play out so many times. Or maybe the end feels that much more predictable because the path Alison’s taken to get there has been so unpredictable.

The book did leave me wondering where Rose is now. Better than Sane is her only book. There are quite a few literary Alison Roses out there, but none seem to be her. There really is something “regal” about Rose, as Stacy Schiff put it in her New York Times review of the book—something deeply affecting about her honesty, the plainness of her feeling beneath the elliptical prose, the humility with which she presents herself. If she never writes again that I know of, it’d be a shame.

#literary #books #alison rose #george w. s. trow #harold brodkey #memoir

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mattzerella-sticks · 5 years

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Bait & Tackle, Castiel-centric, Dean/Cas fic, heavy angst, TW: suicidal thoughts, coda to 15x06 “Golden Time”

Cas had a friend who saw the meditative benefits to fishing. If only he agreed, and still could call Dean a friend. If only he could call Dean something more. Alas none of that was possible, so he sat on a dock every day with a fishing pole in hand. Hoping that he can finally catch his first fish.

But how long can you toss your line out and expect something to happen that never does? Doing it again and again can drive you to the breaking point.

What happens when you shatter?

Cas feels the sun set behind him, the pinkish hue of the sky bleeding through the blue. Stray beams filtered through blanketing clouds strike the strip of skin between his collar and hairline. He rubs at it, massaging at the ache that settled there earlier in the day. While annoying to deal with Cas chooses to wait the pain out. Careful not to expend any of his dwindling grace on something so simple. When finished, he returns his hand to the fishing pole resting on his lap.

“Getting late,” a man says from nearby, dragging Cas’s attention away from the lake. A common practitioner of the sport, Cas met him on his first day at the cabin. Spoke with him between long dry spells where nothing bit either of their lines. In his sixties, the man’s silver beard stretched far below his chest. Long hair swept neatly under his bucket hat. Usually he wore casual shirts with witty sayings, like today’s ‘Shove It Up Your Bass!’ For the unusual amount of time they spent in each other’s company, though, Cas never asked for his name. And the stranger paid Cas the same respectful indifference. “Fish’ll hardly be active now.”

Cas nods, “I might stay here a bit longer.”

“Of course,” he smiles, hitching his gear over his shoulder, “Nothing more peaceful than a body of water at twilight. I’ll leave you to it then. Same time tomorrow?”

“See you then.”

He left Cas, footsteps light on the pier until they disappeared into the ground. Now alone, Cas allowed himself the luxury of dulling his senses. Limiting his grace to only on what he could see and sense in his line of sight. Like putting blinders on a racehorse. Cas needs the extra effort, otherwise he will be returning to his cabin without catching anything.

Again.

If it takes all night Cas will stay rooted to the pier. If he needs to dive into the lake and catch one with his bare hands, he will. If Chuck appears with a fish in hand, offering it only if Cas prays, his knees will buckle without question.

Cas cannot screw this up.

One star sets and a million take its place, dotting the sky like freckles across soft skin. He clears his head of those thoughts, leaning forward in his seat. Tightens his grip on the fishing pole and quells the yawn bubbling in his chest before it can burst.

Fighting exhaustion is new territory, but Cas will not relent. Fishing a welcome alternative to the chaos of sleep. Where any possibility comes to life when he allows humanity to color his actions.

The first night in the cabin he fell asleep between infomercials. One moment learning about how easily knives can dull after constant use and the next staring into familiar green eyes, hard as the last time he saw them.

Their last encounter looped frequently in his mind, but given the wild ranges of sleep that memory grew and twisted into something unrecognizable. Dean’s face shifted into something crueler, and his sharp words were more precise. An intent to maim instead of wound driving his actions, carving into Cas like a frog in a science class. In those dreams Cas didn’t move on, unable to. Glued to the floor while Dean transformed into a hellhound and tore him limb from limb. The last thing he saw were those green eyes and then he woke up. Public access playing, showing a man and two women trying to cook something live.

Hours passed with a snarling Dean trapped in his mind, unable to forget. That dream haunted him most nights when the need for sleep overpowered him.

But it wasn’t the dream Cas feared.

Two nights ago Cas laid on the bed, eyes drifting shut. Preparing himself for the hellscape most likely greeting him.

His dream placed him in another area of the Bunker entirely. A familiar room, although he never spent too much time there. It wasn’t his . Except waking up on the bed, dressed in a black shirt and hot dog pajama pants that certainly weren’t normally part of his wardrobe, he never felt more right . Finding the other side empty, Cas shuffled from the room and followed the enticing smell of bacon drifting out the kitchen.

He froze under an entryway. Sam sat at the table across from Jack, discussing a section in the book while the younger boy happily ate his cereal. Mary carried a plate of bacon over to them, ruffling Sam’s hair while she took her seat.

And over by the stove, draped in his apron, stood Dean. The other man smiled at him like he used to, gaze soft in their adoration. Dean beckoned him closer, Cas unable to resist. Cas floated over and wraps his arms around the other man’s waist. Buried his nose into his collarbone and breathed him in deeply. Delighting in the mix of sweet from the laundry detergent and savory from the bacon that sticks to his skin. Kisses the skin there, lips curling hearing Dean’s laughter.

Learning it was a dream nearly broke Cas. He spent the entirety of that day holed in the cabin, wrapped in the blankets.

His hands tremble thinking about it. Cas steadies them, thinking of fish and nothing else. Fish to catch. To release. To cook or to display. To tell his friend when he sees him again. To do absolutely anything with.

Once he catches a fish than anything is possible.

At least two more hours pass with nothing biting. Cas, used to waiting, finds his patience thinning. He taps his foot rapidly against the deck. “Is it always like this?” he asks himself, mumble echoing across the placid lake, “Or is it me? Will I always be waiting for nothing ?”

Cas promised he would move on. It’s a poor show of it.

In fairness, Cas’s response served only to wound Dean as harsh as the other man did him. Given the space to breathe, however, Cas realized after all that talk he had nothing to show for it. Spent days driving across America, stopping only to refill his truck until he finally decided to pitch his flag down when he heard of a cabin for rent. A cabin with easy access to one of the most plentiful lakes in forty-eight states.

A claim Cas proves untrue with each passing day.

“One of the most relaxing things you can do,” he growls, stretching his legs until they threaten to slip off the dock. “Peaceful… clears your mind… I don’t know why I talked myself into doing this.”

Lies. Cas saw the lake and the dock and reflected on simpler times. When the world was only a man, an angel, and the scant inches between them.

Even when he moves on, he fails.

He frowns at the water, barely visible given his dwindling powers. It looks more like ink than the liquid mirror during daytime. Reminds him of another far off place, and the invitation of sleep beckons even louder.

Cas pinches his leg, stubborn until the end. Steels his nerves and brushes the sleep from his shoulders. “This is my mission,” he says, “All that matters is the fish… if I could catch one fish…”

The lake answers. Something tugs on his line, startling Cas. He stares at the pole while it bends towards the water. A beat passes before he realizes what that means. Cas jumps from his chair, knocking the cheap plastic to the ground and reels his line in. Struggles when the fish matches his strength. Abuses his limited supply of grace to overpower it.

Zip zip zip zip zip . His line drifts closer, and Cas feels his face stretch with the foreign appearance of a smile. With one last spin of the reel and a tug on the pole, Cas drags his hook from the water.

He sinks to his knees. His smile vanishes in the next instant, fading like it was never there. Cas snatches the hook and studies the small, metal curve. Aware that his bait is gone, and the fish escaped. Nothing like he pictured. Nothing like he was told would happen.

Nothing went right.

Could he really blame the fish for that?

Cas chuckles. A cruel, hollow sound that starts low in this chest before drifting higher. Amplifies when he throws his head back with wild abandon. Birds scatter nearby, their crows joining his crazed laughter. Soon it chokes off, melting into sobs. Raindrops stain his cheeks, only the clouds disappeared along with the sun.

He lets go of the pole, it rolling close enough to the edge to cause worry. Except it doesn’t fall in. Stays there to remind Cas how he failed at the simple task of catching a fish. How he failed to provide. How he failed his family, his love, and most importantly - himself .

His neck droops and Cas finds himself staring at the lake again. A voice whispers in his mind, tells himself how easy it would be to dive in and never leave. Surrounded by all that water, hidden at the bottom, no one would find him. That he probably has enough grace left in him to allow for a peaceful few years with all the fish he cannot catch. “There’s nothing for me here, anyway,” Cas says, hand slowly reaching for the edge.

It pauses. Cas’s grace ignites in his eyes, and he can clearly see for the first time.

A perfect reflection greets him, Cas gaping at his own face. His head tilts to the side while he studies it. Anger boils his stomach the longer he looks at himself and distorts his features. “You’re a failure,” he says, snarling at the water, “You can’t do anything right. You can’t catch a fish, can't protect your family, and you can’t keep the trust of the man you love. No matter what you do it’s never right, never good enough. You don’t belong anywhere you’re a… you’re a… a fish out of water -”

Cas quiets, clarity poking through the dense fog of hatred clouding his mind. He relaxes on his haunches, away from his reflection. Stunned by the overwhelming ridiculousness of the situation. How easily he let himself spiral because of one false catch.

Venom drips down the corners of his mouth while Cas calms himself. Each measured breath helps douse the vicious flame that threatened to burn him. In the ash, positive thoughts can re-grow.

“You are not a failure,” he starts, “you are allowed to fail, but that doesn’t make you a failure. Failing is a natural part of existence. The only true failure comes in giving up. If you give up, it means you’re letting those who wish to see you broken win. It tells them that you are powerless to stop them. But you’re not. As long as you’re there to greet the sun each day, you haven’t failed. They haven't won.”

“And the ones who have failed,” he stutters on this next bit, heart twisting in knots, “the ones who have failed you are those who aren’t able to provide you with what you need.” Cas glances at the water again, green dots peering up at him. “Who take but cannot give in return. Sometimes you cannot fix this and that’s okay. The actions of others are not your fault. In this world we only have true control over one thing… and that is ourselves.”

A Gas n Sip display held a collection of self-help CDs that Castiel blew all his cash on. Wore his speakers thin by playing them without pause. They helped provide a safety net in his darkest moments, little nuggets of wisdom like the mantras he repeated scattered throughout.

Cas picks up his pole and stands. Sunlight begins cresting over the trees, morning arriving without fanfare. “Y’know,” he says, “maybe it’s not me… or the fish. Maybe it’s something else.”

Folding his chair, Cas strolls back to his truck and places his gear inside. “It could be anything…”

He looks at the lake one more time, storm settling inside his chest. Cas leans against his truck bed, the tiniest of smiles reappearing on his face. “It’s not my fault.”

The sun fully rises and Cas leaves.

#supernatural #spn #spn15 #supernatural fanfiction #spn fanfic #15x06 #golden time #castiel #dean winchester #destiel #deancas #castiel deserves better #deancas fanfic #destiel fanfic #tw: suicidal thoughts

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fox-moblin · 6 years

Text

Ruins - Linked Universe Fanfic Mini-Series

A mini-fanfic series for Linked Universe

Prologue

Pt. 1 - Temple of Time

Pt. 2 - Gerudo Town/Prelude to Arbiter’s Ground

Pt. 3 - Arbiter’s Grounds

Pt. 4 - Lon Lon Ranch

Pt. 5 - Prelude to Hyrule Castle

Lon Lon Ranch

“M’ fine…”

“Pup, you are not at all fine.”

Wild glances back as he runs to see Twilight stumble; he’s draped between Time and Warriors, his feet dragging through the muddied ground as they make their way through the rain. The rest of the group are faring slightly better; even Wind, despite everything, is alert and rummaging through his bag as he sits in Sky’s arms, his splinted leg bouncing as Sky jogs. Wild swallows the lump in his throat and forces himself forward, ignoring the gash in his own arm. He’s reminded, for a moment, of running through a different rain and a hand slipping from his grasp, but he pushes the thought from his mind. Behind him, Time is murmuring encouragements to Twilight. Wild tries not to dwell on the shakiness of his voice or how Twilight can’t seem to respond with anything more than a groan.

“Wild!” It’s Time. “We need to find shelter, now!”

“I know, I know, I just-” Wild breaks off, looking around, frantic. They’re in the middle of Hyrule field and the rain and remains of old guardians aren’t helping him to keep a straight mind. He skids to a stop, the others following close behind, and spins, searching. It’s hard to see through the storm, the pounding rain mimicking the pounding in his chest. He can feel panic like a stone in his stomach and he holds back a yell of frustration.

“Wild, please…”

Time is looking at him through the rain and Wild is caught off guard by his elder’s own panic filled eye.

Twilight has gone silent, blood dribbling down his chin only to be washed away by the storm, and Wild chokes.

“I’m trying, I…” He trails off. Through the wind and water, he can see it; the blurred outline of a broken tower.

He hesitates.

He thinks of Malon and Epona and Time, happy and peaceful, and then he thinks of splintered wood and piles of stone and overgrown weeds.

Twilight coughs wetly and Wild makes up his mind. He turns to Time, determined.

“I know a place.”

For the first time today, Wild is grateful for the rain. It’s falling hard enough that the rest of the ruins are cast in a dark haze, making them practically unrecognizable. Time is so focused on getting his protege out of the rain that he doesn’t seem to realize where they are; he just blindly follows Wild’s instructions and makes his way into the shelter of the ranch tower ruins with Warriors. They lay Twilight on the ground as the others file in and begin to work.

Wild crouches by the entrance, silent. He doesn’t trust himself to speak now, doesn’t know if he can. He watches as Time presses his hands to Twilight’s side, as Warriors, elevates his legs, as Hyrule steps forward with potions. Wind is sat next to Sky on a chunk of caved in wall, and Wild can see the way he’s itching to help despite Sky’s insistence that he rests. Legend and Four Swords sit together off to the side, tallying supplies and handing out potions and bandages when needed. Outside the storm rumbles on, thunder shaking the tower around them. A flash of lightning illuminates the field, but no one seems to notice but Wild.

Guilt swells in him like flood water. Twilight is unresponsive where he lays, though Time is trying his best to change that. Between bandaging and potions, he’s shaking Twilight’s shoulder and patting his face. Nobody mentions the crack in his voice despite his efforts to remain stern and calm. Wild presses against the stone wall and looks away.

His fault. Should have known.

The ranch field is empty; with the Calamity gone, there’s been a decline of monsters in this area. Wild had been relieved when he and Zelda had first returned to document the fields; the ruins had seemed more peaceful, quiet.

It’s wrong, he realizes.

He thinks of Malon working the ranch and of her horses in the field, of her song filling the air. She’d been so kind to him, and he let her down. Let her and Time’s legacy down. Another flash of lightning cracks across the sky and Wild can see the rest of the ranch for just a moment; the skeleton of the house stands in defiance against the storm, a monument to his failure. He brings a hand to his arm, clutching at the open wound. It stings when he touches it, but the pain is a reminder. He deserves it, he thinks.

He can feel eyes on him; Legend is watching him from across the room, his lips drawn into a tight line. Wild looks at him out of the corner of his eye and prays Legend lets him alone; he can’t deal with pity right now. Not from Legend or Four Swords or Sky or Warriors or Hyrule or Wind or Time…

He wants Twilight. Wild’s grip tightens on his arm and he bites his lip, fighting tears.

Twilight, who’s currently sprawled on the ground with a gaping wound on his side, motionless.

It’s too still here. There are much flurry, so much panic and movement, but it’s too still; the rain is falling in sheets and the tower is shaking, but Wild feels like he’s breathing through tree sap.

Legend is back to focusing on Twilight. The others aren’t paying attention to anything but their injured comrade.

Wild slips out into the storm.

He sprints across the field; he can’t hear anything over the rain. If the others have noticed his absence, he doesn’t know. Doesn’t want to.

Wild makes his way under the archway, eyes cast downward. The rotted wood of the ranch house offers little shelter, but Wild’s not sure if he deserves it anyways. He sits under the remains of a toppled wall, doing his best not to step on the broken pieces of a tea set. He’d rummaged through this place countless times before, never knowing what it was; whose it was. He toes aside a broken cup; the delicate designs of a bird in flight almost completely distorted by a spider web of cracks on the cup’s surface. He tries to picture the family that lived here, that drank tea and collected cucco eggs and tamed wild mares, but all he sees is Time and Malon. He sees them sitting at their table, holding hands over breakfast and talking about the future.

Their future and their children’s future and their children’s future and so on.

Somewhere along that line is Twilight.

Wild draws his knees to his chest. He doesn’t know if the others realize how far away he is; how much time has passed since each of them drew the sword from stone to when he grasped the hilt himself. He thinks he does.

It’s been a long time.

Their future is his present. His past, that he destroyed and doesn’t even have the decency to remember.

Wild isn’t sure if he’s crying or not; the rain is in his eyes anyway, so what does it matter? He thinks, above the wind, he can hear his name being called, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he curls further in on himself, settling back into the shadow of the ruins, and closes his eyes. The others won’t find him; the wind is picking up again and, if they’re smart, they’ll return to the tower and wait out the storm. Wild opens his eyes and eyes the nearby silhouettes of trees. Any animals are sheltering away now, but come morning, if all is calm, they’ll reappear. Wild makes a plan in the back of his mind to hunt. They need food, but he also hopes it’ll clear his mind.

His injured arm aches and his throat is clogged with emotion. He’s exhausted, but there is little warmth where he now sits and he knows that, if he sleeps at all, it won’t be for a while longer. So he stands post, eyes cast out into the storm. If something does attack tonight, he doubts it will be anything more than his own demons, but, for Time and Twilight’s sake, he’ll keep watch anyway. He owes them that much.

The howling wind is buffeting his hair, thrown loose from its tie in the day’s earlier battle, and part of him wants to tear at the strands and send them flying across the fields. Wild doesn’t remember much from the ordeal at Arbiter’s Grounds, but there’s a hazy memory of fingers running through his hair. It’s the closest he’s felt to peace in a while, he thinks; that feeling is lost now, swept away with the branches and mud that flow past his feet. Pockets of the field have flooded with water and, like tiny mirrors, they reflect the turmoil of the sky above.

Wild stifles a sob and rests his forehead on his arms.

Morning comes, bright and calm, and Wild has already slipped from his hiding place and into the tall grass. The grass is shiny with rainwater and dew, and it brushes against him, soft and gentle. He sits on the hill above the ranch, huddled in the shadow of a tree, and waits. A pile of birds sits next to him, their feathers ruffled by a soft breeze. A little farther away lays the body of a young buck. A lucky shot, considering his arm hasn’t been complying with him that well this morning.

The first to leave the shelter of the tower is Legend. Wild watches as he stands in the entryway and looks around. He can’t see the exact moment realization dawns, but soon enough Legend has disappeared into the tower, only to reappear dragging Warriors out as well.

The two stand there, quiet. One by one the others join as well, Sky carrying Wind on his back until everyone but Twilight and Time are standing in the middle of what was once Lon Lon Ranch’s horse track. Wild can’t see their expressions from here, but by the way they’re looking around in circles, he can tell they’re shocked. They mill about, wandering aimlessly through the ruins. Wild almost debates going down to them, but then Time appears and he’s frozen.

Time walks from the tower, slowly, to the middle of the field. The others are still, watching like Wild as their leader stops and stares at the ruins of his home. Not even Sky seems willing to reach out, to say something.

Wild waits, clutching his wound, but the pain does nothing to stop the horror that overcomes him as he watches Time sink to his knees. The others seem just as shocked until Four Swords rushes forward and kneels in front of Time. The rest of them seem to take this as their cue to move as well, all of them coming together around Time’s bent form. Wild turns away, his fist coming up to stop a scream from erupting from his mouth. He shouldn’t have brought them here. Shouldn’t have let Twilight get hurt. Shouldn’t have been such a stupid idiot.

Somewhere, deep down, he knows there’s nothing he could have done. Knows that Twilight made the decision to jump in front of him. Knows that no one, not even Time, could have done anything differently.

Wild clutches at his hair. He needs to get out of here; if he doesn’t he’s going to scream and let loose and fuck over everything more than he already has. He thinks of Twilight, laying alone in the tower, and he wants to go to him. To wake him up. To let Twilight tell him it’s going to be alright. To let Time come over and pat his head and tell him it wasn’t his fault.

He hadn’t realized how dependent on them he’d grown. It wasn’t like this before; he hadn’t needed anyone else. He’d been alone and that was that. He didn’t have people to turn to. To rely on.

Someone calls his name and Wild panics. He can’t be here right now. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s sprinting down the other side of the hill, the rewards of his morning hunt forgotten. He isn’t paying attention, his sight unfocused and blurry.

He slips on a wet stone and, with a yelp, tumbles forward. He rolls, bouncing the rest of the way until he lands in a bed of soft grass. He lays there, dazed, listening to the calls of the others. A river flows to his left somewhere.

Hylia River, he thinks, idly, and remains where he lays. He wishes he could soak into the ground like rainwater; become one with the earth. Flow into the river and be swept away downstream until he poured into the ocean and was scattered by the waves. Hylia would be angry, but he figures water doesn’t have much to worrying about.

He hopes the others find the birds and the buck. Hopes they leave it at that and stop looking.

“...Wild?”

Hope is a stupid thing.

Wild turns his head and his throat clenches as he sees Time standing at the top of the hill, looking down at him. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say, so instead, he just stares back. Time is making his way slowly down the hillside; none of the others appear after him, which Wild is grateful for. He’s not the most prideful of people, but having the others see him like... this, is not something he wishes.

By the time Time reaches Wild, it’s obvious he’s shaken. Wild bites his lip when he’s sees that the skin around Time’s eye is red and slightly puffy. His elder’s hands are shaking and he looks uncharacteristically lost. Wild opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

I’m sorry, he thinks.

Time seems about as unable to speak as Wild. He kneels a few feet away and stares at the ground, hands resting helplessly on his lap. They twitch, clenching and unclenching. For a moment, Wild thinks he sees Time motion with his fingers.

I…

Before Wild really knows what he’s doing, he’s bringing his own hands up, moving them slowly as he forms his thoughts.

I’m sorry, he signs and Time’s eye is bright with understanding. He hesitates, before bringing his hands up as well.

It’s alright. It’s not your fault.

Wild shakes his head. Time doesn’t understand, doesn’t realize that if it weren’t for him there’d still be a ranch and a track and Twilight would be awake and sitting next to them, laughing or making some stupid joke.

I failed… it’s my fault this… that this place is… His hands drop helplessly onto the ground next to him and Wild feels tears pricking at his eyes. Time is silent, reaching forward to grasp one of Wild’s hands. He squeezes and Wild feels a sob building in his throat. He tries again, removing his hand from Time’s grasp. I couldn’t save it… I couldn’t stop them from destroying your home…

Time is watching him and there’s so much kindness in his eye. Wild wants to shake him and yell at him and tell him that he doesn’t deserve Time’s kindness. His understanding. He deserves to be left behind.

Time must sense what he’s thinking, because he retakes Wild’s hand in his own, rubbing Wild’s knuckles with his thumb. He gives Wild a sort of wobbly smile, and Wild has to turn away as he sees tears beginning to trail their way down Time’s cheek. This isn’t right. Time is supposed to be unmovable. Strong. Time is supposed to stand tall and lead them, tell them what to do. Wild doesn’t know what to do, and he gets the feeling Time doesn’t either.

Wild jolts when he feels hands in his hair. Time swallows, pushing Wild’s bangs away from his face and Wild stares with his mouth parted.

Oh, Cub…

That’s it. That’s what it takes because suddenly Wild’s dam breaks and he’s got an arm across his eyes as his body is racked with silent sobs. The hand in his hair retreats, but Wild doesn’t even have a chance to miss it before arms are gathering him up and holding him close. Time is shaking against him, silent as well, and Wild can’t help but press closer.

He doesn’t know how long they sit there. The others never come. It’s just Wild and Time, sitting together until they’re interrupted by a very loud woodpecker. Time jolts and Wild pulls away, staring at him. They’re silent and then Time surprises Wild by giving a watery laugh. Wild joins in a moment later, chuckling as they listen to the bird continue away with its work. When they finally quiet and are able to catch their breaths, a calm settles over them. Wild swallows. A hand on his head brings his attention to Time, who’s smiling softly.

“So young,” he says and there’s a certain sadness in his eye, removed from recent events. Wild thinks he understands. It’s not fair. None of what they do is fair. He thinks of Wind, even younger than him, carrying the hero’s burden. He thinks of Twilight and Four Swords and Legend and all of them on their own, not knowing what to do or how. He thinks of Time, whatever his story is, and how even now he can’t talk about it. They’re all strong. They all did it, in some way or another.

But it’s not fair.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks again and he hopes Time understands. It’s not just about the ranch or Twilight or failure.

Time seems to want to object, but instead just nods and stands. He reaches a hand down to help Wild up and, together, they begin to make their way back up the hill. Halfway, Time notices the wound on Wild’s arm, grabbing it and turning it over as Wild hisses in pain. Time reaches back and pulls a bit of cloth bandage from his pack, wrapping it around Wild’s arm with gentle hands. When he’s finished he squeezes Wild’s shoulder.

“You’re letting me take a closer look at that when we get back.”

Wild nods, and can’t help the swell of happiness in his chest.

“Yes, sir.”

Twilight wakes later that day with a groan. Wild curls closer to him, clutching his mentor’s arm. Time isn’t far away, sitting against the wall of the tower, watching them. The others are outside, scavenging what they can (with Time’s permission, of course.) Time hasn’t left the tower since he and Wild returned; it’s clear he doesn’t want to be in the ruins of his ranch any longer than he needs to.

Twilight lifts an arm to his head with another groan, and Time smiles. Wild shuts his eyes and sighs softly. He’s tired and speaking still isn’t as easy as he wants it to be, so he’ll let Time cover this one. He can feel Twilight shift beside him.

“What happened?” Twilight mumbles, his voice scratchy and quiet. Wild can hear Time give a huff of laughter.

“You were an idiot.”

Wild feels Twilight shift again and a hand comes to rest on his arm, investigating his newly wrapped wound. He can hear Twilight swallow.

“Is the cub okay?”

Time is quiet for a moment, and the hand on Wild’s arm stiffens. It moves to his head, pushing his hair away from his face.

“He’s fine,” Time finally says. “Exhausted and worried sick over you, but fine.”

There are fingers threading through Wild’s hair and he can feel himself starting to fade. Twilight is talking again, the rumble of his voice lulling Wild further and further into sleep. He can hear Time chuckling and it brings a warmth to his chest that he doesn’t know if he’s ever felt before.

His mentors' voices are fading into the background. Somewhere outside, the others laugh.

It’s peaceful.

@linkeduniverse belongs to @jojo56830

#linkeduniverse #linked universe #ruins #mobwrites #legend of zelda #botw #oot #tp #i think this one was my favorite to write #my apologies #haha

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ahkaraii · 5 years

Text

Rarepair generator: Kakashi & Maito Dai (2100 words)

“They say there’s a God that lives in the volcano.” Obito’s eyes gleam red in the fire. “They say it’s sleeping, waiting to hear its name.”

“That’s unlikely,” Kakashi says in between the crackles of wood.

“It’s name is Death,” Rin says solemnly. “I know, because I saw it die.”

Kakashi frowns behind his surgical mask. He has never known Rin to lie, but then again, he has not known her very long.

Abruptly, Obito and Rin break out into giggles. “You fell for it!” Rin crows.

“Scaredy Crow!” Obito christens him. “You looked so spooked!”

“I did not!” Kakashi bristles like sparks from an open flame.

“Aww, don’t go!” Rin pleads, reaching out for his hand.

“Sit down, c’mon!” Obito strong arms Kakashi back onto his seat. “Don’t be so sensitive.” He’s got a healthy dusk of hair on his arms, and it distracts Kakashi into compliance. Rin slides next to him, and the warmth of their bodies is hotter than the fire before them.

Kakashi feels both trapped and secure between them, and it keeps him from leaving all throughout the night, even as they make up stupider and stupider stories. He falls for every single one, just to see them smile.

Kakashi doesn’t tell his father about Rin and Obito, but he does talk about the tale of the volcano God, thinking it will make his father smile.

“Ah,” Sakumo says quietly. “So that is how Dai is remembered.”

Kakashi frowns. “Die?”

His father has radiated sadness for as long as Kakashi has known him, but the creases around his mouth become more pronounced as he explains, “A long time ago, a man fell into the dormant crater. He was never seen again.” Sakumo looks very old. “The village children must have made up a story about the incident, and time has twisted it to legend.”

Kakashi thinks about Rin and Obito’s faces, burnt gaunt and dead from fire. “Who falls into a volcano?” he says rudely, to banish the fearful image.

“Someone who has been pushed,” Sakumo says, and then says no more about the subject.

The climb is steep, and Kakashi nearly trips on his sandals twice. He envies Rin and Obito’s ease, and takes to calling then Mountain Goats in his mind. Two horns would well suit their devilish nature.

“D’you think he’s still in there?” Rin asks, barely out of breath.

“His bones might be,” Kakashi says. “Hydroxyapatite’s boiling point is higher than the temperature of lava.”

“Geez,” Obito says. “City boy AND a nerd.”

Rin links arms with Kakashi, hefting him forward. “Now you’re the odd one out, Obito,” she sing-songs, and laughs when he makes a noise of outrage.

It’s oddly cool at the summit, and the vast divide between one end of the crater and the other makes Kakashi think it almost logical to believe something divine could have carved it.

“I can’t see anything,” Obito says. “Where d’you think he fell?”

“Death!” Rin hollers, and the crater echoes it, death, death.

“Death!” Obito yells, and he and Rin break out into giggles, the laughter distorted back at them.

Kakashi comes close to the lip of the precipice, and looks down, down. He thinks of his father’s sadness, and the old colostomy scar that still mars his stomach, and the way he said, someone who has been pushed. “Die,” he whispers into the abyss.

The ground abruptly shakes.

Kakashi yelps, Obito and Rin scream, and they trip and fall over themselves scrambling backwards, hands scrabbling to clutch each other’s arms, shirts, trouser legs. Kakashi loses his sandals somewhere on the way, Obito falls flat on his face and breaks his nose, and Rin has to help them both down, their panicked tears turning into incredulous laughter as they realize there is no explosion incoming, there is no God coming to smite them, and that they are still together, whole and alive.

Afterward, the right half of Obito’s face swells so much he’s nearly unrecognizable. The soles of Kakashi’s feet are so scratched he is unable to walk for two whole weeks. Rin, for her part, is miraculously unharmed. She takes to wheeling Kakashi around, taking him from his and his father’s run down house to her and Obito’s apartment.

Rin teaches him how to take care of his wounds. Obito teaches Kakashi how to do wheelies. In that tiny one bedroom apartment, Kakashi learns how to love two idiots, and they how to love him.

Summer ends too soon, and he has to go back to the city. Obito cries and Rin promises to write. Kakashi takes off his mask, and kisses them goodbye. He thinks to himself, no you won’t, and leaves his heart behind.

Time proves him right.

Kakashi’s father lost part of his colon in the war. Or maybe it had been in the car crash that had taken his mother. Or maybe Sakumo had taken a kitchen knife and tried to slice his own stomach open, and failed. The truth is, Kakashi doesn’t know what gave his father that jagged scar. He could make up any number of stories, and they would all end up saying the same thing: his father carries with him a sadness that Kakashi cannot erase, and one day it will kill him.

At his father’s funeral, Kakashi thinks of the story of the volcano God for the first time in a long time. He thinks of a man staring at the edge of a large precipice, and a pair of hands pushing him down, down, to his death. He thinks of Obito and Rin, then, of their hands, Obito’s callouses and Rin’s nail polish, their fingers twining around his own, over his chest, over his heart, and the feeling of falling.

“And now you’re dead,” Kakashi says. “And no one will remember you.”

If he cries then, no one can say. No one went to the funeral, after all.

“Is that...”

“Scaredy Crow!”

Rin and Obito greet him like they never left him. Then again, they never did. It was Kakashi that did the leaving, after all.

He’s quieter now. They each have a gold ring around their finger. Obito and Rin got married and he never knew.

They shouldn’t work anymore. His adolescent solemnity has matured into a twisted version of his father’s perpetual melancholy, and their childish devilry has barely mellowed in their adulthood. He’s intruding upon their relationship, he thinks. He didn’t come back to ruin them.

But Rin and Obito settle on his right and on his left like they belong there. They laugh with him, even if he has forgotten how to laugh. They fill his silences and warm his bed, and his heart, cleaved in two, slowly stitches itself back together.

A scar remains.

The climb is less steep than he remembers it being, but the journey feels longer in his solitude.

At the summit, Kakashi carefully makes his way around the broad lips of the volcano. He thinks of how hot a fire must burn before bones will crumble. His father’s bones cracked in the kiln, and now only shards of his femur and jaw bone remain, mixed inside the pile of grey ashes Kakashi carries now inside the urn he’s so painstakingly carried up the mountain.

It’s lonely up here, and hotter than it had been all those years ago. He can hardly see through his tears.

“My father was born here,” Kakashi whispers. “And now, my father will die here.”

The ground shakes. A hot burst of wind hits Kakashi from the side, and he unceremoniously topples over the side. His scream cuts short on the way down.

He wakes to pain, and fire. It’s hard to breathe. For a moment, he doesn’t know where he is, or who he is.

“Kakashi! Kakashi! Kakashi!”

The name echoes like someone is playing squash with it, squash with his head. Kakashi’s head is bleeding, and the ground he’s fallen on is painfully hot. His hand is bent at a very odd angle, and for one delirious second he thinks, now I will see how hot my bones must become to char.

“Kakashi!”

He comes to properly. “Obito?” he rasps, wetly. “Rin!”

“Kakashi! Kakashi!”

They cannot hear him, and he is too weak to yell. The air is hazy from the heat of it.

Oh, God. He has fallen into the volcano.

“Rin,” he moans. Kakashi has surely broken more than just his wrist in the fall. He ignores the pain, and, with a monumental effort, drags himself up to his knees. He remembers a summer a lifetime ago, the scars on the soles of his bare feet, how much it hurt to walk. Rin had pushed his wheelchair for him. Obito had taught him how to wheel it in style.

He can’t stop the memories now. He remembers their faces, the dimples of Obito’s impish smile, the crease of Rin’s eyes when she looks at him; the warmth of their hands on his.

“Oh God,” Kakashi whispers. “I don’t want to die.”

The world shakes violently. Before him the ground splits like God himself has dug his hands into the earth and parted it like clay, lava surging out of the cracks like a geyser. Kakashi screams.

The scattered bones and ashes of his father incinerate around him, but somehow, Kakashi does not burn. His scream runs out of air, and he stares, wide eyed, as the lava congeals to form an almost...humanoid shape.

“The Mountain God,” he whispers, almost against his will.

The creature’s roar is the very shaking of the ground. His eyes are white hot slits in the blackened crust of skin, broken by fiery red veins of lava. His hair is the fire that burns above it all, majestic and cataclysmic.

“Hatake,” the thing may have said. Kakashi loses consciousness.

The story goes like this: many years ago, a man was pushed into the volcano by seven boys, or perhaps it was only the one. Or maybe he fell into it because he was an idiot. Or maybe he was trying to save his son, and they burned in each other’s arms, until only their skeletons remained in the heart of the mountain. Whatever the truth of it may have been, these are the facts: Kakashi fell into the volcano, and survived. He will wake and claim until his dying day that the Mountain God saved him.

Obito and Rin nurse Kakashi back to health. He may have survived, but not wholly intact. He shattered more bones than he cares to think about, so he’s bed bound significantly longer than two weeks. His right leg was burned so severely that it ultimately had to be amputated, and the initial impact sliced his left eyeball right out, disfiguring him. He will probably remain wheelchair bound for the rest of his life.

Kakashi thinks he should be sad, that he should be frustrated, or horrified, but maybe the fall jostled his brains because he can’t help but laugh about it, after. He’s alive, and Obito and Rin are by his side, and he was saved by the Mountain God.

It takes him six months to become independent again, but he’s never felt more alive. Obito gets him a shiny glass eyeball with a blood red iris as a joke, but Kakashi sticks it into his eye socket with glee. Rin thinks it’s in bad taste so she gets him an eyepatch. Together, they buy him a fantastically dynamic wheelchair. On their anniversary, he dog piles them both on top of his lap and wheels them around town to show off how strong he’s gotten.

On the anniversary of his accident, Obito and Rin get him a golden ring. He wears it around his neck like a lifeline, or a dogtag. Having lost a leg, he’s well aware of how easy it is to lose a limb and he would not chance losing their treasure in such a manner. Obito says he’s being super morbid, Scaredy Crow, but Rin understands, and their marriage bands overlap at night, over Kakashi’s heart.

Deep within the mountain, the volcano sleeps again. Maybe someday another couple of children will stumble into awakening it. Or maybe it will sleep an age, until time has forgotten its name.

Kakashi will visit it every year, and Obito and Rin will accompany him, and they will bow their heads, and pray, that Kakashi’s father may rest, that he may find peace.

The three of them certainly do.

#karaii fic #sakumo and kakashi #kakaobirin #idk how to even classify this fic #kinda fairy tale folk tale ish?#it got away from me for sure #the generator gave me maito dai and kakashi and somehow i ended up with this xD

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flyswhumpcenter · 5 years

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Bad Things Happen Bingo! The event where you send me requests according to this marvelous card! (Red cross is the completed prompt, character headshots are prompts I’ve already filled. Green deltas are for requested prompts.)

There is no better way to study a character than to stick them in a situation where they're all alone. No outside disturbance, that way! Hell yeah! I've wanted to write one more of these "character has to survive" oneshots for a little while so I jumped on that occasion. Felix is a pretty fun character to try and a get a hold of. I suppose I've always liked edgy-ass guys. Let's justify every instance of out-of-characterness in this oneshot with blood loss!

It’s longer than I expected it to be, tbh.

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Get Out Alive

Summary: He can't afford to die here.

Fandom: Fire Emblem: Three Houses (Post-Timeskip)

Wordcount: 1.8K words

Event hosted by @badthingshappenbingo

AO3 version available here.

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A swooping motion of a fierce-looking, sharp-bladed axe.

A slight moment of inattention, given to another occurrence on the battlefield, misplaced worry.

A few droplets of crimson, shards of fabric, drops of sweat flow in the air along with the branches of the trees.

A move on the other side, of a sword, gets even more poured on the stomped grass.

A body collapses on the ground, another falls on its knee, a hand touching the stained soil.

And soon it crashes into a flow.

With heavy footsteps, the survivor rises to his feet, swaying. His fingers fumble with the edges of his soaked clothing, tips tinted in red, as he tries to examine the wound. It’s a deep slash, red all over from where his eyes can pry at it, and the stench would have overwhelmed him if he wasn’t so used to defeating enemies and watching their bodies empty themselves from their blood.

Then a wild thought as the world starts spinning: what if he stayed and defeated more enemies? He can’t leave the battlefield like a coward, can he? That’s not how he does it, he isn’t a fucking loser who’s afraid of dying, isn’t he? Death is nothing compared to the thrill of battle!

A familiar, firm voice calls out to him.

Felix, retreat!

The professor… No. Their leader. Their strategist, their commander on the battlefield. He has to obey their order, doesn’t he? Fuck this shit… Fuck this shit to Hell and back, he wants to continue fighting and do something that isn’t laying around doing jack shit, goddammit, don’t let him down like this!

Another voice, even more familiar, serious and severe, yet obviously concerned. Urgh.

Felix, you damn idiot, retreat before you get yourself killed!

It’s Ingrid’s, who is flying on her mount right over his head, a blurry image before she goes to spear an opponent about to slash his throat with the scooping motion of a rapier. Backed against a wall that doesn’t exist, he sheathes his dripping sword away, arm still pressed against the wound, and decides he’d be better off not getting harassed either.

His feet feel heavy, as if the light armour he wears got thicker and more constrictive since he’s put it on. Lethargy courses through his four limbs, one arm dropping by his side, weight pinching forward constantly. His balance is almost non-existent: he swings from one side to the other like an irregular pendulum, senses numbed and will to fight about to give up and in on him.

He resorts to using a corpse’s lance as a crutch, almost tripping on nothing as he kneels to get it. Disgraceful. Disgusting. That’s like showing the most weakness you can in one motion, in one decision. A fierce, proud swordsman like him shouldn’t have to rely on such cheap techniques to even make it out of the field without meeting his end. At best, he’s pathetic.

Despite the nausea taking a toll on him, he doesn’t taste bile coming up in the back of his throat.

Instead, he tastes iron. Bitter, filtered, liquid iron.

He’s become the picture of vulnerability and, as if knowing that wasn’t enough, everything in him constantly reminds him of that fact. Every noise seems so far away, the voices of his comrades like the sound of the lance he’s stolen, as if his ears were filled with fabric. His view is swimming more and more as he advances, hardly able to put a foot before the other without tripping, to the point he can soon only see blurry spots of colours and hear distorted sounds.

Dammit, this isn’t good… If his sight fails on him even further, he’s no better than dead in the eyes of anyone on this battlefield. He can’t waste precious time and resources on this, he’s got to get out of this mess on his own, and that’s only now that he realizes he’s afraid of death. Afraid of the eternal void, of the darkness of the everlasting slumber, and he doesn’t want it. Not now, not here. He still has things to do, things to partake in, and he can’t afford to meet his demise here.

He can’t afford to bleed out when he’s lost who-knows-how much of it already.

Speaking feels like it’d be a waste of energy, so he resolves to mentally motivating himself to the nearest healer. He has to find Mercedes, who wasn’t too far from him at the beginning, but it’s getting hard to distinguish anything in the sea of blur and vague. There’s no way to tell who is an ally and who is an enemy anymore and the screams roaring around him are nothing but a vast, undetermined, messy potpourri of noise. Talk about an environment to find your footing in.

A foot forward, then the other, then the lance… and he trips miserably on the ground, coughing against the grass, smelling the iron of fallen weapon and bodily fluids. It’s disgusting and repulsive, more than it has any right to be, and he gets nauseous to the point of almost fainting. Yet, fighting the world that keeps spinning to the point of being unrecognizable and the fluids that want to exit from his mouth and wounds, he gets up and continues, for once relieved that no fight is happening around him.

He won’t end up like Glenn, not today, not here, and not in those circumstances! That much he swears on his life!

(That’s ironic…)

His thoughts are on repeat. Don’t die. Don’t fall. Don’t falter. Don’t get distracted. Don’t engage a fight.

Don’t perish. Don’t trip. Don’t fail. Don’t get your attention somewhere else. Don’t start fighting someone.

Don’t lose your life. Don’t lose your footing. Don’t lose your composure. Don’t lose your focus. Don’t lose your reason because your honour got the best of you.

Don’t die, Felix. You can’t afford it, none of you can afford it.

The lance breaks between his fingers, tired of supporting his unbalanced weight to itself. His legs are about to give in, but his vision is dampening with black and he can’t find another corpse to steal from. Even in his darkest times, fate gives up in him and tells him to find somewhere else to go, to see if the green isn’t less red in that imaginary destination. The only land he’s getting promised here is the realm of the dead and he doesn’t want to be there.

He’s glad to be alive, thank you, and dying isn’t pleasing him.

Shivers wreck his frame from head to toes. He feels cold, so cold under the fur of his armour, so cold under the blazing heat of the sun that made him sweat barely minutes ago. Time is torturing him, making him think he’s going to die a moment, giving him back some vigour the next. He feels sick, but it’s no sickness that’s affecting him.

His legs end up giving in in the middle of the field. He tries to drag himself along the grass to make it to safety, to a healer, to something dammit; but his arms are too weak from supporting the rest against a glorified, broken stick, and can’t be expected to lift his weight once again. A glass canon he’s always been, a glass canon he’ll die as. That’s it.

This is the bitter end and it feels as unsatisfying as it could possibly have.

His eyes shut close and don’t open even when he begs them to. Vague echoes dance in his mind to taunt him –the sound of the living being alive and enjoying life— as he attempts one last time to rise to his knees. His bones have transformed into lead, everything is either too far or too soon. It sure is his end, (not the end, his end, that’s painfully obvious), and it’s an end he doesn’t want to see.

It’s dying in disgrace, dishonour and loneliness, surrounded by the enemy, not unlike what his brother must have gone through during the Tragedy. Fitting, but displeasing to say the least.

With nothing to see, touch or feel with, he’s stuck waiting for the finale, lying on his back, a lethargic end on the wound that’s going to cost him so, so much. Talk about a miserable defeat, unfit of his mastery. It could have been avoided too, if he hadn’t seen Sylvain almost getting wounded himself… In the end, you really are supposed to stand on your own and be independent, don’t you?

Yeah… That’s funny. Life’s funny. All he has left is to mentally laugh about how pathetic he must look like at the moment. It makes you like or hate it, and then plays around with you until you’re either tired of it or addicted to the feeling of being alive. It’s living for the sake of living until you die and realize how much you have left to do. If he dies today, he won’t ever get to see his house prosper after the death of both heirs. He won’t get to win against the professor he’s sworn to vanquish in a spar someday. He won’t get to see if Sylvain will calm down, if the boar prince (excuse him, Dimitri) will ever come back from the mental war, if his kingdom will win the war.

It’s funny that he cares about all of this so much now. Earlier, he was just busy trying to survive and retreat. It’s amusing in all the wrong meanings of the term.

Death is funny too if you twist it one way or the other, isn’t it?

An echo of a voice comes in his vague direction.

Felix!!

It feels like Annette’s voice, but he isn’t sure. It could be Mercedes or even Ingrid, considering how far he’s gone. Footsteps accompany it, until it seems like he’s getting held. It’s not like he can even see who it is to be sure about the identity of the person lifting him up from the ground.

Oh my Goddess, he’s bleeding out…!

The voice frets over herself, reminding his body to feel pain when it’s forgotten how to have anything going through it other than numbness and powerlessness. It’s a strangely welcome slight change, even if he grits his teeth and almost screams in a broken screech.

H-hang on, Felix, I’ll bring you to safety! Don’t die on me okay?!

He tries nodding. Must be the least reassuring sight ever, but fretting won’t be of use to anyone, so he just does it anyway. The warmth of this person is soothing, why not try to do something in exchange?

Funny that hope comes back when despair is settled.

#fire emblem #fire emblem three houses #felix hugo fraldarius #cw blood #bleeding #injury #bad things happen bingo #bthb 2

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wisdomrays · 4 years

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REINCARNATION UNDRESSING THE FALLACIES: Part 2

Belief in reincarnation in Egypt, India and Greece, developed as a result of distortion of once sound beliefs in the Hereafter, and from a longing for the immortality of the soul. Neither in Ahen-Aten’s Egypt nor in Pythagoras’ Greece did anyone know of the reincarnation which these distorted beliefs brought about. To Ahen-Aten, when man’s life ends in this world, a different one starts in heaven. As soon as one dies, one’s soul sets off on its journey to reach ‘the Greatest Court’ in heaven, It goes so high that it reaches to the presence of Osiris, and hopes to give an account of itself in words like these: ‘I have come to Your presence as I was free from sins, and throughout my life, I did do everything I could that would make devout men pleased. I did not shed blood nor did I steal. Neither did I make mischief nor did I mean any. I did not commit any adultery nor fornication whatever’. Those who can speak so join Orisis’ congregation, those who cannot, whose evil deeds outweigh their good, are hurled into hell and tortured by demons.

Such sound belief is witnessed also in epitaphs relating to Ahen-Aten’s religion as follows: ‘What You have done is too much and our eyes cannot perceive most of them. 0 One, Only God No one possesses such might as You have. It is You who has created this universe’ as You wish and You alone. It is You who decree the world suitable for human beings, for all animals, whether big or small, whether they walk on the earth on their legs or they fly up in the sky on their wings. And it is You alone who sustain and nourish them. Thanks to You, all beauties come into existence. All eyes see You by means of those. Verily, my heart belongs to You (You are in my heart).’ The ideas quoted verbatim above were the things which were believed as truth in Egypt some four thousand years ago.

Likewise, in Ancient Greece, the belief in resurrection and the immortality of the soul was quite sound. The great philosopher Pythagoras, for example, believed that the soul on leaving the body has a life peculiar to itself; in fact any soul has this same kind of life even before it quits the earth. It is commissioned with some responsibilities on earth; if it commits any evil, it will be punished, thrown into hell and tormented by demons. On the other hand, in return for the good that it does, it will be given high rank and blessed with a happy life. Allowing for the changes that might have been made in the views of Pythagoras over time, we can certainly still see that there are fundamental similarities with the Islamic creed of resurrection. Plato’s account is not so different either. In his famous treatise The Republic, he says that the soul on leaving the body forgets the material life totally; it ascends into an appropriate realm, a spiritual one, saturated with wisdom and immortality; the soul is free from all scarcity, deficiency, error, fear, and from the passion and love which afflicted it while it lived on earth; and then, being free from all the evil consequences of human nature, it is blessed with eternal bliss.

In essence, the doctrine of reincarnation is, in its different forms within different creeds, if we look carefully, a distorted version of a sound belief. Every creed, with the exception of Islam, has suffered such distortions. Christianity, for example, once a divinely revealed religion, has been distorted and Prophet Jesus deified. Had it not been for the luminous and clarifying verses of the Qur’an, and the influence of Islam, Christianity’s formal position on this matter may not have been different. If Christianity teaches the unity of the soul and body, it owes this to the Andalusian Muslim savants. One of the most famous Christian philosophers is St Thomas Aquinas. The great part of his new ideas and synthesis were adapted from Islamic teachings. He says in his distinguished book Summa Theologica (Part I, Question 90, Art. 4) that the key concept of man is that the soul and body are united in an apt composite. He adds that animal souls develop with animal bodies, but that human souls are especially created at some time during early development (Art. 3), and he therefore rejects the abstract speculations of the Neo-Platonist school.

In a comparable way, no doubt also through unscrupulous translation away from the original language and subsequent further distinctions, the Ancient Egyptian, Indian and Greek religions became unrecognizable. The doctrine of reincarnation may well be one such alteration from an originally sound conception of the immortality of the soul and its return to the Divine Judgement.

After reincarnation was inscribed into the beliefs of the Ancient Egyptians, it became one of the central themes of songs and legends throughout the vicinity of the Nile region. Elaborated further with the eloquent expressions of Greek philosophers, it became, with the expansion of Greek influence, a widespread phenomenon.

Reincarnation and Hinduism

The Hindus consider matter as the lowest manifestation of Brahma, and deem that the convergence of body and soul is a demeaning of the soul, a decline into evil. However, death is believed to be salvation, a separation from human defects, a possible chance to achieve an ecstatic union with the truth. The Hindus are polytheistic in practice. Their greatest god is ‘Krishna’, who is believed to have come in a human figure in order to eradicate evil.

Their second greatest god is ‘Vishnu’, which means that which can penetrate the human body. According to Hinduism, Vishnu has descended into this world nine times in different shapes (human, animal, or flower). He is also expected to descend for the tenth time. Since they believe that Vishnu will next come to this world in the shape of an animal, killing any animal is absolutely prohibited. Killing animals is only allowed during war; and the zealots of that religion do not normally eat meat. According to the Vedanta, the most important religious book of the Hindus, the soul is a part, a fragment, of Brahma; it will never be able to get rid of suffering and distress until it returns to its origin. Soul achieves gnosis by isolating itself from the ego and all wickedness pertaining to the ego, and by running towards Brahma, just as a river flows down into a sea. When the soul reaches and unites with Brahma, it acquires absolute peace, tranquillity and stillness, another version of which is Nirvana in Buddhism:there is an abatement of active seeking, a passivity of soul in the latter, whereas the soul is dynamic in Hinduism.

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reverseblackholeofwords · 6 years

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REVERSE I NEED MORE OF THAT VIRUS STORY PLEASE I BEG YOU

(blood tw)

When Ollie wakes up, everything seems distorted and strange. The lights are too bright, and the color balance is all wrong. Red leans over him shouting something, but Ollie’s auditory processors are offline. Instead he reads Red’s lips. “… Anti, what happened to Anti?”

Oliver’s memories come back to him suddenly and he jolts upwards in shock, looking around. It’s a mistake. Google is still lying in pieces to the side, and bits of him are strewn around all over. Oliver gasps and curls into Red’s chest as the android pulls him close and shields his eyes from the remains of their brother.

As Ollie’s auditory systems slowly come back online, he begins to hear Red muttering, “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay,” like a broken record. Like he’s trying to convince himself.

“Red…”

“He said he’d come back. He said…” Red’s voice glitches slightly. “He promised that if it got to be too much, he’d get out so he’d be safe.”

Oliver puts a hand over his core. He was done for if Anti had left him, and he knows it. Without him, that virus would’ve deleted Oliver for good, and now Anti is somewhere alone with that thing inside of him.

Anti feels a crack as he hits the ground hard in some dive deep in the Forgotten, where all the worst monsters live. He gasps and flips himself over onto his back to catch his breath only to realize that he can’t. The virus has him by the throat, and it makes his vision red. Something wanders over, curious to see if it might make Anti into a meal.

But it’s really quite the opposite.

Everything turns into a blur of fire and blood. Anti feels like he’s burning up from the inside out, and the virus does everything in its power to break him. It throws him at every monster, makes him do terrible things to them, and when that doesn’t work, he starts seeing things. It’s not monsters he’s toying with anymore, it’s the Googles, the Host, his dad.

He loses count of how many times he kills them, but Anti won’t let this thing take him back home, no matter how badly it tries.

Maybe it’s days, maybe weeks before the virus finally burns itself out, before Anti’s own corruption finally wastes it away and he’s free. But everything hurts. He can’t tell the difference between his own blood and the blood of everything he’s killed. It’s completely soaked his clothes and his hair, painted every inch of skin until he’s unrecognizable.

So he drags himself to a quiet place, some abandoned monster’s cave where no one will find him, and he lets himself pass out. He wakes up cold and stiff, unable to move and surprised he’s not dead. “Ollie,” he chokes, trying not to think of his brother’s scared face or the way he screamed.

It wasn’t real, he tells himself. It was just that virus. It wasn’t real, but he can’t be sure, not until he sees them. But he can’t go home either, because what if that virus is still inside him, waiting?

“Dad.” Anti can’t feel the tears on his cheeks as he curls in on himself and presses his back against the stone wall. He can’t go back, not if there’s even the slightest chance that all those horrible things he did were real.

The three Googles stand around nervously as Red runs the final tests on their brother. It took nearly a month to get Google back in one piece, but now all their hard work might finally be over. Red brings Google online and takes a step back.

They were careful to check for any traces of the virus, just as they had when they brought Green back, but if even one line of that malicious code still remains, this could start all over again.

When Google opens his eyes and looks around, he lunges forward, and they all flinch as he grabs them in his arms and squeezes. “You’re alive,” he gasps. “How did you get rid of it? How did you delete the virus?”

“We didn’t.” Ollie looks up at Blue with tears in his eyes. “Anti took it… and we don’t know where he is now.”

Blue pulls Ollie close with a sigh. “Don’t worry. We’ll find him.”

It doesn’t take long to trace the stories of the demon that tore through entire towns within the Forgotten and destroyed everything in its path. The Host leads the Googles to the final place that the monster was seen, and they scan the surrounding areas tirelessly until they find the cave.

It’s damp and cold, secluded from the rest of the run-down town, and there at the back of it, huddled up and unconscious, is Anti. Before they even think of moving him, Oliver does a scan and has to stop himself from bursting into sobs. “He’s… he’s got a lot of broken bones and stuff that’s healed wrong. Um…” He shakes a little as he kneels down for a closer look. “Looks like a punctured lung and… major blood loss.”

The Host puts a hand on Ollie’s back and kneels down beside him to brush his fingers over Anti’s forehead. “He’s in a coma, but the virus is gone. It should be safe to bring him.”

He doesn’t need to say another word before the Googles go about carefully moving Anti onto a gurney. “What about Doc?” Green asks the Host quietly as the others carry Anti out. “Can we really just bring Anti back like this without Doc losing it?”

“If we don’t bring him back now,” the Host says in a thin voice, “he might not come back at all.”

Green isn’t wrong, though. When they bring Anti to the clinic, Doc has to excuse himself while the Googles begin the work on Anti, and he has to stop several times through the operations when they realize just how torn up Anti is. His recovery is also much slower than any of them are used to. Normally Anti can bounce back from any injury within hours, but this is excruciatingly slow in comparison. And even when he finally wakes up, he’s so pale and hollow that they hardly recognize him, but he’s still Anti, their Anti.

“Did you bring me pizza?”

Oliver laughs and pulls the box out from behind his back with a grin. “Of course, silly!”

Doc ruffles Anti’s hair and sits down on the bed next to him as they all reach for a slice, and the glitch leans into his dad as they eat and laugh. Oliver lets Anti go through his diagnostics to check for the virus. “I’m fine, I promise.” Ollie smiles. “You saved me.”

Anti leans back with a sigh and nods. “I’m glad, I’m really glad.”

“Come on, time for a nap.” Doc stands up and sets the pizza box aside as Ollie gives Anti one last hug. “Rest up, kiddo.” He presses a quick kiss to his forehead and turns to go.

While Doc slips out quietly, Anti lays down and snuggles under the covers, but Ollie hesitates in the doorway for a second. How many times now has Anti saved him? How many times has Anti taken a hit for him? And how many times has he almost not come back from it in the end?

“Thanks again, Anti.” And the glitch smiles happily as the door swings shut and he falls asleep, safe and sound at home.

#antisepticeye #dr. iplier #google oliver #the host #googleplier #google red #google green #reverse prompts #retroverse

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