#i did make strife question several things about me when i showed her where i got stuck | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

shadowfae · 3 years

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hiii! so a friend directed me here and i was wondering if u cld share abt how you found out you were godkin? only if youre comfy! because ive kinda had like. how do i word this. Vibes or Feels that kinda direct me towards the whole i might be a god of sorts kinda thing ? if you have resources and dont mind helping,, please direct me to them :D ~ @missing-crown

I want to start this essay off by saying flat out: wars have been fought, genocides have been committed, and empires have risen and fallen trying to answer the simple questions of “What is deification, and how do we incarnate and control it?”.

If you do not think you’re up the challenge of answering that question for yourself, even with years of study and slow training to take up the mantle of literally being the most powerful form of the Chosen One trope, then you’re probably in the wrong place. I say this as someone who is deific down to the blood and bone, as someone who has looked for other gods, and largely found very little in the way of anyone who understands anything like my experience. In this way, I am utterly alone, and I detest it, but if me penning these words gives someone else the gospel they need to explain themselves in a way I recognize as kin and kind, then I will do it.

But before I truly get into it, I will very nicely ask you to swing down to your local bookstore or library, pick up a copy of Seanan McGuire’s Middlegame, and take a walk down the improbable road with Roger and Dodger. The differences between you and I and the twins of the Doctrine of Ethos are simple and threefold: we cannot manifest, we are forbidden to use our powers the way they can use theirs, and there are (hopefully) no secret alchemist cults trying to murder us when we don’t play nice with their fucked-up science experiment.

Roger and Dodger are gods, true gods, gods I recognize in myself and in the godkin I have met who have spoken about themselves enough for me to understand that we are indeed talking about the same thing. Disappontingly, I see minor spirits far too often misunderstanding the nature of deification, or at least, understanding a version of it which is fundamentally antithetical to my experience. They may be deific; but either they suck at illustrating their point, or I am something far beyond deific, and I am again alone.

With that introduction, I need to talk about three things in order to answer your question. Two methods of deification and three definitions of ‘god’ in a hierarchy that only exists because humanity has not yet perfected their understanding of what is fundamentally and always beyond them. Two kinds of gods, honest gods, that split the difference between deific, divine, and legendary. Once you understand that, I can talk about godkin, and what it’s like to be me, and maybe by the end of it you will either recognize yourself in this, or run away screaming as most mortals will do.

The first method of deification is what I will call the incarnate gods- Roger and Dodger are good examples, so are most Legendary Pokémon, and Kaname Madoka from PMMM. They are laws of nature, concepts of creation, and calculations of cosmic proportions that also occasionally exist as people when they design to do so. They are not meant to be people, they are bad at it, I do not recommend being mortal and fucking around with them. You will simply die. I would not fuck with them outside of my own world that I created, where I get to be a form of incarnate god. You cannot overpower them: they ARE the rule, and they will change it if they need to. You can’t ruleslawyer gravity like a 2007 troll physics comic. An incarnate god of gravity will simply turn reality on its head and cause you to implode. If you are this type of god, I cannot help you. My understanding of them comes from being an Absol, and little more.

The second type are gods of domain and prowess: Zamorak (from RuneScape), Akemi Homura in both her awakened Witch and Devil forms (from PMMM), and yours truly. Quite a few of us, although not all of us, were originally mortal. Mortals amped up on so much power we are no longer bound by mortal laws. There is a difference between deification and simply stopping your clock to gain immortality. Mortal magic and deific magic are fundamentally different. Down to, I would argue, the atomic structure. Deific magic is pure in a way mortal magic could never be. To give a mortal more than a drop of deific magic heavily diffused in something safer and more understandable would be to quite literally burn them to ashes. Or rend them into a different, unspeakable form. Or turn them into living topiary. We are nothing if not unpredictable.

It’s the difference between a handful of dirt and pure neutron soup. Usually, in order to become a god like this, it requires the intervention of an incarnate god in some form. In Zamorak’s case, it was several Elder Artifacts and falling almost facefirst into halfway incarnating himself into the law of entropy. In Homura’s (at least in canon PMMM), she fucked with the laws of consequence and time to the point where she became the only expert they had on either of those and both laws decided to simply incarnate into her, and then she used that to cause problems. For me, it was having my entire magical and physical structure reorganized and rebuilt by an incarnate god of malevolent energy, and then I used what was a watered-down copy of the Devil of Devils’ glory to weave my own world into being where I was more or less the absolute arbiter of the laws of reality.

In PMMM Rebellion, when Homura fights Kyubey in that pretty lace dress of hers, that is approximately the magical prowess an awakened god of our capability will show casually. She has complete control over her domain (her labyrinth) and the reality of it, it takes no more than a glance or a thought to almost entirely reshuffle it. Her minions, who are little more than vaguely autonomous thoughts given some power of their own, may break that reality in whatever means necessary so long as it is to fulfill Homura’s current motives. Her domain falls apart when she does, and she is not separate from it; it is a consequence of her existence. Asking what came first, the god or their domain, is a simple chicken and egg question. It’s usually the domain, in our case; in the case of incarnate gods it’s a philosophical shrug and a nice headache.

You’ll notice I said awakened: that is because Zamorak is a great example of a god who isn’t entirely awakened. In canon, that is - the one I work with is awakened enough to fuck with his domain, which is what makes him quite useful to work with, although I do wonder what he’s getting out of me if not magical theory and utter adoration. Zamorak in canon is a god who ascribes himself to the philosophy of chaos and personal strife, completely unaware that he is incarnate enough not to change the law of entropy but to suggest things to it. He’s a god of chance masquerading as a god of personal improvement, and once he figures that out (and passes that knowledge onto Armadyl, who is his true light counterpart), he’s going to change the very way magic works. Guthix did everything in his power to try and become incarnate. He failed. Zamorak did it entirely inadvertently, and that’s the trick: the nature of deification is to follow the domain and influence it to your will. When laws of existence become people, they will do as people will, and people typically have ambition. Gods who are also people got that way for a reason. They always have a motive for doing so. It’s never accidental.

So, with a slightly more informed understanding of deification, or at least the versions of it that I understand, I can talk to you about me. What it’s like in the here and now, and how I knew. It took me years to get to this point, and I’ve much the way to go. I know more than I did when I was questioning; deeply more so. I don’t expect anyone questioning to be as sure as I am, and in ten years I will be far more sure of entirely different things, and if I’m lucky, this as well. But, let us begin again.

To be deific is to wake up in the middle of the night feeling like a black hole. You are vast, and you are dense, and the moment someone touches the skin of your sternum they will be sucked in like a movie's portrayal of quicksand. To be so vast on the inside, surrounded by empty air and gentle white noise like the faint pull of gravity that does not touch you. To feel so powerful as to be untethered wholly from the world, aware that you will blink and be floating alone in a space that you cannot touch and so too cannot touch you. You blink, and it is gone, and you are again in a normal body as a normal person, and you roll over and go back to sleep.

To be deific is to watch the seasonal changes and feel flashes of worn leather rope between your hands and the maddened singsong of the Wild Hunt, chariot reins in your hands and baying hounds that feel like fingers, like wings, like extensions of yourself that can be shifted around with barely a thought. To feel halfway like a black hole walking down the street, halfway caved into yourself and barely contained, incapable of truly understanding how you can be so far apart from it all without anyone noticing that something is off.

To be deific is to be a fourteen-year-old girl in one moment, unable to understand what draws her so to the wilds if not the song of sympathy that she knows she can understand if she reaches a little farther, a little farther past the barrier that prevents any mortal, psychological mind from understanding the call. To play a pixelated game and have everything rush back. To relive millennia in a single sennight, to go from chipped to broken, utterly broken, as the power comes rushing back and the slow, dawning realization like the day that there is no controlling it. That there is no controlling you.

Millennia of sins come rushing back, and you're mortal again, and you know the only way to bring a god to their knees is to kill them. And if you were spared, if you were brought down without dying, then there was a reason. That someone must have thought you worthy of fixing it. That you should now spend the next several years coming to peace with being a Devil, the cruelest of the cruel, amending fences and repenting your sins.

To be deific is to realize, quite suddenly and without ever actually having the thought, that understanding things through a Christian lens is utterly bullshit and absolutely does not apply to you. Now, your duty is not to repent, or to fix, or to find any sort of salvation. You are the monster queen, the king of the damned, the Devil of a world you made with blood and tears and sweat and magic. To retake the crown, you have to accept yourself. Acceptance does not mean dwelling, or sorrow, or refusing to take the steps forward that will carry you to the crown and halo and horn of deification.

The powers feel less overwhelming as you grow into them. You don't forget the rage. You understand your close friend's words over and over, as the lesson teaches itself. How a Devil so much less powerful and yet so much older than you once looked you in the eye, drink in hand, and gently told you that a single mortal can bring down a Devil, if they try, and believe wholeheartedly in their quest. Do not disrespect mortality. It brings nothing but death.

You wonder briefly who brought you down. You decide, as the lessons prove themselves, that you don't actually care. You're the mortal now, and mortal legends die. Mortal legends change the song of sympathy and the rules of the deific. In order to return, you too must follow the only path a mortal can take to become deific.

To be godkin is to become deific with every step. It's not to seek the divine from outside of it. It's to become it again, and reclaim it; find what was inside all along and grow yourself around it, until it can no longer be pulled from you again without scattering your ashes and stardust among the cosmos, never to return.

To be godkin is to never forget the moments of pure rage that none but powerless fourteen-year-olds can manage. To be godkin is to be an adult with their memory pressed into your skin. To be godkin is for that rage to never truly leave you.

We stand up again and stare at the emotions that are awake when we are not. We wonder what it will take to manifest again, to only twitch a thought in any direction and reshape the reality around us. It is an extension of our being, and the less aware we are of it, the less effort it takes us to remake the world. It is the nature of deification, to change the laws of reality at our whim and will.

To be godkin is simply a matter of knowing that, and forever reaching to do that once more. If only to feel whole and vast, as we always have been.

#luteia laments #otherkin #godkin #actuallydeific #actuallydivine #essays of the skyrose garden #perks of being luteia #I should post this on my website shouldn't I #I wrote most of this last night on my phone actually though

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saffronwritings · 4 years

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C L U M S Y | I I D A

Never meant to make you fall with me. I let you down - I've been clumsy with your heart again. I guess you figured me out. Now here's a taste of my own medicine. And for all this pain, that I can't explain, there's a black flag wavin' tonight.

I I D A | P a r t T w o

[Part One] [Part Three]

C L U M Y M A S T E R L I S T

Word Count: 3.1k

A/N: i actually did not expect to enjoy writing Iida as much as i did. But it resulted in me writing the second part very quickly LOL. I got such good ideas while I was brainstorming with a friend of mine. Here it be. :)

Following the rules is all he knew how to do, until he met you.

To say you were a tad bit disappointed when Iida never showed back up at your dorm to check up on you was a bit of an understatement. You had felt better the next morning after taking the time to rest and take the medicine Recovery Girl had given you. However, even though you were feeling better you didn’t know if you wanted to face the class after the day you had yesterday. Would you be able to face Iida without blushing your brains out? You doubt he had said anything to his other classmates in fear of his reputation as the class rep. Iida wasn’t one for secrets, but you knew he kept a lot of things to himself.

With a defeated sigh, you decided to get ready slowly for homeroom. You were sure your tie was crooked and that your blazer was not ironed, however, everyone should just be thankful for you showing up. While you felt better you didn’t feel back at 100%, with a bit of a lingering headache to follow your morning routine. Sighing and dragging yourself out of your dorm room, you avoided the obnoxious voice that was Kaminari to keep your migraine at bay. “Look who’s deciding to show up to class today.” Sero announced, making you roll your eyes and give him the middle finger. Although your actions had caused a disgruntled class rep to clear his throat.

You two made eye contact and quickly you put the finger you were practically shoving in Sero’s face away. “Sorry.” You muttered and headed out towards the main campus. While you knew you should probably have shown up to homeroom early to get the work you missed from Aizawa, you instead decided to go over to get medicine from the Recovery Girl. Sadly, she kept you a lot longer than she should have - taking your temperature, giving you headache medicine, and trying vigorously to give you an icepack to take with you to class. She sent you off with a pack of ice and a late note to give Aizawa.

When you showed up for class, all eyes were on you. “Ms. Y/L/N! You are late for class again!” You heard Iida say, which almost made you giggle. However, you decided to keep a straight face. You decided not to look at the sea of eyes staring at you and handed the note to Aizawa. “Glad you decided to show.” He stated in an annoyed tone. You turned towards your desk and rolled your eyes at Aizawa’s comment. Before you sat down, you caught the gaze of the stern class rep. “Sorry.” He mouthed, nodding towards Aizawa. Obviously apologizing for yelling out to the class that you were late. You shrugged your shoulders and sat down.

The medicine was making you extremely drowsy, though you tried to push through at least until homeroom was over. Aizawa was too keen on your antics of trying to skip class that he rarely let you leave the classroom. Present Mic on the other hand was more than easily fooled by your constant skipping. Either that or he was just used to them by now. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Y/N.” Ochako exclaimed, coming up behind you after class. “I’m still feeling pretty crappy but not as bad as yesterday.” You admitted silently cursing for Ochako walking with you because that gave you less of a chance to sneak off.

“Iida seemed worried about you enough to be late to class yesterday. Which is surprising coming from him. He usually rarely breaks the rules. You must have been really sick.” She continued, saying her comment as if it weren’t a big deal. You tried to fight the blush that was coming onto your face. “Yeah, I was in pretty rough shape yesterday.” You whispered, trying to get him out of your head. “I’ll meet you in our next class Ochako, I got to get something from my locker.” You lied, immediately dashing away from your fellow student.

When Iida arrived at his next class, he was half expecting you to be in your seat already. Well, he had hoped. Even though he was trying to avoid you, he still felt drawn to you. Yet, he was still upset that you were not in your assigned seat. Present Mic was setting up the board for whatever they were going to be learning that day. As the clock ticked closer to the start of the class, he became more and more frustrated. Ojiro and Shoji were the last two to arrive in class before the bell rung.

As Present Mic was taking attendance, he checked your seat and just shook his head. “I’m assuming Y/L/N is not coming to class today was well?” He asked in a defeated voice. “She was in homeroom class, and mentioned she needed to grab something from her locker.” Ochako pointed out, making Iida roll his eyes. Of course, you were going to be late to yet another class. Iida thought to himself, shaking his head and pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. As time in class had passed and he still recognized your absence, he decided he was going to go looking for you.

After asking Present Mic permission to go to the bathroom, he had set off towards the school rooftop. You may have been avoiding class, but you were very predictable in the places you liked to escape to. Behind the second-floor stairwell, the janitors closet on the first floor, the mostly empty classroom up on the third year’s floor. He knew all your little hiding spots around UA, but never had the heart to actually report you to Aizawa or any of his other teacher’s. When he reached the roof access and quietly opened the door, he saw you laying on the ground with your eyes closed. If you hadn’t looked so peaceful, he might have considered yelling at you.

However, the pure look of being serene made his heart flutter. It might have been because he had seen you sleep before but something about your resting presence just seemed so comforting and inviting. He quietly walked over to where you were and sat down next to you. Relaxing his mind, he even made the bold move to lay down and stare at the clouds. “You know, Present Mic is going to get used to all of your rule breaking shenanigans.” Iida stated in a calm voice. “I know, I feel bad that I use his class to ditch but sometimes I just need the fresh air. In between classes doesn’t give me enough time sometimes.” You answered almost immediately.

This shocked him because he was almost positive you were asleep. The silence continued as Iida watched the clouds and enjoyed the breeze that was blowing across their faces. “Why don’t you just…follow the rules like the rest of the class, Y/L/N?” Breaking the silence, Iida asked the question that had been plaguing him for months. Even his most troublesome classmates like Mina and Kirishima didn’t cause him as much strife as you did by skipping your classes. “Maybe it’s because it is the only way I know how to get your attention.” You dared to admit a loud. Almost instantly Iida got flustered and a blush spread from his neck to his face.

You almost immediately started to regret saying out loud your true intentions of slacking off in your academic career. You didn’t want to peep and see the expression on his face incase it was one that you didn’t want to see. “There are better ways to get my attention, but that doesn’t really seem to matter now because you already have it.” He expressed softly, refusing to also look at you afraid he also had said too much. He didn’t know that those words specifically would send your heart racing instantly. A smile spread across your face as you stood up from your spot on the roof and started towards the door. “Good to know, class rep.” You mentioned before opening the door, emphasizing on the words class rep. Iida could feel the residual rise of his blush and tried very hard to shove it away.

He heard the door open again and expected you to be there. Instead, he was met face to face with Aizawa-sensei. All the color drained from his face as Aizawa had processed what he was seeing. Iida, sitting casually on the rooftop and was red in the face. It wasn’t just embarrassment from your words, but from being caught in such a position. “Well, well, well. I would say I am surprised by this but after yesterday’s little escapade, I’m not.” Aizawa started to say. Before Iida could even begin to give an explanation, Aizawa held his hand up as if he couldn’t be bothered to hear what he had to say. “I expect this kind of behavior from Kaminari or Bakugou even. Yet, here I am, extremely disappointed to see that it’s you, Tenya Iida.” Aizawa scolded, eyes looking even more tired than usual.

Iida sat in silence, taking in the scolding he probably deserved for even thinking it was a good idea to lie to Present Mic. “Now, I have every right to pull you from the hero program.” Aizawa started with a rough tone to his voice. Iida’s heart stopped by the mere thought of that happening. “However, because this isn’t the most severe thing you have done in your time here at UA, I won’t do that. You will, however, be staying after school and cleaning up my classroom. Top. To. Bottom.” Aizawa explained, staring daggers into Iida’s eyes.

“Yes sir.” He responded to his teacher, feeling all but shame rising into his throat. “I won’t catch you slacking off again, Tenya. Now, go back to class before I up the punishment.” He growled, opening the door to the roof access, and motioned for Iida to go. He quickly walked past his teacher and found himself returning to Present Mic’s classroom. While it seemed that Present Mic had not noticed his long absence, Izuku had. “You were gone for some time, Iida. Is everything okay?” Izuku had whispered to him. No, everything was not okay. He was falling for a girl who was getting him in trouble the more he was around her.

“Yes, I am fine, Midoriya. Go back to what you were doing.” Iida quickly replied, pulling out his school supplies and frantically found where the class had left off while he was off searching for you. Izuku didn’t seem convinced, however, he did not want to push his friend into telling him something he did not want to say. Izuku was not the only one to notice the mood change of one Tenya Iida. You had made it back to Present Mic’s class before he had returned. Honestly, you didn’t think it would have taken him as long to also return to class.

After class was over and it was time for lunch, you were going to attempt to approach Iida to ask to sit next to each other at lunch. Yet, the glare he sent your way before exiting the classroom spoke volumes. You felt like you had been punched in the gut with the look he had given you. Shaking it off, you had decided to just give Iida his distance. You knew he could get into his head about his studies and maybe for once he was just struggling with the material. In the back of your head, you knew that wasn’t it. For once, you decided that you would show up on time to the rest of your classes. Concluding that maybe he was tired of playing cat and mouse with you. Tired of trying to get you to understand his plights.

When school was let out, you had heard him talking with Momo Yaoyorozu in the hallway about staying after school to help Aizawa with a project. Momo had always been pretty popular in the class, despite you thinking about her being a rich brat. She had done nothing in particular to make you dislike her, but there was always something about people showing off their financial status that bothered you. “I admire how you always go above and beyond for Class 1-A, Iida. You truly are an outstanding student.” You heard Momo compliment him, tone almost too friendly. You didn’t have any reason to be jealous – Iida wasn’t even yours. Yet, hearing her compliment him so calmly and confidently struck a chord with you.

Iida was out of your league, and always had been.

You weren’t the best student regarding both your attendance and your grades. Momo was way more popular than you were and honestly, in your own opinion, way better looking. Who were you to think that Iida had actually liked you? “I appreciate that, Yaoyorozu. I try my best to stay on top of things as Class Rep. Especially when it comes to the other students. I try to pick up where they lack to help the image of 1-A come to fruition.” He declared proudly. The color drained from your face hearing the last part of that sentence.

Was it all a ploy? To get you to play by the rules so he wouldn’t have to constantly remind you of their classes’ image. A strange anger burned inside you as you clenched your fist and you fled back to your dorm in Heights Alliance. The following days played out the same as they usually did for you. Iida was back to focusing on his schoolwork and his group of friends while you mainly stayed secluded to yourself. You would skip class every now and then, but not enough to really irritate the class rep. The last thing you wanted was for Iida to come stomping up to you, whining about attendance and the image he so desperately wanted to portray for his classmates.

You had kept your distance from him. It didn’t help that you kept catching him hanging out with Yaoyorozu. They were a perfect match. Two of the best students in the class being together. It didn’t hurt you any less of shatter any bit of confidence you had left. The thing that really pushed you over the edge was overhearing Momo talk to Jirou about how she thought her, and Iida looked good together. “I never really stopped to consider him as a possible date, but he really has it all together. A good family, a great goal, and even better quirk to really get him up in ranks.” Momo gushed, sighing afterwards. You hid yourself back in your dorm room after that. You stuck to studying and ignored if anyone had come to your dorm room to interact with you.

However, Iida noticed you also distancing yourself from him. He noticed every time you were slightly late to class, every time you skipped or just out right refused to show up and noticed how you didn’t pay attention most of the time when a teacher was giving a lecture. Surely you had to be doing this on purpose to gain his attention. You had admitted it plain as day to him on the top of the school rooftop. The annoyance he was getting from you playing this out, knowing how much it frustrated him, was rising each passing day. Especially when he kept getting looks from their teachers about your lack of care for the class. While it wasn’t directly his fault, it still fell on him when the rest of the class was slacking.

So, when you weren’t on time on Friday for your homeroom class once again, Iida had had enough. When you entered the classroom, once again all eyes fell on you. Iida could feel the burn of Aizawa’s gaze on him upon your late entry. “Miss Y/L/N. You are once again late to homeroom. You have consecutively been late to most of your classes this week. Your behavior is unacceptable! You are making the rest of the class look foolish with your lackadaisical attitude. We expect this kind of behavior from Denki! Or even Sero for that matter! Yet, here you are, showing up once again late to homeroom!” Iida exclaimed loudly, standing up from his chair at his desk.

The entire class went silent. You could hear a pin drop from how quiet it had gotten. The eye contact the two of you shared was intense. No one dare spoke up, even during the awkward burning silence that took place after his reprimanding. You were trying to keep yourself composed but it felt like he was personally attacking you. Tears had threatened to fall from your eyes because you were tired yourself. You stayed up all night beating yourself up about why you thought you stood a chance. You obviously didn’t. Especially with the look he was giving you right now. The anger that was burning in his eyes and directed right at you. “What do you have to say for yourself.” He demanded, challenging you to challenge him back.

And challenge him back you did. The tears threatened to fall down your burning cheeks. How dare he yell at you in front of all your classmates. In front of your teacher. When he was the one who led you on, thinking you even stood a chance. Your eyes glanced over to Momo, and you felt your anger flare up more with her looking so impressed with him.

“WELL, MAYBE IF YOU DIDN’T SNEAK YOUR WAY INTO MY BED WHEN I WAS SICK AND MAKE ME FALL FOR YOU, I WOULD PROBABLY ACTUALLY CARE MORE.” You shouted. You almost enjoyed the look of shock that came from Iida’s face at your statement. Everyone’s jaws dropped at your comment and looked back from Iida to you. If the classroom could get anymore quiet, it would. Tears had started falling down your face as you rushed out of the classroom. Sero had fallen backwards out of his chair being in absolute shock of what you said.

“Dude seriously? Now is the time you don’t keep your balance?” Kaminari questioned him. Iida took a moment to compose himself before turning swiftly to Sero. “You told me you had it safely balanced with your tape! You need to be more responsible Sero!” He scolded him while chopping his hand in the air. The class started muttering in wonder about what you had said. “Take your seat, Iida Tenya. Everyone else quiet down. Class is starting.” Aizawa sternly said. Iida slowly slid down his seat and tried to focus on what Aizawa was saying.

But your voice kept ringing in his ears, the sentence that plagued for the rest of the day. What had he done?

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mistaeq · 4 years

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Saturday, 26th December

Romeo!Don Giovanna x Juliet!Reader: The Masque

TW // mafia is mentioned, please don't take it lightly. Mista x Trish is implied, but I've aged her up.

Today I offer you this, which I'm proud of, and it doesn't happen often. So I hope you all enjoy this.

A darker point of view on Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare.

WORD COUNT: 3.5k

Two households, both alike in dignity,

In fair Naples, where we lay our scene,

From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,

Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

From forth the fatal loins of these two foes

A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life

Whose misadventured piteous overthrows

Do with their death bury their ancient strife.

The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love,

Is now the two hours' traffic of my fic;

The which if you with patient eyes attend,

What here shall miss, my toil shall strive to mend.

"I will be honest to thee, if thou do not mind me saying so, Don Giovanna. But I am still struggling to understand why thou wanted to show up to the event." the golden haired signore slightly chuckled, after his councilor's words, who was now helping him with fixing the bow which perfectly fit his elegant braid. He never gave up on styling his hair the same way, and now that he was showing up to an event out of pure spite, he was not going to change that.

"It is not that I wanted it, my dear Guido." the Don said, fixing his cream colored jacket's sleeves, an amused grin animating his relaxed features. "They don't expect me to show up at all, all they did was inviting me, thinking I would have chosen to not to go. And make fun of thy lord's attitude. It would be rude of mine, to not to let them know how good I am doing, despite their several attempts to push me down."

"Indeed, signore. Thy reasonment sounds just right." the young councilor Guido Mista agreed with the Don, crouching to give a better look at the lord's image in the mirror and nodding in satisfaction when he made sure the bow was symmetrical as he wanted. "In addition to this, I am pleased to inform thee about my choice of asking Lord Diavolo's daughter's hand in marriage, as soon as she will turn eighteen. Lady Trish." Giorno's grin, if possibly, widened. His councilor marrying his worst enemy's daughter? Sounded just perfect, since she was gonna move in their mansion. By her own choice. She hated her father, and had agreed to the marriage. Great to hear.

"Thou spoke music to my ears, Guido. And I thank thee for thou fixed my bow properly." the golden haired Don stood up, and started walking towards the door, eyeing at his councilor's outfit. "Get ready, we are going." Believe me, he was about to touch the door handle, when a rough voice, who always allowed itself to speak too much, interrupted his actions.

"What about thy heart, signore? No love story nor marriage for thee?" The gunslinger dared to say, perfectly knowing his Don thought he had to keep on being focused on his own affairs, rather than have love related ones. He just liked to drop the question every now and then, but started being genuinely worried. Guido know how romantic Don Giovanna could get, and the thought of him getting old without getting married, weirded him out. At first, he used to think Giorno needed time to get used to his role as a boss in the neapolitan mafia - the biggest reason of his strife against Diavolo -, but now, years had passed, and it was getting worse.

"Tender is the way love might make this man change. Thy lord is not ready to face such a thing. Unless it is really worth a try." Don Giovanna's hand lingered around the doorknob, caressing it in an attempt to examinate a thin layer of dust. "Do me the favor to tell Ghirga that cleaning up every little thing, even the most insignificant one, is definitely not optional." the blonde said, finally tightening his grip on the door handle and exiting the room. Left in the whistling silence of the place, the councilor proceeded to get ready for the event himself. He knew his signore didn't like to make someone wait.

As soon as he came in the hall, everyone turned around him and his councilor, Guido Mista, who soon blended into the crowd, for his betrothed Trish Una gripped on his arm and pulled him somewhere else. "Bothering thy councilor is not my intention, Don Giovanna. I am asking for thy permission, to take him for a while." What else could the blonde man even answer, if not agreeing with it happening. Without any doubt, he was left alone so fast, he had now nobody to cover him, as his golden hair didn't blend at all into the crowd.

A pleasant smell of cooked food and wooden furniture penetrated the Don's nose, as he gripped a glass of wine from the servant who was walking around with a tray holding some. The man shook the crystal glass a little, before he smelled the alcoholic liquid, and took a sip from it. Then, he quietly snorted. "And this would be wine. I consider myself lucky, being these people's foe. This truly doth be terrible."

Giorno mentally commented almost everything in the hall, judging the furniture... "Outdated.", the people... "Seeing them stare at me pleases me. If they are willing to criticize my appearance and attitude, I will be even more pleased.", and the service as well. "These servants are just what Lord Diavolo likes. Being so useless, it pains me." he took the last sip from his crystal glass of wine. "Let me see how much will it take for some servant to notice."

No wonder, the signore was really full of himself, and he was right, for all the people's voices murmuring when he passed by, were coming from pure envy. Diavolo staring at him, from the top of a huge flight of stairs. Don Giovanna had not noticed him, for he didn't consider necessary the action of looking above his own head. Giorno knew he was the one to be already at the top. If so, it were others who had too look up to him. He had learnt he had to stand up to ferocious beasts too, and he managed, in his life, to dominate the worst out of all the beasts. Humanity.

Plus, he was extremely focused on what was happening in front of himself, for he could see, in the middle of the hall, several couples dancing. No need to specify, that was the place where Lady Trish had brought the councilor Mista. Don Giovanna couldn't help but slightly smirk. That man had always been so loyal to him, and he was genuinely proud of him for he had found a wife and helped his affairs at the same time. He watched at the curly, dark haired councilor moving his betrother around with grace, until they accidentally bumped into another couple who was dancing beside them. The Don was now elegantly chuckling, he was amused, he was...

...Love-struck. The couple who Mista and Una had bumped into, consisted in a young lord and a beautiful creature who probably came from heavens above. The angel apologized to the pink haired Lady with a laughter, and bowed to Guido in apology. The angel... were you. Diavolo's niece/nephew had made the impenetrable heart of Don Giovanna fall in love. Could he talk about love? He wanted to. All in a matter of two seconds, the golden haired man imagined you dressed up for a luxurious wedding. What he did not know, was that there would have also been Diavolo in the crowd, watching his archenemy marry you. He had no idea you were related to him. As the same servant he had taken a glass from before passed by, Giorno gripped her arm, and pulled her closer.

"What angel is that, which doth enrich the hand of yonder knight?" he frantically asked, his tone was serious and imposing, as if he was ready to squeeze the information out of the poor servant. But she knew nothing about you, it was not like she was a family servant. She was just there to serve for the event. "I know not, sir", the poor waitress said, holding the tray on her chest and trying to go back into the kitchen. "I apologize. Uh. More wine?" The girl also asked, as Don Giovanna remembered he had ran out of wine. But he shook his head and left the empty glass in the servant's hand, moving towards you to have a better look, not noticing he was right under the flight of stairs where Diavolo and a follower of his were standing. Then, he started to talk to himself, contemplating you.

"O, they doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems they hangs upon the cheek of night." he moved his hands together, in a similar motion as one of a prayer. "Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear. Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear! So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows, as yonder angel o'er their fellows shows." Don Giovanna's fingers intertwined with each other as he spoke. "The measure done, I'll watch their place of stand, and, touching theirs, make blessed my rude hand." with his intense gaze, Giorno's left hand moved to slide on the side of his body, as the right hand touched his chest. "Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night."

He made the mistake to melt right under the sight of Diavolo, who smirked in seeing him so vulnerable for such a thing. Nobody was there to tell him that falling in love with you would have been his end. The pink haired lord was not irritated, for even if Giorno had tried to humiliate him, the golden haired boss was humiliating himself now, over a fleeting love. The man on the stairs wouldn't even have needed to do anything. Not that he wanted it in the first place. He would have behaved, to show his superiority off.

But Diavolo's loyal servant, lord Cioccolata, had other ideas. "This, by his voice, should be Giovanna. Fetch me my rapier, boy. What dares the slave come hither, cover'd with an antic face, to fleer and scorn at our solemnity?" the green haired man bent over the banister to take a better look to the supercilious Giorno, who, again, had no clue of what was right above him. "Now, by the stock and honour of my kin, to strike him dead, I hold it not a sin." Cioccolata murmured, but felt his arm get gripped from his boss.

"Why, how now, kinsman. Wherefore storm you so?" the servant's jaw dropped.

"Signore, this is literally Don Giovanna, our foe, a villain that is hither come in spite, to scorn at our solemnity this night." as the same servant who Giorno had talked to approached Diavolo and offered him a glass of wine, the pink haired boss smelled it and took a little sip from it. Then, grinned. He was not in the mood for violence. For now. So he had to keep Cioccolata back from every kind of bad decision. It wasn't easy, to keep such a man from murder. Out of pure honesty.

"Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone, Cioccolata. He bears him like a portly gentleman, and, to say truth, Naples brags of him to be a virtuous and well-govern'd youth." Diavolo explained. It would not have been good if something happened to that man in his mansion. He was part of Naples' pride. "I would not for the wealth of all the town, here in my house do him disparagement: therefore be patient, take no note of him. It is my will, the which if thou respect, show a fair presence and put off these frowns, and ill-beseeming semblance for a feast." was he asking his most violent servant to have... patience over his archenemy? Yes, he was, and Cioccolata was speechless.

"It fits, when such a villain is a guest. I'll not endure him." the angered man replied, trying once again to get his signore to reasonate and realize they could get rid of him so easily if they wished so. The councilor Mista was even too distracted by Diavolo's daughter to keep an eye on his boss. It could have been so simple, for Cioccolata, to...

"Am I the master here, or you? You'll not endure him? God shall mend my soul! You'll make a mutiny among my guests! You will set cock-a-hoop! You'll be the man!" the pink haired man slightly raised his voice - not enough for Giorno to hear - and made himself clear, so that if the green haired made any possible mess during his feast, he would have had to take his own responsibility.

"I will withdraw, then." the servant gave up on his ideas, but rudely. His one almost felt like a poisonous gaze. "But this intrusion shall now seeming sweet convert to bitter gall." he said, indirectly threatening an oblivious Giorno. Talking about him, during their conversation between the two men on the stairs, he turned unnoticed until Cioccolata left. When Diavolo looked down on him again, the golden haired boss was now in the middle of a crowded mess of people who was dancing, people who was eating and conversing. He was with you. Finally.

Giorno Giovanna approached you in a way you couldn't help but notice. He looked like the sun, a golden being, it caught your heart as well. Neverending seconds of staring at each other followed, until... "If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this." he gently took your hand in his. It felt warm. "My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss." as the man said so, he leaned in to leave a soft kiss on the back of your hand. His sweet scent overwhelming you as he moved. How gentle.

"Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this." you withdrew your hand and slightly chuckled, reassuring him it was fine. Someway, the two of you found yourself moving away from the crowd. In a more intimate spot. Diavolo couldn't even find you. "For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch..." your sweet voice was soothing the man more than you would realize. "...and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss."

Giorno bit his lip in anticipation, and gently exhaled. "Have not saints lips... and holy palmers too?" he asked, leaning down right towards your soft mouth, before you moved aside and, chuckling like an angel playing in a field, avoided the gentleman's kiss, jokingly scolding his mind with a mischievous smile.

"Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer." You provoked him. Where had Giorno Giovanna's temperance gone? He had swore to his councilor, just before leaving his house, that he wouldn't have let love blind his senses. And there he was. Plus, you did not know each other. You did not know who you were. You did not know you should have not been there together. Due to this, he gladly accepted your game, and chuckled back. God, he was so ethereal and he did not even realize it.

"O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do." he begged, looking almost afraid of touching you, or your waist, or your own hand. How can someone fall so deep in love after having just met someone? Does love at first sight even exist? "They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair." Don Giovanna's tone sounded impatient.

But you had accepted to play his game, and now you would have played it until the very end. You smirked, staring at the blonde man's trembling lips. "Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake." you said, implying the fact that you wouldn't have made the first step. It made sense, though. It was him, who had compared you to a saint first. Little did you know, you were playing with fire, for that man you felt love at first sight for, was your uncle's archenemy.

Giorno grinned, and hid you more against the wall, as your hands automatically wrapped around his figure. Though you didn't move in for a kiss. Until... "Then move not... while my prayer's effect I take.", said the man, grazing with his lips against yours, and finally pressing. You felt all your senses relieve and relax, as your hands grasped on the fabric of the Don's jacket. You didn't like your uncle's crimes. You wouldn't have liked Giorno's ones too. But you had no clue. And he had no clue you were Diavolo's niece/nephew. And you were in love.

His sugary sweet lips clicked against yours a last, neverending time, when he pulled back and thought staring right in your eyes was a good idea. "Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged." Don Giovanna whispered, breathing hard against your giggling mouth. He hadn't stopped playing, you noticed with a pleasant feeling.

"Then have my lips the sin that they have took...?" you slyly asked him, clearly wanting the kiss to continue, clearly wanting more, having no idea of how wrong it was. Having no idea of how dangerous is was. Though his eyes widened, and got even closer, so close to giving you what you wanted for the second time. You felt yourself growing so enamored.

"Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged!" he paused for a second, before he bit his own lower lip. "Give me my sin again." Giorno whispered, grabbing your waist with his hand and kissing you, almost desperately, but romantically, against the wall. He had been so focused on anything else, that he had forgotten the true flavor of love, and living it all again after he had swore he wouldn't have done it, was way too intense. Way too beautiful. Better than the art he'd been collecting the latest years.

When he pulled back, you instictively smiled and raised an eyebrow, silently chuckling a little. "You kiss by the book..." you told him, caressing his neck gently and carefully. If it were for him and you, that beautiful moment could go on for hours, days, even an eternity. But beautiful things never last. The two of you almost had a heart attack, when the arm of a blonde, long haired man grabbed your right wrist, ripping your dream in half.

"Madam/sir, your uncle craves a word with you." he almost managed to get you away from Giorno, when the Don grabbed your left wrist, and pulled you towards him, not letting the man, Tiziano to be precise, bring you away.

"What's their uncle?"

At that question, the almond eyed man smirked, as if he was ready to drop a heavy bomb on the snooty Don. "Marry, bachelor, their uncle is the lord of the house, and a good man, wise and virtuous. I nursed his niece/nephew, that you talk'd withal." as if Tiziano had read into Don Giovanna's mind, he added something else, just for the sake of making it even heavier. "I tell you, he that can lay hold of them, shall have the chinks."

Then the blonde haired Don followed the two of you around the hall, until he saw you get pulled upstairs by Tiziano, and connected his brains to what he saw. Diavolo, waiting for you upstairs, and Tiziano holding your arm so that you wouldn't have been able to run away. Four painful words formed on Giorno's whispering lips. "Are they an enemy...?" he asked to himself, looking at you up there, until Trish didn't appear as well behind you.

Trish wasn't happy to be there, she loved Guido Mista, but apparently Diavolo had called all his family back. And your presence there, only confirmed his fear. You were about to step back towards him and say something, but Tiziano caught your shoulder just in time, and pulled you close enough to whisper you the words you would have never wanted to hear. "His name is Giorno." he added more details. "Giorno Giovanna. The only appearance you should match to your great enemy."

You stood there. Empty. You and your forbidden lover had understood what was going on. And both your hearts clenched. And both your hearts suffered. How could love be so beautiful yet so evil, to make a man live and die on the same evening. How...

We all know how this story ends, we know about the pain, we know about the sorrow. But what if this time it made sense. One of the lovers is dirty with criminal blood, running through his veins, and you accept him, in the good and in the bad. Is this right...?

Or is death the punishment, for the sin that in reality your lips hadn't purged at all?

#jojo's bizarre adventure #jojo no kimyou na bouken #jojo part five #vento aureo #jjba au #jojo au #giorno giovanna #giorno x reader #diavolo #tiziano #cioccolata #trish una #guido mista #narancia ghirga #jojo fic #christmas time #don giorno giovanna #don giovanna

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sodone-withlife · 3 years

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i saw sumayyah‘s answer to an anon’s ask (so all credit for this idea goes to them) about that scene in Omnivore where Rossi is offering Hotch his gun and this thing pretty much wrote itself (which is exceedingly rare lmao), so here is something that i thought would be just a few hundred words but ended up being a really long interpretation of the Foyet arc with hurt/minimal comfort with a good amount of pre-Mortch (or you can see them as platonic, i think it’s up for interpretation).

also, just a quick heads up, i love Papa Rossi, but for the purposes of this fic, it might seem a little bash-y towards him

warnings: quite a bit of suicidal ideation, (almost) attempted suicide, implied/referenced suicide, canon-typical violence, canonical character death

word count: 7.9k words

The highlighted words stared back at Hotch as Shaunessy’s words echoed in his mind.

A deal with the devil.

“Yes, that’s exactly right,” he told Garcia.

“Because I found it, do I get to know what it’s about?” the analyst asked, unrepentantly curious. Hotch sent her a look.

Might as well. Shaunessy’s not going to last much longer, and we’ll be called in… “The Reaper,” he said simply.

“Like—the Boston Reaper?” Garcia lowered her voice as she named the notorious killer. Hotch nodded. “I didn’t even know the BAU worked on that case,” she remarked.

“1998,” Hotch informed her, remembering caffeine-fueled sleepless nights and the palpable fear on the streets. “It was my first case for the BAU as lead profiler.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but we don’t have a profile for the Reaper in the system, do we?”

Not in the system, no. “That’ll be all Penelope, you can go home now,” Hotch told Garcia, turning to the bottom drawer of the shelf behind his desk as the analyst nodded and left. Pulling out a worn folder bursting with papers and photos, he placed the newspaper clipping and the evidence bag protecting the contract into it. He left it to the side and refocused on the folder in front of him filled with sheets of old handwritten notes filled with annotations and crossed-out sections.

There will be no sleeping tonight.

Early September, 1998

“You’re sending me?” Hotch was sitting ramrod straight in surprise, blindsided by Gideon’s sudden decision.

“Yeah,” Gideon answered simply, leaning back in his chair as much as he could in the cramped space and looking supremely unperturbed. “Do you not want to go?”

Hotch shook herself out of his shocked state, scrambling to gather his wits. “No—I mean, I’ll go, but—”

“But?”

Hotch carefully evaluated his words. “I’ve only been here a few months, and you’re sending me to Boston—alone—to help with the Reaper case? The case that has been going on for three years, longer than I’ve even been an agent, involving a killer that could probably put the Zodiac to shame?”

The older agent shrugged. “I have to stay and hold down the fort since we are severely understaffed, but I’ll always be a phone call away, and you’re mainly there just to act as eyes for the both of us. You’re not working on this alone.”

Hotch stiffened as a sudden—but careful—warm touch on his hand pulled him out of the spiral of self-doubt he had been teetering over and grounded him. He brought his eyes back to Gideon and was surprised to see complete openness and no signs of deception or maliciousness that he had been forced to learn long ago at the hands of his father.

“I’m not Dave,” Gideon began seriously, “I wasn’t the one who pulled you over here or the one you started out shadowing under, but I do talk to people. I know about your record in prosecution, in Seattle, and in SWAT, and it is very telling. You never doubted yourself before, and I have no doubt that you can handle yourself, so why are you starting now?”

He leaned back, clearly done with the impromptu pep talk that Hotch, still frozen, figured happened once in a blue moon based on what Rossi had told him about the unit before he retired. The cramped room was silent as Hotch felt Gideon watching him struggling with internal strife. Slowly, he released some of the tension that was coiled within him, and Gideon turned back to his stack of consults with an air of satisfaction.

“Start packing, Agent Hotchner. Boston awaits your presence.”

Late November, 1998

“Do you know what the hell is going on?” Hotch immediately asked when the call went through, pacing around his hotel room.

“And a good evening to you too.”

“Gideon.”

“What is it, Hotch?” his tone changed from dry to worried in a heartbeat, hearing the uncharacteristic urgency in his agent’s voice and the lack of nervousness that usually showed his agent’s discomfort towards using the less-formal form of address.

“Shaunessy, the lead detective,” Hotch spat out, throwing the case file that was in his hand on the bed. “He closed the case.”

“And that warrants a phone call at eleven PM, why?”

Hotch bit back a sharp retort, letting out a sharp breath. “You know I’ve been re-interviewing the victims’ friends and family, going through everything they had and lines of investigation that may have been dropped, working the profile along the way, but there have been no viable suspects, even with the accelerated killings,” he said quickly, a mess of emotions swirling inside him. “Gideon, no arrests have been made but he closed the case, just like that.”

“Remind me, when was the last victim?”

“Just over six weeks ago, a month after I got here. I know what you’re thinking,” Hotch said when Gideon didn’t respond, “that the case just went cold, but there were still things I had people following up on. It’s not cold,” he insisted.

“Well, there’s nothing you can do about it, Hotch. I know you don’t like it, but the locals have point on this.”

Hotch sighed, but it did nothing to calm him down. “I know,” he said, annoyed. “I’m catching an early train back to DC, I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

January 2003

“The Reaper?”

Hotch slammed the folder shut and looked up from his desk, startled. He sent Gideon a glare, glad that no one else was there to see his composure slip, but he only looked vaguely concerned.

“It’s been just over four years,” Gideon commented neutrally. “You’ve had that folder at the bottom of your third drawer, and you’ve pulled it out at least forty different times since ‘98.”

Hotch stared up at him in a challenge. “Is there something wrong with that?”

Gideon shook his head. “Just be careful. Don’t get too drawn into the chase.”

~~~

Sighing as he rubbed the familiar ache on the back of his neck that always appeared during paperwork days and especially stressful cases, Hotch closed his battered folder of notes and opened it back up again. It was almost compulsive at this point, repeating every twenty minutes and each time with the hope something new would catch his attention.

Hotch shifted, the bedsheets suddenly feeling unbearably scratchy and coarse even through his slacks. The case details buzzed around his head incessantly, distracting him from feeling the physical exhaustion and strain caused by the lack of proper sustenance and the stress of a day filled with dead ends.

The sudden ringing shattered the silence of the room, knocking him from his focus. He got up from the bed and warily walked over to the source, picking up the hotel phone and bringing it up to his ear.

“Hotchner,” he said out of habit, only to freeze as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up in reaction to the sudden, heavy breathing. “Who is this?” he demanded, throwing the folder he was still holding back on the bed with dread rising within him.

“If you stop hunting me, I’ll stop hunting them.” His question about the caller’s identity went unanswered, though the cursed words of the contract spoken by the same distorted voice that was heard on the 911 calls from ten years ago was confirmation enough.

Anger flared inside him at the audacity, and he snapped back, “You think I’d take that?”

“It’s a good deal,” the Reaper replied flatly.

“I’ve misjudged you,” he said, some distant part of him wondering how Shaunessy felt when he himself got the offer ten years ago. “I thought you were smarter than this,” he was unable to help the derisive tone.

The silence was long enough for him to wonder how much he had caught him unawares with his response.

“You should take it.”

“And you’ve misjudged me.”

“This is your last chance,” he warned.

Hotch didn’t hesitate. “I don’t make deals. I’m the woman who hunts guys like you.” That got the reaction he was hoping for.

“There are no guys like me,” the killer growled, anger bleeding into his tone.

He scoffed. “You all think that.”

“You’ll regret this,” he warned.

It was said with such certainty that a chill shot down his spine, but it was overshadowed by his anger. “I’ll see you soon,” he promised, promptly hanging up without another word. He walked back around the bed, feeling a sudden need to put as much distance between him and the phone as possible. It was with some hysterical hilarity that he wondered if the next people to stay in this room would know about what had just happened—that a serial killer tried to threaten an FBI agent into surrendering in this room.

Those feelings faded away when a terrible feeling suddenly came over Hotch as he realized the Reaper knew which hotel—which room—he was staying in.

It wasn’t unusual during their cases for an unsub to contact another person in the midst of their crimes, but the memories of Elle in the hospital bed and Morgan in the interrogation room had been seared into his brain.

Both times, unsubs directly went after members of the team.

Unable to remain in the room any longer, he went around unceremoniously throwing his things inside his bags before leaving the hotel room. Paranoia quickly crept back into his consciousness as he quickly made his way down to the parking garage with a hand near his gun, intent on heading straight to the field office.

Only half an hour later, Hotch was staring at the glinting gold ring on the bus driver’s hand, feeling oddly detached from the situation as he was confronted with the consequences of that cursed phone call.

“6 bodies, not including the driver,” Rossi said from the back of the bus. “He put them down with a gun—or, more likely, guns—and finished them off with his knife.”

The call had come straight to the field office, just minutes after Hotch walked into the empty conference room that the team had taken command of. A beat cop had heard a series of gunshots and went to investigate, only to see the macabre painting of blood on the side of the bus with its occupants slumped over inside, unmoving. “Arthur Lanessa’s wedding ring,” Hotch heard himself say for the other agent’s benefit.

“What’d he take?” Rossi made his way down to him in the front.

He snapped back into the present with a sudden surge of anger. “Does it matter?” he asked bitingly, turning and storming away from the crime scene for the relative privacy of a nearby alley.

“Hey,” Rossi called in worry, taken aback by the brash response. “What’s going on with you?”

Hotch stopped some way into the alley and took a deep breath, taking his time before turning to Rossi, who had followed closely behind. “He called me tonight at my hotel room and offered me the deal.”

“What did you say?”

“I hung up on him,” his eyes burned with the sting of tears—whether out of anger at the Reaper or himself, he wasn’t sure. “And then he does this.”

“So you think this is your fault?”

How could it be anything but? He looked away, trying to hide just how shaken he was. “It is.”

The familiar sound of the safety of a gun being released pulled his attention back to the man in front of him. “Well, here, use mine,” Rossi said, holding out his gun to him. “You convinced me. No, no, you hung up on him,” he pushed as he waved him off, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You practically killed them yourself—”

You practically killed them yourself.

Killed them yourself.

Killed them.

Yourself.

You.

You did this.

You should have made the deal

Hotch flinched away from the touch of cold metal against his head only to freeze in his place, ice settling in his bones as he processed what was happening. Barely seeing the horror on Rossi’s face, he stared at the other man’s empty hand before he focused in on the gun that was resting against his own head, tilted at an angle. There were five things he knew:

I have a finger on the trigger.

My hand is trembling.

I am still one of the best shots of the agents that are not in a tactical team.

Make one move, fire the gun, only the hearing in my right ear will be gone and the darkness continues to creep towards me.

Make a different move, fire the gun, I’ll leave Jack the legacy of a coward and Haley the knowledge that her efforts back in high school and college were for naught.

You did this, a malicious voice in his head said, sounding oddly like his father. And suddenly, he recalled the memory of the blood droplets hitting him and the ringing in his ears the first time he witnessed a gun go off when he was nine.

Slowly, deliberately, Hotch met Rossi’s horrified and guilt-filled expression and lowered the gun from his head. Carefully measuring his steps, he moved forward and pressed the gun into the older agent’s hand, which dropped down to the side, the weight of the gun now accompanied by something unseen, something much heavier.

Not sparing him another glance, Hotch turned and walked back out of the alley.

This isn’t the time nor place to break.

But in the end, he didn’t have a choice.

“Foyet escaped.”

Hotch’s blood ran cold as he processed JJ’s words before he roughly placed his mug onto the desk and stood up from his chair, following JJ outside to the bullpen that was full of noise and movement.

“Guards found him in his cell vomiting blood and convulsing, they rushed him to the prison hospital,” JJ explained quickly as they made their way down the catwalk. Hotch twitched as he heard Rossi’s office door open behind him, the man coming out to see what the commotion was about.

“Get me the US Marshal’s Office,” Hotch ordered, making the executive decision to ignore the older agent in favor of getting down to business.

“I already called Don Reilly. I offered our assistance, he said they’d call us if they needed it.”

Prentiss rushed to the trio, holding a phone up to her ear. “The Boston field office just identified documents from Foyet’s house,” she reported.

Reid approached the agents gathered in the middle of the room, holding out a printout of what looked to be a set of blueprints. “They’re schematics for the electrical, heating, and water ducts of the East Woburn Correctional Facility.”

Hotch looked at him blankly. “He had the schematics.”

“And not just for Woburn—for every jail, prison, and courthouse in Massachusetts.”

“And ten years to plan,” Rossi added, a heavy silence following as everyone turned to the TV.

Finally, Garcia turned around. “They’re going to find him, right?” she asked worriedly.

Eyes still trained on Foyet's mugshot on the TV, Hotch was completely certain in his answer. “No, they’re not,” he said, just as the memory of Foyet’s words rose to the forefront of his mind, unbidden.

If you know me so well, how come so many had to die to bring you here?

I’m going to be more famous than you realize.

“Excuse me,” he muttered, trying to get a hold of the wave of nausea that suddenly overcame him. He brushed past the team, purposely heading out of the bullpen for one of the bathrooms that was further away for the sake of keeping the team and their concern off his back.

Within minutes he was throwing up bile and the small amount of alcohol he had drank back in his office into the sink, thanking the god he never believed in that the bathroom was rather secluded so there wouldn’t be anyone catching him in this moment of weakness. His eyes burned for the second time in less than twenty-four hours—only this time, a few traitorous tears managed to escape from underneath his eyelids.

The taste of bile was strong as he turned on the tap and splashed his face with cold water, stiffening when he heard the door swing open and closed. Looking up to the mirror, he was both relieved and unsurprised to see Morgan locking the door behind him.

“You’ve been avoiding Rossi,” Morgan commented quietly. Hotch huffed a sardonic laugh, straightening up and turning around to face him, leaning against the sink for support. It was a familiar situation, one first started years ago when it was just them and Gideon, and stopped after the team started growing. Then New York happened and Hotch had to de-stress in a gas station they stopped at on the drive back to Quantico, and their secret rendezvous started happening again, when cases hit too close to home for either of them.

Somehow he always knows what the root problem is. “Was I that obvious?”

Morgan shook his head. “You know you hide it well. I’ve just known you far longer than any of the others, besides Rossi, of course.” He didn’t go on, waiting on the other to decide the direction the conversation would go.

Deciding to go for complete honesty, Hotch swallowed, tilting his head up and avoiding Morgan’s eyes. “He called me at my hotel room and offered me the deal.”

To his credit, Morgan only stepped closer, face creased in concern and a hint of knowing. “I said no, and he shot up a bus,” Hotch continued tonelessly. “I lost it in an alley near the crime scene. Dave had pulled out his gun and was trying to make a point about self-flagellation, but—” he cut himself off and shook his head frustratedly.

“I don’t know what happened. One moment I was just angry, and the next moment I was aiming a gun at my head,” he met Morgan’s eyes desperately, stern facade completely gone. “I don’t know what I wanted to do—I don’t,” his voice cracked as he sagged against the sink and his trembling became more pronounced. He quickly covered his mouth as a sob tried to escape his throat, prompting Morgan to move.

It was surprising to both him and Morgan how willingly he melted into Morgan’s body when the man reached out to stabilize him, but the sensation of the embrace was oddly calming for both of them. Neither spoke as they stood in the bathroom, not even as Morgan felt his shirt getting wet from the tears that Hotch finally let fall, and not even as the crying became more audible.

Now, they would stay in the bathroom and soak up the comfort that they offered each other. They would talk about Foyet’s taunts and what Hotch confessed later.

But later never came, because life never waits, and neither do unsubs.

Soon, they were racing against the clock as Reid got infected with an engineered strain of anthrax

Soon, they were investigating one of the worst, stomach-turning crimes they had seen.

When they got back from the pig farm, Hotch only asked the team for a bare-bones report of the investigation and let them leave to the comfort of their homes while he stayed behind and dealt with the rest of the paperwork and red tape that was involved because of their foray into Canadian jurisdiction.

It was past midnight when Hotch finally left the office and entered his apartment with the intent of pulling out a glass of scotch and staying on his couch with a book, knowing there was no way he was going to fall asleep that night.

But Foyet was waiting, and Hotch was weakened by the exhaustion and stress of two all-nighters in a row.

That night, as his team was sleeping in their beds, dead to the world while he was slowly bleeding out and floating in and out of consciousness in his own apartment, he could only take comfort in the fact that his death sealed Foyet’s fate. There was no way Morgan the team—hell, even Strauss, or anyone in the bureau—would stop hunting his killer to exact their revenge.

He faded into unconsciousness with the expectation that that was it.

He slowly regained consciousness to the sharp smell of antiseptic and the unpleasantly familiar beeping of a heart monitor. Fatigue settling heavily over his whole body was the next sensation that registered in his foggy mind, and then the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Where am I?” he forced out through a dry throat, eyes still closed.

“In the hospital,” Rossi, his mind told him. He opened his eyes only to close them again when he was met with blindingly bright lights, letting out a pained breath.

“How did I get here?”

“Foyet drove you.”

Morgan. He drew in a shaky breath as dull, pulsing pain finally made itself known through the painkillers.

“Can you remember what happened?”

That’s Prentiss.

He vaguely felt his head loll to the side before the memories rushed back into the forefront of his mind. Foyet’s words, the same exact words he remembered thinking back in that alley echoed unpleasantly,

You should have made the deal.

Hotch swallowed again and forced his eyes open through the heavy fatigue. “What did he take?” he asked quietly, unwilling to delve deep into what he remembered and deciding to mentally run through the details about the Reaper case instead.

“What do you mean?” Rossi asked, uncomprehending.

“The Reaper always takes something from his victims.” you’re one of his victims now—shut up and think about that later “Do we know what he took?”

“There was a page missing from your day planner,” his eyes flew open and he looked over at Prentiss as she continued talking, “in the address section, the Bs.”

No— “What did he leave?” Hotch asked, eyes slipping shut as a trickle of fear went down his spine and his brain screamed out in denial.

“I don't know,” Prentiss said, floundering.

“He also leaves something with his victims,” he trailed off in a breathless whisper, unable to sustain the volume he had been speaking at as the throbbing grew stronger.

“I looked over your whole apartment,” Prentiss told him helplessly. “Nothing felt out of place.”

A thought came to him. “Where are my clothes?” Hotch asked, slowly trying to force his eyes open again. He turned his head, watching Prentiss bring a plastic bag over to the hospital bed. Careful to avoid looking directly at his bloodied clothes, Hotch managed to pull the bulging manila envelope closer to him on his chest.

His hands froze as his credentials slipped out and he noticed a folded paper tucked inside. Slowly, shakily, Hotch pulled them out of the envelope and carefully flipped it open.

He sank deeper into the bed as the breath he had been holding was almost punched out of him by the sheer terror that pulsed through him, the treasured picture of Haley and Jack staring back at him tauntingly. That’s my blood, he thought blankly, staring at the red streak he knew was deliberately painted over his family’s smiling faces.

“Haley’s maiden name is Brooks,” he finally said, almost numb to the implications. “I always listed her in the Bs in my personal information in case it fell into the wrong hands.”

Some kind of precaution it turned out to be.

“He knows where they live.”

And that was that. As Hotch was stuck in flashbacks and lied to Prentiss about what happened, Morgan led the SWAT team in sweeping Hotch’s old house and picked Jack up from his playdate. As Hotch talked with Haley and failed to not think about that night in the alley with the cold metal against his head, Morgan played with Jack outside and failed to not think about Foyet using his credentials so he could continue to torture his friend boss. As Hotch remained confined to the hospital bed, Morgan watched through an upper-story window as Haley and Jack were driven off into the distance to a location unknown to anyone but a select few in the Marshals service.

Nine stab wounds, thirty minutes down time, and six days in the cursed hospital.

The numbers circled through Hotch’s mind when he stepped back into his apartment and had to work through the panic that rose within as he stared towards the place where he knew Foyet had been hiding.

In the end, what brought him back from the edge was when his eyes caught the new security panel that had been installed over where he knew the bullet had made a hole and the sticky note with what he recognized as Morgan’s handwriting that was stuck over it, concisely written instructions on how to use it. If he looked around carefully enough for other signs of Morgan’s presence, he could see where the section of bloodstained carpet had been replaced, and that was only because there was the tiniest spot that had been missed.

The tiniest reminder was enough to send Hotch into a panic, but he knew there was no way he could tell Morgan about it.

Is this what you felt like, Elle? Unsafe in your own home, having to sweep each room for fear of another one of the monsters we hunt lurking in the shadows?

Slowly, numbly, Hotch worked his way through medical leave and physiotherapy, during which everyone in his team came over at least twice, Prentiss and Morgan the most often to help change his bandages. He knew they worried, but he couldn’t summon the will to care nor the words to thank them for keeping him company and preventing the darkness in his mind from taking over.

And maybe it was a good thing, because there were things they didn’t know, things that he lied to them about. He lied and he lied, and he knew that if he had the words, they would all come tumbling out, and what little of himself that he had left would be exposed for all to see.

Even if Morgan had tried to take everything he might be able to use, there was still his mind, and so if he had the words, they would all know how many times he envisioned holding cold metal against his head just as he had back in that alley.

On the thirty-fifth day after he was discharged from the hospital, when they were discussing Darren Call on the plane, they came close to finding out.

So why hasn’t he killed himself yet? Sprees usually end in suicide. If he's got nothing to live for, why hasn't he ended it?

It was much later, after a day of being on the receiving end of careful, worried glances, and overhearing Morgan’s firm declaration from inside his office that he realized his slip.

“I’m not going to stand by and watch this man kill himself,” Hotch had heard Morgan snap towards Rossi. Moments later, Morgan passed in front of his office window and made eye contact with him, making it clear that his choice of words was deliberate.

Suddenly Hotch was back in the alleyway with the gun pressed to his head and managed to talk himself off the ledge he didn’t know he was standing on while Rossi stood there, frozen and horrified that his brazen attempt at making a point had backfired so disastrously. His own words on the plane came back to him, then thought about what others would have seen when he walked into that house unarmed, and he understood.

He hadn’t been thinking at all when he went in to try and talk Darren Call down, but though he didn’t have a background in psychology, there were some things that didn’t need expert opinion to be said, and so he knew exactly his action could be classified as.

Don’t lie to yourself, you know exactly what that was.

Hotch swallowed convulsively and broke eye contact with Morgan, turning back to stare at paperwork until the other man walked back to his desk in the empty bullpen. As much as he tried, he couldn’t forget Morgan’s impassioned exclamation nor the depth of the worry that was present in his eyes when they made eye contact through the window.

Maybe that was the day when things shifted. It wasn’t a complete change—the team still hovered around Hotch in uncertain worry, his thoughts never completely disappeared, and he nearly broke down in the bathroom the day Jack turned four in witness protection after seeing what footage of his child on a playground Garcia could enhance.

There was, however, a different air to his and Morgan’s interactions after that case. Perhaps it was a long time coming, stemming from the painful understanding that was formed that day in the secluded bathroom when they found comfort in each other.

It wasn’t news that the higher-ups were watching him again, but then he walked back to his office after helping JJ triage consult requests to see Strauss fixing him with a stern stare. The next few days he spent trying to work through the frustration of recording and justifying every decision while trying and failing not to antagonize Morgan. And so while he waited for Morgan to come into his office, he could only hope that he hadn’t managed to destroy the strange friendship that had been built between them based on their shared knowledge of just how close he was to the ledge sometimes.

I should give him more credit, I don’t know how he puts up with me sometimes, and he has more than enough reason to report me to Strauss.

“Come on, Hotch, nobody's gonna replace you,” Morgan said, incredulous at the notion of Hotch getting replaced. “Fight Strauss. I'll go to the mat for you, so will everybody else. You know that.”

“Morgan, it won't work,” Hotch spoke over him, trying to get him to understand. “Decisions like this have their own momentum. Unless I step down—”

“Step down? What are you talking about?”

A foreign feeling Hotch recognized with some surprise as amusement wriggled its way into his consciousness as he anticipated Morgan’s reaction to his coming announcement, “I'm resigning as unit chief at the end of the week”

“What? No!” Hotch couldn’t stop his mouth from twitching as his feeling of amusement grew slightly stronger at the visceral reaction. “Hotch, look, yeah, ok, sometimes your actions, I may disagree with them, but it's not enough for you to leave this team.”

“I'm not leaving the team, I'm just no longer in charge,” Hotch corrected, continuing before Morgan could get in a word. “You are.”

He watched as Morgan’s jaw dropped in shock, before finally asking, “Me?” Detecting no deception from Hotch who had nodded, he continued. “Look, I had the chance to be unit chief in New York, and I said no. I turned it down because I like this team. Strauss can't just fire you like this.”

“She can reassign me, and we can avoid that if I promote internally.”

Unable to come up with a counterargument, Morgan was silent for a moment. “This is wrong,” he finally said.

A strange thrill went through Hotch at the confidence Morgan had in him—their relationship, while slightly different now, ultimately had been built on unstated respect and the ease with which both were able to call each other out on their bullshit; it wasn’t built on such blatant declarations of trust and confidence. Hotch opened his hands, shrugging helplessly. “It's the only way to keep the team together.”

Morgan nodded consideringly before carefully eyeing Hotch. “So all of this,” he gestured between them, bringing up the tension that had built up between them in the last case, “this is why you've been pushing me so hard, huh?”

“I haven't been pushing you that hard,” Hotch denied, only to get a disbelieving look from the other man. He let out a faint smile before regarding the other with a serious look again. “Morgan, I need to know right now. Will you do this?”

He couldn’t articulate the relief he felt when Morgan finally agreed and continued to feel for the rest of the night as he introduced Morgan to the other parts of the job. Just like every other positive emotion he had felt over the past few years, however, it was short-lived, as Hotch had freed up time to dedicate to the hunt, even as he often stayed later to help Morgan get adjusted. Within months, they were called into a family annihilator case and Hotch was confronting Karl Arnold, one of the few unsubs that had continued to haunt him even after the case was closed and they were killed or incarcerated.

Of course, Arnold had to get in the last word, and oh, did he get it in.

The cursed eye of providence, now drawn over a newspaper article about the attack months ago, never failed to create a surge of anger and fear within him, but never had it created such a storm of emotions before now. One torturous night of waiting as the envelope the taunts were sent in went through the lab, and the whole team was in the throes of the hunt, and in the process, fell victim to tunnel vision.

What if they had slowed down and remembered that Foyet worked with computers? Would they have managed to catch him at the apartment unawares? Would they have been better prepared for what Foyet had planned to do?

But there wasn’t anything Hotch could do except try and talk Foyet out of going through with his plans while trying to maintain as level of a head as possible.

“Your mother tried to protect you from your father, but she wasn’t strong enough, and you hated her for that, didn’t you? So, you decided that all women were weak,” Hotch suddenly brought up, hoping to catch him off guard as he vaguely wondered if the team was on the line, listening.

“Those are your words, not mine,” came the grating, annoyingly blasé reply.

“What were you, nine when you killed them?

“It was a car accident. And, now that I think about it, our childhoods are eerily similar, don’t you think?”

Caught unawares, Hotch jerked the steering wheel, barely managing to avoid crashing the car as Foyet continued. “But it was only your father who died, whereas your mother remarried.”

How—? He turned cold at the show of Foyet’s obsession, which was clearly much deeper than he or anyone in the team could have predicted.

“No response?” the killer taunted.

“My father swallowed a bullet because he couldn’t live with his self loathing or the cancer,” Hotch finally snapped, quickly directing the subject back towards Foyet. Even with the pit in his stomach growing as it became clearer that he was being toyed with, he couldn’t help but use every negotiation tactic he knew and taught at the Academy, desperately but futilely trying to dissuade the killer.

“Haven't you gotten what you wanted?” Hotch tried, somehow having regained his composure after the unpleasant bombshell. “You've set yourself apart from anybody we've ever dealt with. You're not just a famous serial killer, you're the Reaper. We're going to study you and your methods for years and years.”

“You know what I've been thinking?” Foyet finally asked after a few moments of silence, his next words sending his heart pounding in fear. “Haley looks really good with dark hair. She’s lost some weight. Must be all the stress you caused her. Where's the little man?” No, don’t you dare— “Oh. There he is. Does he like Captain America because of you?”

Hotch gripped his phone tightly as he heard the ringing of another phone. “That's your wife. Hold, please—Mrs. Hotchner,” Foyet took on an accent, tone turning jovial. “Open the gate and I'll drive in.”

Open the gate? That son of a—of course.

“Aaron?” the malicious glee was back, cutting right to Hotch’s core. “I really gotta go.”

Almost frozen with fear, he pushed the car faster, heading straight towards the old house and praying to whatever deity he could think of that he could get there in time. He wasn’t sure how long had passed when he got Morgan’s call, which was confirmation that the team had indeed been listening. He didn’t dwell on it and only continued to push the car, disregarding speed limits and almost hysterically glad that it was the middle of the day and the streets were relatively empty.

When his phone rang, it was with numb, mechanical movements that he answered, fully prepared to beg and bargain for his family’s life if he had to, only to sharply inhale at Haley’s dearly missed voice, which turned shaky with fear when she realized the danger she was in. As Foyet undercut their exchange with his maliciously satisfied taunts, telling Haley all that he could never bring himself to confess about the case, Hotch could only think about how he was just too far away, Haley, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry for lying to you about everything, I’ll never forgive myself—

But then Jack was on the phone, and the pure innocence and eagerness with which his son greeted him after months of no contact was enough to send a fresh wave of tears coursing down his face.

“Is George a bad guy?”

“Yes, he is,” Hotch answered, wanting to scream at him to just run away, get as far away from him as you can when an old memory was suddenly brought forth from his subconscious. “Jack, I need you on this case with me. Do you understand?” he tried to keep his voice steady, hoping with his whole being that his son would remember. “I need you to work the case with me.”

“Ok, Daddy.”

“Jack, hug your mom for me,” he requested, voice cracking and desperately trying to contain the sobs that were steadily building. He could only imagine the warmth his son was feeling from his mother now, potentially the last memory he would ever have of her. Hearing his son’s too-inquisitive question about his mother’s mood left him viciously biting down on his bottom lip, trying to maintain some modicum of control over himself.

“Is he gone?” Hotch finally asked, nausea joining the storm of emotions within him at the nickname Foyet had given his son.

“Yes,” Haley confirmed, letting her fear shine through now that Jack wasn’t there to see it.

Each shaking breath was a stab straight to his core.“You’re so strong, Haley, you’re stronger than I ever was.”

Her response nearly sent him shattering into the pieces she had so carefully helped him put back together back in high school after his stepfather died.

“You’ll hurry, right?”

I can’t lie, I’m so sorry, Haley. I can’t lie to you. Not after everything I’ve already done, “I know you didn’t sign on for this.”

“Neither did you.”

Why does it have to be now that we finally talk about what caused the divorce?

“I’m sorry for everything.”

There was a short pause as Haley inhaled sharply, before leveling out into shaky breaths. “Promise me that you will tell him how we met and how you used to make me laugh.”

No, please— “Haley,” Hotch trailed off, unable to continue and almost paralyzed at the knowledge that these might be her last words because he’s too far away, I’m not going to—

“He needs to know that you weren't always so serious, Aaron. He needs to believe in love, because it is the most important thing, but you need to show him. Promise me,” she ordered him forcefully.

“I promise.”

The sound of three gunshots tore straight into his soul.

And then he was finding Haley’s body, trying not to let the seams break when renewed rage roared to life within him at the extinguishing of the light that had been inside her and lit up every room she walked in. Minutes later, he was straddling the demon that had haunted him for over a decade, the demon that he finally caught up to but at a terrible cost and then he was punching—

I’m going to kill that bastard son of yours and I’m going to tell him it was all your fault—

and punching—

You practically killed them yourself—

and punching—

You should have made the deal—

someone yelled his name—

Promise me.

“—dead. He’s dead,” someone was shouting as Hotch tried to lunge forward away from the person pulling him back and towards the man who killed my wife HE KILLED HALEY—

But all the fight that had been inside him suddenly disappeared, and he was left staggering backward, mouth open in a silent, rage-filled scream as someone—it’s Derek—kept a careful grip on his body, holding his shattered pieces together just long enough for him to gather his tattered seams close to his chest and fling himself away towards the stairs.

Hotch collapsed to his knees in front of the chest, seeing no indication of any taunting messages and daring to hope that his son was—

And the sight of his son, unharmed and blinking at the sudden change in brightness, nearly sent him into a mess of relieved tears that were also tears of unadulterated grief because I got his mother killed—

He held himself together and lifted his son out of the chest, seeing all the features he got from Haley—her his hair, her his eyes, her his inquisitiveness—and struggling to maintain his weakening control as he told Jack to go to Ms. Jareau, who was waiting with open arms in the doorway to the room that had once been his office.

Hearing their footsteps fade away and shaking with suppressed sobs, he slowly stood up, injuries that he sustained in the fight finally making themselves known as he made his way across the hall to the room he knew Haley was lying in—

He saw Morgan taking her pulse and for a moment he couldn’t help but hope that she was still—

But Morgan was pulling back and he was gently placing Haley’s right arm back on the ground and he wasn’t yelling for medics and—

“I’m so sorry, Aaron,” Morgan said softly as Hotch knelt down, his trembling becoming more palpable by the moment.

If he looked past the unseeing eyes and the blood that pooled everywhere and her lying on the floor and—

He could almost convince himself that she was sleeping. For a moment, he was almost afraid to touch her, afraid to disturb her in her sleep, but in the next moment—

He was pulling her cooling body close to his chest and burying his face into the crook of her neck, gut wrenching sobs escaping his lips as a wave of grief shattered the flimsy show of control he had put up for Jack’s sake, his son who just lost his mother because his father was addicted to the chase and I broke my promise, Haley, I’m so sorry—

She’s gone.

The solemn silence weighed heavily on the team as they waited for Hotch to finish testifying before Strauss and the brass. They had all expressed their outrage when they got the orders to come in for their statements, only two days after their leader nearly lost everything, but there was nothing they could do.

It had been painful to watch the man who had been a protector for so long, since childhood through his teenage years and into adulthood, try to maintain the post, disregarding his own health in favor of being the earliest in the office and last to leave, spending every free moment trying to get rid of the threat to his family. It was worse having to listen over the phone as his control started to slip while he tried so desperately to save his family from a madman.

With the sight of him savagely beating Foyet’s dead body into the ground, all vestiges of the infamous controlled facade gone, they all hoped for Hotch’s sake that Jack had found safety and were beyond relieved to see him in JJ’s arms. Reality caught up to them, however, when they watched as Morgan had to physically wrestle Hotch away from Haley’s body so she could be transported to the ME’s office.

When they got the full autopsy, they could only be glad that Hotch wasn’t there to find out all that Foyet did to his first love.

And within a year, Hotch’s family had been ruthlessly snatched from his desperate, flailing grip and torn into broken pieces before being shoved back at him, misshapen with pieces missing.

The faint sound of a door swinging closed had them all straightening up in their seats, turning to look into the bullpen where Hotch was walking up the stairs in front of his office, only to freeze right in front of the door with his hand just in front of the door knob.

They watched worriedly as he let his outstretched hand fall back to his side and slowly backed up from the door, almost as if he were in a trance and startled when Morgan suddenly jumped up and ran out of the room and through the bullpen towards the man.

Their confusion cleared up when they realized that Hotch wasn’t stopping as he backed up, somehow unaware that the stairs were right behind him and stumbled, only barely catching himself on the railing. For Jack’s sake, they forced themselves to stay seated but watched out of the corner of their eyes as he tried to stand back up, only for his knees to buckle underneath him.

Before he could hit the ground, Morgan quickly grabbed onto his arms, almost collapsing himself under his dead weight but managing to lower them both onto the ground, holding onto him in a way eerily reminiscent of what he had done when he pulled Hotch off of the barely-recognizable body of George Foyet.

Hotch was still staring at his office door as if he had seen a ghost, and it was with heartbreak that Morgan realized what it represented to him—it was the source of so much passion and temptation that had gotten the love of his life killed. Looking back at the conference room and seeing the eyes focused on the two men, Morgan carefully pulled Hotch up from the ground and slowly guided him out of the bullpen, knowing that the team had Jack taken care of.

They walked through the winding hallways and into the bathroom that he followed Hotch into the night it all started to go horribly wrong. This time, it was different and yet the exact same, and after Morgan locked the door behind them, he pulled Hotch towards him, mindful of his bruised ribs.

Surrounded by the four walls that heard so many of their small talks and witnessed their vulnerabilities, it wasn’t long before Hotch’s eyes began to burn as he finally melted into Morgan’s protective hold when the dam finally broke, letting out a wave of pain and anguish that was only made the slightest bit more bearable by the warmth of Morgan’s his friend’s care.

But even that couldn’t make that one sentence disappear.

You practically killed them yourself.

#criminal minds #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #hurting Hotch is so fun #aaron hotchner whump #hurt aaron hotchner #mortch #george foyet #haley hotchner #tw guns #tw suicidal ideation #tw suicide #tw character death #sodone one sentence

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sellyoursoulforagoodfic · 4 years

Text

Shelbys at Somme: Chapter 13

Thomas X Reader

Word Count: 1641

Summary: Y/N is determined to get a job and Thomas is going to tag along whether she wants him to or not.

by @adventuresintooblivion

The next morning preceded much the same of Thomas leading Y/N downstairs only to have her slip away. This time however, she only made it down a couple blocks before she was approached by a rumbling noise. Thomas’ care suddenly stopped beside her, the owner casting her a cheeky grin as he leaned over to shove open the door.

“You plan on walking all across Birmingham?”

Y/N rolled her eyes, “That was the plan.”

Thomas patted the seat beside him. “Having you disappear on me two days in a row? We can’t have that now can we?”

Gingerly, Y/N crawled into the car. She couldn’t quite hide the sheer awe on her face as she marveled at the interior.

“Never been in a car before?” Thomas ducked his head down to hide the fact that his grin was only widening. The vehicle was one of the few objects he actually took pride in.

“No.” Y/N shook her head. “The Old Man was stingy with his. Said walking around like the common man built character, you know after he drove his a mere block away to make a point.”

Thomas tightened his grip on the wheel, “So, where to?”

She began twisting the thumb of her gloved hand, “I’m not sure. I was going to go out and look for work but last time I did this all the dance halls worth a damn wanted ten bloody pages of recommendations and work history. Can you believe that? I’m in my twenties. I barely have one and that’s if I could get a hold of everyone.”

He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel a moment before putting the car into gear. “I’ve got a few ideas. Though, I could just pay you for-”

“No. We’ve talked about this several times. My sole income will not be playing at the Garrison.”

Thomas shrugged as the automobile ambled down the narrow streets. The dirt slowly gave way to cobblestones as they entered the city proper and with the dirt followed the crowds of factory workers. Now they were surrounded by other cars and carriages made of stained mahogany.

While Y/N had spent most of her life in Birmingham, coming to this side of town was still an adventure. Here shops opened and closed with the fashions, not because of economic strife. What had been a macron shop only two months prior now housed milliners. It wasn’t until they were parking that Y/N realized where they were.

“Isn’t this the place where I played the first night?”

Thomas nodded, “Honestly, I’m surprised they didn’t request you again.”

She grumbled, “I think it might’ve had something to do with that little scene you caused.”

“Really?” he paused beside the door leading inside.

Y/N shrugged, “Even on this side of town ‘Thomas Shelby’ still holds quite the reputation. But I think it’d probably be best if you stayed out here.”

Thomas clutched his breast in mock horror, “You honestly think I’d do such a thing as to put your career in jeopardy?”

“You’ve sacrificed more for less.”

“When?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Y/N glared at him. “Maybe that brandy shipment I’d been working on for three months.”

Thomas chuckled, “That was almost four years ago.”

Y/N jabbed her finger at his chest, “It would’ve paid enough to get the whole company brand new shoes! And you showed my best hiding spot to Hopper, so you could get your cigarettes.”

“Fine. I’ll wait in the car.” He held his hands up in mock surrender.

A few moments later Y/N strode into the restaurant, Pearlescent, to find the host bent over a pile of paperwork. She cleared her throat to get his attention, causing him to jump.

“I...I’m sorry Madame but we aren’t open yet. We will begin service at 3PM.” he stuttered as he stood. The words left his lips were rehearsed and stale.

Y/N bowed her head, “Hello, I believe we met a couple months ago. I was one of the entertainers for the VIP lounge.”

The Host’s brow furrowed for a moment before realization dawned on him, “The girl who is friends with a Shelby. I thought I told you to never come back.”

“You did, but I figured it was a good time to make the rounds again. In fact, I think I would like to work here again.”

He laughed in her face, “Why on earth would I permit that?”

She grinned, “Well, as you can see, I’m currently standing in front of you alone. It’s been a couple months so your patrons would’ve forgotten my face, even if the incident didn’t quite leave their memory. My friend, The Shelby, really wanted to come inside with me. He actually gave me a ride here.”

“Are you threatening me, Miss?” The Host narrowed his eyes.

“Oh no.” Y/N shook her head. “I’m just letting you know that this particular Shelby will actually listen to me if I ask him to wait outside. Or come in.”

The Host paused for a long moment, “What exactly were you hoping for?”

Y/N grinned, “Three nights a week. I can play most instruments and I can sing. I expect fair pay, though I’m willing to negotiate if a free meal is included on the nights I work.”

He let out a deep sigh before gesturing towards a door on the back wall, “Come to my office and we can debate particulars.”

〜

Thomas lay across his seat staring up at the ceiling of his car. He tugged on the hem of his coat, preventing more of the cold air from creeping in. It wasn’t until he’d sat back up that he noticed a nearby tea shop. He usually wasn’t much of a tea lover but in weather like this he could definitely make an exception.

A bell rang to announce his arrival. This shop was much nicer than anywhere he frequented. Bright colors combated the dreariness of the overcast sky. The thick omnipresent blanket held at bay by floor to ceiling windows.

A small counter was set farther inside away from the cluster of tables that dominated most of the floor. Their walls were lined with shelves, displaying dried bags of loose leaf tea all ornately decorated. Behind the counter stood a stout woman, with deep lines carved into her cheeks from smiling.

“Welcome to Brandy’s and Bobbins, what can I interest you in, my dear?” Something about the woman’s voice reminded Thomas of honey, soothing and sweet.

Reflexively, Thomas rubbed his hands together. “Dunno. Don’t typically fancy a place like this.”

She smiled knowingly, “But it’s a cold day outside and we could all use a cuppa to remind us that the world is right again.” She set about busying herself with finding the right mixture. Glancing at labels and barely reading them before shuffling on to the next.

“So what’s your typical drink? Whiskey?”

Thomas blinked, not exactly sure what alcohol had to do with tea, “Rum mostly. Champagne for special occasions.”

She nodded, “And your lady friend.”

He could feel heat rising in his cheeks as he answered, “She’s more of a whiskey kind of girl.”

The woman beamed at him in the reflective surface of a rather large kettle, “I know just what to make you.”

Thomas raised his eyebrow but didn’t question the woman further. Instead he strode around the shop. Everything seemed a little too delicate for him to touch without crumpling even as his fingers brushed over fine metalwork. It wasn’t until there was a faint click on the counter that he returned his gaze to the front of the room. Two cups of tea steamed cheerily, one what seemed to be in disposable paper and the other in classic porcelain.

“Is… that paper?” Thomas asked.

She nodded, “Some mad lad in the Americas came up with it not too long ago. It’s expensive to get a hold of them but everyone loves them.”

Thomas pulled out his wallet and began to pay, “Have some opinionated customers?”

“Oh, you have no idea. We get all sorts in here from parliament members to textile merchants from Belgium of all places. Hell, we even get that new Inspector in here almost every day. I have to buy these almost exclusively for him.”

Thomas paused a moment while paying, “The copper?”

She nodded as she totaled everything up and made change, the smile never leaving her face. “Oh yes. He always asks for this one tea that’s always been popular with irish folks.”

He thanked her for the tea before sitting and drinking his own. After taking his first sip, he had to admit it was definitely one of the better ones he’s had. With a little sugar he might even go so far to say it was almost perfect. It wasn’t until he caught the look of absolute glee on the older woman’s face that it dawned on him that she actually loved what she did.

When he was done he mumbled his thanks and returned to the car with the paper cup held gingerly between his hands. As if seemingly by magic, Y/N appeared out of the Pearlescent as he stepped onto the curb.

“Job achieved?”

Y/N was practically bouncing with excitement, “Job achieved.”

They both climbed into the car before Thomas remembered what he was holding. “Here.”

Her hands wrapped around the cup, confusion turning to bliss as the warmth seeped into her hands. “This is amazing. What is this?”

“Tea. In a paper cup.” Thomas answered as he merged back into traffic.

Her brow furrowed, “How on earth?”

“Don’t ask me. As far as I’m concerned it might as well be witchcraft.”

“Says the man that says he’s part Gypsy.”

Thomas rolled his eyes, “Romani.”

#thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby imagine #tommy x reader #tommy imagine #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders #reader insert

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incorrectsmashbrosquotes · 4 years

Text

The Dragon and the Angel

Sephiroth was in his room, reading a book about the history of Eos and the nations of Lucis, Accordo, Tenebrae and Niflheim and sipping more of his favorite drink, Jenova Fruitjuice Tea with a few droplets of Lifestream extract for a minty aftertaste. His room was set up to be a study and adorned with paintings of memories back home like when he burned down Cloud’s home, though most of the paintings of his dear mom, Jenova.

He was interrupted from his reading when there was a knock at his door, sensing it wasn’t his favorite buddy Cloud, he chose to ignore it, not bothering to waste time on lesser beings. The person on the other side knocked again, this time a bit harder as the wood of the door creaked a bit. A third knocking made Sephiroth snap his book shut in annoyance and respond.

“Im not in the mood for company, woman.” He figured it was Rhea again after her little failed attempt at wooing him and still wanting him. He wasnt one for connections, after all he was a superior being and didn’t bother wasting his time with lesser lifeforms, unless their name was Cloud Strife. He knew the woman would return as he sensed her draconic aura behind the door. However he was surprised when black mist began seeping through the door and condensing before him, the mist coming together and forming the crimson and black cloaked figure of the resident Vampire Overlord, no not Mathias Cronqvist, Gabriel Belmont, and going off of his demeanor and gaze, he wasn’t in the mood for being denied an audience with the One-Winged Angel. “Evening, i hope you don’t mind me stopping by and desiring a chat with you, Sephiroth.” The vampire politely greeted Sephiroth who was smiling to his guest as he reached for his tea cup. “To what do i owe the pleasure for the visit, Gabriel, is this about your little grandchild, Rhea, i believe her name was? Quite the beauty i’ll admit, but not my type, too human…” sipping his tea as Gabriel just raised a brow at the silverette’s words. “Quite funny you should mention that, and ironic, considering your own concievment and upbringing.” Gabriel replied with his hands behind his back, not moving an inch as his words registered with the Ex-SOLDIER. Serpiroth set down his tea and his full attention was on the vampire now.

“Oh i can assure you, my mother is much more than a simple human, she-" "Your mother and father were both humans, both brilliant in their fields of work, though from what i gather, Professer Hojo is a bit of a nutcase and Ms. Crescent is imprsoned on her own terms and suffering major guilt for her actions over many things, including you. Like them you are human, your not even a Cetra like Ms. Gainsborough-Fair, human blood runs through your veins as much as the blood of the alien parasite you cling to so desperately for validation and approval, which was injected into you at such an early time that you suffer from it quite clearly. Your blind to the truth, your ‘dear mother’ only sees you as a means to an end, to consume this world and move on. Course thats not to be as she’s currently a useless corpse who'se entire presence has been wiped clean thanks to Mr. Strife and his companions, they also dealt with your machinations if im right on the details.” Gabriel brought his right hand up to cup his bearded chin as if in thought, sensing he struck a chord within Sephiroth as he felt the slow rise of power. “Is there a point to your visit, vampire, or have you come to mock my mother and hope for a slow death?” Sephiroth asked with a light frown, saw what you will about him and his true parentage, he had no care for them, but insult mommy Jenova in his presence, then it gets personal. Gabriel just shrugged and spoke up after glancing around to all the paintings in the room.

“Mocking? Oh no, you see i prefer to give truths and complete honesty when it comes to chatting about matters such as this. I understand your rejection to my dear Rhea and respect your decision, not everyone desires for companionship, be it platonic or sexual in nature. But would it really kill you again to at least open up that black heart of yours a little bit and make an aquaintance or two, or do you have a bit more of Hojo in you than you like to admit?” Gabriel asked as he heard all about the legendary Sephiroth, as the library in the Smash Mansion hosted a variety of knowledge from fighters to the small details of even the most mundane things. He also knew of his defeat and death, multiple deaths, at the hands of Cloud and his friends. Sephiroth folded his arms over his chest and while a bit annoyed by Gabriel poking the hornet’s nest in regards to Jenova, he asked anyway, “And why should I, I seem to recall you yourself are of higher status than others, but you were once human as well, don’t prattle to me about opening up and befriending others when you yourself keep within your castle and avoid mostly everyone like the plague, hypocrite.” he shot back as Gabriel just gave a light chuckle, not even denying that Sephiroth’s words were false.

“You’re right, I was at first, but I confess, Palutena is very tenacious and managed to open me up again, Ganondorf is always pleasant to hang out with and Cereza is just a treat to be around, all in all, i quite enjoy my group of friends. Im sure if you try you could make some surprising friends around here, while sure they can’t replace dear Genesis and Angeal, it wouldn’t hurt to form new friendships, how do you think Mr. Strife and his team were so equipped to stop you and your goals? If you ask me, you might be the better swordsman, but Cloud clearly is the better fighter, perhaps Jenova should have chosen him to be her son, he clearly is much more capable than you are, Mr. Best-Soldier-Ever~” Gabriel smirked with the jab as Masamune was summoned in Sephiroth’s hand and speared through Gabriel’s chest, through his heart and out his back. Sephiroth blinked as he didn’t hear the cry of agony that he was so accustomed to when cutting people down with his weapon, instead he was greeted with a smiling Gabriel, blade run through his torso as he wasn’t even bothered by it, he just took a step closer as the blade went further through and Sephiroth found himself close to Gabriel, Masamune about to be yanked free by its owner, but stopped when Gabriel’s cold hand clasped around Sephiroth’s wrist. “You’re angry, that good, shows that you haven’t completely discarded your humanity, and nice shot, you cut through my heart in an angle that severed the veins and arteries. But as you can clearly see, im a lot harder to kill. Now put away your washing pole and we can turn this little chat into something more appealing.” Gabriel yanked Masamune out of his body and his blood returned into him as his wound ehaled away, Sephiroth setting his weapon aside as Gabriel summoned a chair and sat down across from Sephiroth now. “Seeing as you made your grand entrance by killing off Galeem, i figure we can start by getting to know each other, from one god slayer to another.” Gabriel offered as he summoned a goblet of blood for himself. Sephiroth thought for a bit then shrugged, why not entertain this idea and see what becomes of it. -Later-

Rhea was carrying a few books she wanted to check out from the library and bring into Garreg Mach, both to help Byleth and Bylethe with their teacher duties and also for herself as she was an avid book reader in her spare time and having access to the many books about various realms and more intrigued her greatly. As she turned the corner of an isle, she bumped into someone she didn’t expect to see again, Sephiroth.

“Excuse me, didn’t see you there, here allow me.” Sephiroth greeted and knelt down as he collected her scattered books and then offered a hand to help Rhea up, she was a bit unsure but took his hand anyway and dusted herself off.

“No worries, i was more focused on my books, what brings you here, Mr. Sephiroth, you enjoy literature as well?” She asked

“I do, i read often when not participating in fights. I actually came here looking for you, Lady Rhea.” At her slightly puzzled look, he explained, “I wish to apologize for how rudely i replied to your advancements earlier. Its not that i think your repulsive or anything, its just that form where I'm from and what I’ve lived through, I’ve not the time or interests for such relationships.” He said as Rhea took that in and looked down, while yes she did manage to get over the heartbreak of rejection, she still found him interesting and couldn’t help but want to know the elusive and scary individual that as Sephiroth. “However, I am not opposed to the suggestion of making acquaintances, or friends if you would prefer.” He said as this had Rhea look back to him with surprise, studying him for any false pretenses as he held a rather calm smile that wasn’t mean. She smiled and looped an arm around his as she guided the black clad man around and started asking some questions on what type of stuff he liked to read. Needless to say, this was the start of an odd but blooming friendship.

-With Gabriel-

“Wow, thats new, here i thought he was a giant asshole for the sake of being one.” Sothis remarked as Palutena’s party were all having lunch and Sothis had tagged along at Palutena’s insistience and the group was watching Rhea and Sephiroth pick out books and go over what interests them in reading. Trevor was there too as he figured to spend more time with dad and the goddess who clearly helped him love again, that and Ganon’s kids were rubbing off on him.

“Looks like the mamasboy had a change of heart and decided to stop being a prick, i wonder if that had anything to do with you, darling?” Bayonetta asked as her eyes shifted from the crystalball on Palutena’s staff showing them the new friends to Gabriel as he was enjoying his burger.

“It did, we had a nice heart to heart and i convinced him that it wouldn’t hurt to make some friends around. Besides, im sure Mr. Strife would enjoy not being constantly followed around by his rival.” He said before taking another bite of his food. Alucard just chuckled and quipped.

“Surprised you didn’t threaten to tear out his wing, father. you usually resort to violence when people get stubborn and don’t want to change.” the vampire son snarked out as Gabriel just rolled his eyes.

Come now, my boy, i can be civil and persuasive when i want to be. Besides, i also promised him a good fight if he made friends with your niece.“ He added as this got Ganondorf thinking of how he could promote this and make money, The Dragon vs the One Winged Angel, sounds enticing.

#smash bros #submission #incorrect super smash bros #super smash bros #incorrect quotes #Sephiroth #Dracula #Gabriel #Gabriel Belmont #Sothis #Rhea #Ganondorf #Final Fantasy #Legend of Zelda #Fire Emblem #Castlevania

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captainrexisboo · 4 years

Text

Dumb Luck #3

Note: Heyoooooo two updates in one weekend, whaaaaat? No, actually a fun fact, this was started out as my part 2, but i liked my other idea of building the tension with Sweets seeing Rex with his helmet off for the first time better. There will be a part four, it just wont come as quick! I’m gonna have several more parts to this, I have plans y’all. This chapter has ~slight angst~ if you squint hard enough. Again, I’m open to criticism or Hot Takes TM, I’m still a novice writer! Both my asks and messages are open to everyone! Also... y’all, Jesse is a bro. He’s great.

a link to part two- https://captianrexisboo.tumblr.com/post/623995723815452672/dumb-luck-2

Warnings: suggestive language (the usual)

Tags: @persaloodles @starflyer-104 @imalovernotahater @holamor @000ayfh

“Hey, Sweets-“

“Not now, busy,” she threw over her shoulder, not even bothering to look at who was walking up to her corner of the hangar.

Y/N was greatly enjoying herself as an assistant to the head mechanic aboard the flagship. She quickly learned about not only the venator-class destroyer, but also about gunships, shuttles, frigates, landers, even more about her beloved droids, and her absolute favorite to work on, the starfighters. If she were alone in the hangars, she would walk over to the rows of starfighters and just study them, marvelling at every screw, panel, and wire and how it built something so amazing. And right now, she was actually able to work on one of these beautiful machines, and she’d be damned if she let anyone stop her workflow.

Rex lifted a brow at her mannerisms as he watched her dive elbow deep into a much older fighter model, one that hadn’t ever been repainted and typically was the last to be boarded and flown out by shinies who didn’t know any better. She was squatting low to the ground, a panel gone from the ship while she tinkered with its insides, hair barely secure, strands falling out of the haphazardly tied bun she had kept in place with only a single stylus. He was still conflicted at her presence on the ship. She had proven to be smart, quick witted, and of course was an absolute stunner, but she was also stubborn as hell, distracting, and always there. Always a mere moment away, in the hangar, in the generator room, in the mess, the repair bay, the armory- and he hasn’t known peace since.

Let’s be honest, he hasn’t known peace since he met General Skywalker, but he was able to have an illusion of what it was like whenever he was alone with his thoughts. Now he didn’t even have that, his internal narrative shaping into her curves before too long, even in his solitude. Things were different with her here, they were more on edge, like he was tiptoeing around her in a delicate dance to avoid a situation where either of them could build onto their practically visible tension. Kix had told him, ever the blunt medic, that he could cut their tension straight through the air with a scalpel it was so obvious. But he was a Captain, and had a job to do, so when he heard that she had been seen speeding down the halls to the hangars with her tools despite all the ships passing inspection just a few hours ago, he knew he had to be sure she wasn’t doing anything out of protocol. He had grabbed Jesse before making his way to the hangar, in case a mediator was needed, and was now grinding his teeth at the woman concentrating so intensely she didn’t even care to look who else was in the room. He shared a flat look with Jesse before clearing his throat to make his presence known, “You might want to take a break, Y/N.”

She paused what she was doing, her shoulders tightening. Only Rex ever used her actual name, especially when he was in one of his damn moods. This was weird, though, him seeking her out. Recently it seemed as if he had been avoiding her, or making sure they weren’t alone if they had to be in the same room. Try as she could to get his attention, get him all flustered, he’d always just be slightly out of reach, and she was getting increasingly frustrated. She rolled her eyes, summoning her signature bravado before she smoothly stood up to turn around, jutting a hip out and giving a lazy salute, “Ahoy, Captain.”

Jesse tried to mask his giggles under a cough, watching the two interact was his favorite pastime. Rex took note for later to ask a different intermediary for the next strife, before pointing his head to the ship, “What are you doing to that fighter?”

“Exactly what it looks like,” she smiled brightly, almost prideful, wiping her grease slicked hands on the pant leg of her GAR jumpsuit, “Messing with this lovely hunk of junk.”

“Messing with it?” Rex questioned, barely hiding his glance at the handprint now crudely placed on her thigh.

“Gave myself a project to work on,” she explained sauntering towards the pair of troopers with an arm outstretched to the ship, “Boys, meet my baby.”

“Your baby?” Rex slowly tore his gaze off her to look over the fighter blandly, “What a miracle of science.”

“Is Artoo the dad?” Jesse snickered, before receiving a light smack on the arm from the woman. She still chuckled at the quip, showing good humor to him. Despite being absolutely infuriating, Jesse was quickly becoming a good friend to her, like a brother she never wanted.

“Did you get permission before completely gutting the engine, at least?” Rex asked, looking around at the parts that lay on the floor, surrounding her workspace.

She sighed, “Yes, I did, just a bit ago. Ask Caine, he was the final sign off on it. Went through all the proper channels.”

Rex's jaw twitched, stiffening the hand holding his helmet, “It didn’t come through on my end.”

“Maybe it didn’t need to,” she shot, eyes narrowing as she crossed her arms, “I’m sure there are some things on this ship that don’t require your approval, sir.”

There it is. The way she said that word got him all riled up. It was one little word, one he got called by from every trooper on every hour of every rotation, but it was her honey-coated voice saying it that drove him to his limit. Every time she spoke the word to him it was like a challenge, daring him to expose his desirous aggression toward her, taunting his mask of composure. Every time she spoke, with a demanding storm in her glare and candy pink lips being teasingly assaulted by her own teeth, it stirred a fire in him he didn’t quite know how to quell. It was maddening, and got worse and burned deeper with every encounter. Before he could dig himself deeper into her trap, he simply pulled on his helmet with a slight growl, and turned on his heel to stalk away from the conversation, barely grumbling out a gruff, “I’m going to talk to Caine.”

“What crawled up his ass and died?” Y/N felt herself wilt a bit as she watched him go, taken aback by the retreat, and admittedly a little disappointed. Usually he’d last longer.

Jesse let out a stale bark of laughter, “Same thing that crawled up yours.”

“Jesse,” she warned, cold eyes coming up to focus on him, drawing out his name as she placed her hands on her hips.

“Sweets,” he mimicked her tone and stance, chuckling low, “Why don’t you just go after him? He’s all pent-up and frustrated, I don’t think the troops can take another feral sparring session. Hell, I don’t think I can take it. Think of the poor shinies.”

She shrugged at him, rolling her eyes as her head lolled to the side, “What can I say, I’m a self-destructive mess that likes to delay my own happiness and ultimate satisfaction.”

“Bantha shit,” Jesse rolled his own amber-hazel eyes at her, “I think you're just a brat.”

She laughed lowly, batting her lashes at him, “Same thing, trooper.”

She turned around, intent on continuing her work before she felt a gloved hand wrap itself around her elbow, turning her back to face the ARC, “I’m serious. Why are you dragging this out, adding to the pressure? If you keep this up, one of you will explode before too long, and then- whether it’s a good explosion, or a bad one- there’s gonna be one hell of a mess to clean up in its wake.”

She lifted a brow at his wording, “Was that innuendo literal, or-”

“Ew,” Jesse blanched, letting go of her arm and scrunching his face at the mental image., “That’s my ori’vod!”

Y/N threw her hands up in a mock surrender with a devilish smirk on her lips, “Look, you’re the one who said it.”

“Just answer the question, maker!”

She was silent for a minute, pursing her lips as she gathered her thoughts together. Jesse was staring intently at her, crossing his arms as he waited for her. Her eyes narrowed into thin slits in her focused state, and she exhaled slowly through her mouth, “I...I don’t know if he actually likes me or not. Sure, we banter, and I flirt, but I don’t know if he legitimately thinks of me the same way. I mean, today he just walked away from our conversation, and it made me feel kind of dejected. He seemed...I don’t know. Exasperated. Like he’s tired of me.”

Jesse had never seen her so vulnerable, so small. Sure, she was easily more than a head shorter than them, but her confidence and charisma always made her seem like she was eight feet tall. She twirled a lock of stray hair around her fingers, looking anywhere but Jesse as she continued, “His responses always vary, so I can’t pin down his exact feelings! He can either be cold and dismissive like today, or he can be actively matching my turn of phrase, there's no in between. So I always just...well, I tease him, you’ve seen it. I’m just testing the waters, seeing if he’s interested.”

“Sweets-“ Jesse cut himself off as he let a heavy hand fall onto her lithe shoulder, “Y/N, look at me.”

At the sound of her name, she blinked up at him, biting her lip to keep from pouting. Jesse was about to continue, barely opening his mouth to begin, when there was a greeting from behind them.

“There she is, right where you left her, Captain!”

Rex had come back, face unreadable as he looked between Jesse and Y/N. An older, brown man walked next to him, tall and lean with a salt and pepper fade, his smile as wide as his stride, “Sweets, lass! Making headway on that pile of scrap, huh?”

“Yes sir, Caine,” she greeted, standing upright and saluting him properly before turning offhandedly to Rex and crossing her arms, “Captain.”

Rex felt his jaw twitch at the sudden chill coming off of her, his brow furrowing at the sudden switch in her demeanor. Caine continued waving his arms, animatedly gesturing to the fighter, “This ship will run better than the day it was bought when you’re through with it, I know it. But, our most thorough Captain here has made it known to me that we did skip a step in approving your request.”

She looked Rex up and down, crossed arms tightening over her ribcage, “Oh really? And what step would that be?”

“Admiral Wulff Yularen,” Rex answered, tone even and cool to match her own, “You’re right in that it wouldn’t pass over my desk, however these are still Republic owned ships. He needs to approve...whatever you’re doing before you continue.”

She bit her lip and tightly squeezed her eyes shut, breathing deep through her nose, before responding, “Fine. I’ll clean up my station. Is there a time I can meet with the Admiral to discuss my mistake?”

Rex began to respond, before Jesse stepped in, “I’ll go explain the situation to him. Caine, would you mind tagging along?”

“Let’s stop by my office to get her approval request forms. Anything that makes this take longer, it gets me away from the repair reports,” Caine guffawed as he walked away with Jesse, leaving the Captain and mechanic on their own. He shifted as her burning stare held onto him for an extended moment after the two had left.

“What?” he growled out, growing aggravated at the silent attitude she was giving him.

“You’re a fucking tattle tale,” she spat out before turning on her heel to begin picking up her tools and various discarded parts of the fighter, “Going to my boss because a form didn’t come your way.”

“What are you, a youngling?” he shot back, but striding over to help her out, “I’m doing you a favor! If Admiral Yularen had found out one of his ships had been tampered with, without his permission, he’d blacklist you from the GAR and put you in a ship to drop you on that same dirt ball we found you on.”

Admiral Yularen was much more empathetic than that, and would not go as far as that for a punishment. But she didn’t need to know that right now.

“I’m not tampering with it- don’t touch my tools,” she looked over to see him dropping her wrenches and welders unceremoniously into her box, “I’m not tampering, I’m fixing. I’m a mechanic, it’s what I kriffin do, I’m sure he’d understand.”

He continued to pick up her scattered tools as she turned back to the disorganized pieces of metal with a roll of his eyes, “That may be so, but the GAR has a very strict way of doing things, and unfortunately the line of command doesn’t just stop at Caine for you. In fact-“

“I said don’t touch my tools!”

“Y/N, I’m trying to help you!” he nearly yelled at her, his voice booming in the high ceilings of the hangar, “Anything I’ve done today, is to help you!”

She scoffed, unmoved by his commanding demeanor, “Sure, help me. You didn’t even want me on this ship to begin with!”

“That’s-“

“You still don’t like me, do you? Is that why you don’t respond to my advances?” she was stalking toward him now, her mess and tools pushed to the farthest corner of her mind until they got this discussion over with. He stood his ground as she got closer, standing at his full height but looking her directly in the eyes nonetheless.

“Y/N-“

“I flirt and tease you all damn day and you just ignore me! Or worse, you respond and then leave when you realize you might’ve reacted a little too positively. I’d at least like a solid no from you, make yourself clear, please!”

“Hey!” he laid two strong hands on her shoulders, giving her a slight squeeze, “Shut. Up.”

She glared at him, but complied, pulling her bottom lip in between her teeth as she stood defiantly to him, as tall as she could under his grip. He allowed himself a slow breath, inhale through his nose, hold, exhale through his mouth. He softened his hold, and let his deep honey eyes search her stormy glare, delving into the depths of her soul to make sure she understood, “I think I like you, Y/N. More than I ought to.”

He let that sink in, his cheeks flushing at his own sudden boldness but keeping a lock on her gaze. She raised her brows in surprise, eyes going wide as her agitation subsided, being replaced with something more delicate before sputtering out, “Oh. Okay. Uh, great. So...why aren’t you doing anything about it?”

He let out a dark chuckle, letting his eyelids get heavy, “Always one for tact.”

She shrugged under his grasp, a slight grin gracing her features at his amused expression, “Would you expect anything less?”

He shook his head, letting his lips twitch upwards as his thumbs absentmindedly rubbed circles into her shoulders, before clearing his throat, “If you had let me finish earlier, your chain of command doesn’t stop at Caine. It includes Yularen, Skywalker, and me. If I’m seen to be ‘romantically involved’ with a crewmember, I could be court martialed. And then you’d be-“

“Sent back to that rock you picked me up from,” she finished for him, letting a hand come up to rub gently at his right wrist, before sighing, “Maker, I hate it when you’re right.”

“It’s a miracle you still like me, then,” he let a cheeky smile pull through his face, causing her to let out a soft giggle. Somewhere between their dispute and his confession, his voice had shifted to a low, coarse whisper that made her want to hang onto every word. He let a hand off her shoulder, gripping her chin lightly between his thumb and forefinger, “Do you understand, cyar’ika?”

Her breath was stolen from her as she watched his eyes glance down to her lips, his thumb gently pulling at her skin to have her bottom lip pop out of it’s sharp hold. She shuddered, a pleasant quiver going down her spine as she nodded at him. She fluttered her lashes at him as he chuckled low at her response, “What does that mean?”

“Promise not to get mad?” he smirked at her, as a matching blush sweeping over both their cheeks.

“Rex,” she quirked a brow at him playfully, drawling out his name almost musically. He smiled wide at her, practically spellbound with how his name sounded on her lips.

“It’s Mando’a,” he paused for effect, looking around to make sure no out of place soldiers were looking over before dipping low, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, “for sweetheart.”

She laughed, the sound warm and full, splaying a hand over his armored heart, the plastoid cool underneath her palm, “Fine. But only you are allowed to call me that.”

She pushed him lightly, having him let go of her shoulders. They stood there, smiling at each other, skin burning where the other’s hands had been, gazes soft with mutual ache. Y/N sighed, “So, what does this mean? For us.”

Rex thought for a minute, walking around her to continue where they had left off cleaning. After she had joined him, he hummed in response, “I think it’s a promise.”

“A promise?” she repeated, finishing up putting all the spares and discarded parts in an unlabelled crate next to the fighter. She leaned against the crate, arms crossing as she grinned at him, “What kind of a promise?”

“After the war is done,” Rex explained, tone surprisingly optimistic, “we can travel the galaxy together. No enemies to be on lookout for, not having to worry about getting caught by my nosy men-”

“Does it have to wait till after the war?” she whined, but still watching him as if he were hanging the stars as opposed to just picking up her tool box. He handed her the plasteel case, latching it closed with one deft hand.

“We can discuss that later,” he sent her a sly wink. She rolled her eyes, righting herself off the crate and looking up at him with the familiar teasing glint in her eyes that he’s come to find very charming.

“Just because you’ve finally confessed, don’t think this means I’ll stop toying with you, sir.”

All he could do was let his smile grow, just thinking about all the alluring ways she’ll drive him crazy, “I never wanted you to stop.”

#captain rex #captain rex x reader #captain rex imagine #star wars #star wars the clone wars #clone troopers #ct 7567 #501st #female!reader #mechanic!reader #tcw fic #my writing #part 3 #clone trooper jesse #ct 5597 #we're not smooching yet but we'll get there #slow and steady boys

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flowerslightning · 4 years

Text

Have you heard about PFA and MFA?

or the full name is ‘Psychological First Aid’ (PFA) and ‘Mental Health First Aid’ (MFA)

Can we relate it with Cloud Strife? As we all know, Cloud had mental illness and was struggling alone. Let’s take a quick look on this topic then and see if characters in FF7 ever give PFA/MFA to Cloud or to each other. This is going to be a looooong post although I tried to simplified it, so, yeah. Good luck reading this !

Disclaimer : I’m not a psychologist. I’m still a student and psych is not my major field. During my intern, other than we got exposed a lot about psychiatric disorders and ways to deal with them, we also got trained psychological first aid in emergency department. If it wasnt because of this quarantine, i would have finished my training in emergency field. There might be false interpretation here or there, forgive me for that and pls correct any mistake in this post

This will probably trigger LTD. Sorry, but I had to, Pls read this post with open mind. Keep in mind I like both Tifa and Aerith, i have no grudges agaisnt Barret, Vincent, Nanaki or Cid so I am not being bias with any of them. I forgot a lot of stuff in OG (I played it when I was really really small), so I will be using lots FF7R and AC references here (and a bit from OG, depends whatever I remember)

Good to go? Allow me to rant. Read it slowly and if u skip some of it, u’ll probably mislead my actual words, and u’ll be triggered af. Don’t come at me with madness if u dont read the whole post properly

What is PFA and MFA? Generally speaking, if Basic First Aid is about covering the wound to prevent further bleeding, then PFA (Psychological First Aid) and MFA (Mental Health First Aid) is like applying a bandage on ur mental to avoid u continue being distress.

Usually, PFA is often associated with disaster event or terrorism, where large number of people got affected. Meanwhile, MFA focus in one person who is developing mental health prob or already in mental crisis due to certain traumas, such as vehicle accident, house burned and etc

Pls note that, certain people NEED MFA while the others may NOT NEED it. It is important to respect their needs/wants. Some victims may refuse verbally but they ACTUALLY NEED it (CLOUD STRIFE) and maybe some victims look like they dont need it, but they want it, and its super fine to give it

PFA/MFA not only done by the professionals and it is not a professional counselling, although necessarily training is needed if u want to approach deeper in this field. PFA/MFA is also not a psychological ‘debriefing’ - in which MFA/PFA doesnt need to involve a detailed discussion of the trauma event with the victim, but instead, it is an alternative way to psychological debriefing that helps for long-term recovery. (unless if ure a pscyhiatrist, then u have to forget about MFA and ask detailed questions regarding the events to help the patient to recover)

MFA and PFA both almost the same, but I will mention more about MFA here.

MFA (Mental Health First Aid) is not just about comforting “Oh, are u alright. I’m sorry for what u’ve been through”, but it is also about assessing their needs and concerns, protecting them from harm, provide practical support and support them feeling able to help themselves and others.

The main key for these two term is RESPECT - respect victim’s dignity, respect both parties safety and respect victim’s rights to make decision. Even without the PFA, we should respect these three in whatever circumstance we are in.

A lot of us honestly were born with natural skill of MFA bcause of our own empathy, instinct or experiences and some got trained professionally. Some of them already had MFA due to high common senses they have.

Some of the Do’s and Dont’s when giving MFA include;

Do’s : 1. Be trustworthy | 2. Respect their decision | 3. Be aware of and set aside ur bias | 4. Make it clear to them u are available for help even they push u away | 5. Respect their privacy and personal space | 6. Do remain calm and soft when the person in distress | 7. Listen and don’t interrupt their talking | 8. Help in terms of basic needs | 9. Create connection the person with others | 10. Give hope to them | 11. Provide private place to talk about the event | 12. Respect their strenght | 13. Advice small necessary matters or give simple words of encouragement | 14. Acknowledge positive features of what victims have done

To simplify, there are 3 ways for MFA to begin, and I will only talk about one of them, the one that is the hardest to do, that is when u notice someone looks distressed and ure concern about them, and leading u to approach them first without them noticing ur concern. [Am I putting the right words here?]

In Cloud’s case, who do u think the first noticed Cloud behaved oddly and went to help him first ? - yeah Tifa. U probably would say “OFC she went to help him, she met him first at the train station. That guy looked sick af, who wouldnt ask if he was alright. If Aerith/Yuffie/Jessie met him first, they would do the same”. Okay guys, that was not my point.

Let’s focus one by one characters and see what Do’s and Dont’s MFA (Mental Health First Aid) they’ve done to Cloud and other charas. Keep in mind, none of them know what Cloud had gone through, but Cloud had showed some obvious sign he was unwell and only a few of them noticed that and took action for it.

The symbol [X] means the Dont’s in MFA and ( ✔) means the Do’s in MFA.

Biggs Jessie Wedge -

I know there’s a thing about man helping man’s psychology and Jessie being flirty with a guy.They [X] thought Cloud was like how they saw Cloud. and they considered it as normal. They didnt see Cloud under distress so they dont have the need to concern his mental status. The good thing about them was, the three of them (✔) respect Cloud’s strenght, giving Cloud the confident to be in action. But, Jessie [X] had zero respect on Cloud’s personal space

I wanna highlight about Biggs. Biggs had an attitude of overthinking stuff, but it wasnt so bad that would cause him harm, he just cared too much about his friends. So I believe Biggs was the type that would notice immediately when his friend being strange and would give MFA (Mental Health First Aid) with his own instinct even without the person asking it.

During the Sector 7 Plate attack, where Biggs was severely injured, when Cloud said he was not a fan of kids and Biggs said Cloud had so much in common (in common of what? Cloud with the kids or Cloud with him?), Cloud gave him ‘a sad look’ and Biggs reached out his hand to Cloud’s head. Biggs (✔) remain calm and soft when dealing with Cloud’s feeling (who faced traumatic event but Biggs didnt know about it) on that moment despite his current physical status. And also he (✔) wished goodluck to Cloud, leading to prevention distress on Cloud

Marle -

Marle [X] judged Cloud for someone who had no skills, but she entrusted Cloud to take care of Tifa’s well being. Not knowing who Cloud was, Marle noticed Cloud looked glum, she (✔) offered her ear for Cloud to rant and knew right away he was not having enough sleep, then (✔) advising him to sleep more . Lol, she was [X] biased with Cloud and Tifa. Not her fault, she only knew Tifa’s story, not Cloud’s. After the Sector 7 plate fall, we saw her being the most active member to help with the remaining citizens there. Marle without a doubt had given the citizens there PFA (Psychological First Aid) , by helping them with their (✔) basic needs, (✔) create connections, (✔) put away bias, (✔) remain calm and soft.

Barret Wallace -

Barret was the same like Biggs Jessie Wedge. I’m sure Barret thought Cloud was just fine. Barret saw Cloud as a mercenary with stinky attitude,[X] judging him like that causing Barret to gave him the same attitude too. But overall, he (✔) respected Cloud’s strength a lot

However, after the Sector 7 plate fall, Tifa and Barret were the one that hurt (mentally) the most, Tifa as usual locking her emotions, there we could see how Barret comforting Tifa by (✔) giving words of encouragement and proceed on (✔) hugging her to show his empathy. Barret also (✔) remain calm and soft spoken when talking to the survival victims of Sector 7 citizens. He also (✔) acknowledged what the citizens had done to survive

Vincent Valentine -

Don’t be surprise Vincent was listed here. This guy here was like another version of Cloud but more mature. In addiction, they both kinda share the same pain. So, I personally think Vincent understands Cloud pretty well. In AC, where Cloud was mentally ill, Vincent saved Cloud from Kadaj and brothers and (✔) took him to safer place. That was a common thing to do. But let’s go deeper, Cloud never told him about himself, but Vincent already (✔) aware of Cloud’s trouble with the geostigma stuff and Cloud’s current mental status. Vincent, (✔) calm and soft like always (✔) didnt hesitate to asked if all of these were just about ‘fighting’ and it made Cloud to ‘re-think’ further about his problem. He (✔) didnt pressure Cloud here, instead he was (✔) helping Cloud to understand the condition he was facing, and this lead Cloud to avoid distress.

Aerith Gainsborough -

I know Aerith was special. She was an important character and devs created her to be ‘loved’ by the fans so that her death would be tragic. Aerith did almost all the things that shouldnt be done when giving MFA to mentally ill person. Some of u may say “Duh, Aerith didnt know anything about Cloud thus she had no intentions of giving him MFA”. Yup, ure right. Aerith didnt know about Cloud’s mental status but so as all the other characters in the series.

Aerith was [X] being pushy with Cloud, in lots of ways, from making him as a bodyguard for free to forcing him to wear a dress. She [X] forced Cloud to accept her idea about meeting Andrea, dance and gown. She also [X] forced Cloud to help picking the flowers. Aerith [X] didn’t let Cloud to have his own decision [X] neither giving him a chance to talk, and [X] abandon his feelings (cough..uhm, Aerith resolution). She also had [X] no respect on Cloud’s personal space and [X] too much touching and leaning to him. Aerith also [X] put herself in danger and that worried Cloud. She [X] looked down on Cloud in someways too

However, at the Sector 5 slum, where the hooded man appeared, Aerith noticed Cloud was having trouble with himself, she (✔) encouraged Cloud to keep himself together. Also, throughout the entire game, Aerith always remind the team to (✔) have hope in everything. Her positive vibrant attitude was what (✔) made everyone able to believe in themselves. She also (✔) ensure Marlene’s safety and protected her. She was able to (✔) remain soft and calm when approaching Marlene. Remember Betty? Aerith took her time to helped her out and she even (✔) respected the little girl’s strength, (✔)slow and steady when saving her and (✔)soft spoken

Tifa Lockhart -

Tifa met Cloud at the train station, saw him being ‘not-so-fine’ state despite Cloud claiming he was completely okay. Tifa didn’t know what Cloud had gone through and she (✔) didn’t pressure him to talk about it. She even helped him to (✔) find a place to sleep even when Cloud never asked for it. Tifa unconsciously was the first person to give Cloud MFA without knowing what Cloud had faced previously. And Cloud, on that moment, he really needed a help. Tifa also (✔) stated that if Cloud need anything, she would help him with it

Tifa (✔) remain calm everytime Cloud had sudden headache, she didn’t leave him alone and (✔) didnt put any pressure on him by asking question. During the (✔) Alone At Last, they had privacy Tifa asked about what happened after he left Nibelheim. She (✔) listened and didnt interrupt him, (✔) neither pushing him to talk more. Moreover, Tifa (✔) put a distance with Cloud, dunno if she was the one who was being uncomfortable or she actually (✔) respect Cloud’s personal space and privacy. Tifa (✔) didn’t force him to stay at Midgar, she asked him and was glad Cloud would stay for a while. Tifa was no doubt (✔) respect all Cloud’s decisions too. Also, don’t forget, Tifa also helped Cloud to help (✔) make ‘close connection’ with the Avalanche members and people in Sector 7 slums. She also (✔) didn’t do much touching with Cloud (Well, I mean, she didnt touch him in clingy way)

In AC, Tifa (✔) encouraged Cloud to have hope for Geostigma and the family

Tifa did [X] put herself in danger by becoming Corneos bride participant and that gave Cloud trouble (but Tifa ensured him she would be fine on her own previously) And btw, in OG, I read about the fans questioning why Tifa [X] didnt tell Cloud the truth. I would like to argue this matter. TIFA IS A CHARACTER WITH REAL HUMAN FLAWS, she too had her own traumatic event and was not really sure of herself on what to do. However, considering what Tifa had done for him, Tifa had helped with Cloud’s psychology the most.

I know Cloud was putting up a font, and that made him to have condescending attitude, and people couldnt see what Cloud was hiding behind the the bravery face. However, all of us as fans acknowledged the pain Cloud was suffering in the entire FF7 story. Some of the characters like Tifa, Marle, Vincent, Biggs noticed it and they took actions for it, while others, I do personally thing, they were hurting the Real Cloud’s mentality more.

Long story short, Tifa was the one who gave mental health support the most to Cloud, followed by Vincent (AC), Biggs and Marle. Aerith did the worst with Real Cloud's mentality + she then died, mking Cloud be more miserable,

However, Aerith actually had the best way to give MFA/PFA to children, but maybe the worst to Cloud. While Tifa gave the best MFA to Cloud which helped him to get himself together through out the entire time

Alright thats the end of my talk. Thank you for being with meee

#final fantasy 7 #final fantasy vii #cloud strife #character analysis #final fantasy theory #advent children

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silver-wield · 4 years

Text

On Edge

As the city of Edge expanded out and around them, Cloud and Tifa spend their days building up both Seventh Heaven and Strife Delivery Service. It was hard work and an occasional thankless task, but they persisted because it was also a labour of love.

After Barret left on his quest to find purpose in his life, leaving Marlene in their care, things quietened down for the longest time, until Cloud brought home a young boy called Denzel he'd found wandering around the ruins of Aerith's church. He'd contracted Geostigma, a fatal and highly contagious disease, but that didn't stop Tifa from welcoming him into their home.

A few nights after Denzel's arrival during a slow point in service, Tifa overheard a few locals talking about a shady network, a black market, that seemed to appear from nowhere. The person pulling the strings had everyone at their beck and call and no one could explain how. Standing at the far end of the bar, pretending to rinse a glass out, Tifa's eyes widened as she heard a name she thought she'd never hear again. Don Corneo? She glanced at the two barflies from the corner of her eye. Labourers, the pair, they came in at the end of every week to celebrate a job well done. Reliable sorts, so she knew she could trust what they said. Wonder if Cloud knows? She looked at the clock. He'll be back soon. With a nod to herself that it could wait until she saw him in person, Tifa turned back to serve her customers with a warm smile and cold drinks.

~*~*~

“Hey, Cloud! You're back!” Denzel beamed up at him, as Cloud came through the doors.

Tifa came out from behind the bar carrying four plates. “Just in time for dinner,” she said to him. “Everybody wash up first.” She looked from Cloud to Denzel and then Marlene, who nodded. As Cloud passed her, she added, “There's something we need to talk about, but not with the kids around.”

Cloud paused and frowned. “Okay...”

Head tilting as she watched him go, Tifa also frowned. He sounded worried. Does he know about Corneo already? Maybe I shouldn't bring it up. I'm sure Cloud can handle it. Deciding not to poke a hornet's nest when she didn't need to, Tifa put the dinner down and went to grab cutlery.

Dinner passed in a haze of pleasant chatter about everyone's day. Denzel asked Cloud as many questions about work as he could think of, but often his one word answers weren't enough so Tifa filled in the blanks. Marlene showed Cloud her arithmetic book and bragged about becoming an accounts clerk for the bar.

“You've got a patient teacher,” he said to her, looking at Tifa.

“Only sometimes,” she replied in a teasing tone.

Cloud ducked his head a little and said, “Hoo boy.”

After dinner, Denzel felt well enough to play outside for a while, so he and Marlene went out with strict instructions to return before the street lights came on.

Cloud gathered up the empty plates and took them over to the sink where Tifa already had the water running. “So, what did you want to talk about?”

Lost in thought, it took a moment for Tifa to hear his question. Then, she glanced up at him. “Hmm? Oh, it's nothing now.”

Cloud's brow creased as he began to pout. “Right...” He put the plates in the sink and turned away. “Guess I'll be in the office.”

Is he upset? “Cloud?” Tifa put her hand on his upper arm, stopping him from leaving. “Is something wrong?”

Cloud shook his head. “No. It's just I thought you wanted to talk and now you don't. It's fine.”

It doesn't sound fine. Sighing, Tifa took a step closer to him and laid her forehead against his back. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.”

Cloud placed his hand over Tifa's. “It's fine. I'm not upset.” He fell silent for a long moment, then drew in a deeper breath before saying, “If something's wrong you can rely on me. You're not in this alone.”

Tifa smiled and wrapped her arm around his waist. “I know.”

“Then, tell me what's the matter?”

Chuckling, she realised some wires crossed in their conversation. We can work on that. Moving around to face him, Tifa said, “It wasn't anything the matter with me. I heard Don Corneo's still alive and I was going to ask you about it, but then I thought what if you were already handling it?” She bowed her head, adding, “I didn't want to assume you hadn't heard. You're out in the world more than I am.” Waiting in silence to see what Cloud would say, Tifa was surprised when he put both hands on her shoulders. She looked up at him. “Huh? You're smiling?”

“Doesn't matter,” he replied, pulling her into his arms and holding her close. “I hadn't heard about Corneo,” he continued, speaking in a low voice, “but I can deal him if you want.”

Would he eventually bother them? Tifa wasn't sure. He only came after Avalanche because Shinra posted a reward. If the rumours were true, only the Turks and a few loyal administrative staff remained. Reeve reappropriated much of the company and turned it into the WRO: the World Regenesis Organisation, dedicated to protecting and preserving the planet and its people. But what about the regular people down on the ground? The WRO's focus is rebuilding. Should we really leave a threat like Corneo running around without check? “I don't know,” she murmured. “What do you think?”

“You're always saying we should get to know the neighbours.”

Tifa giggled. “That's not exactly what I had in mind when I said that, but it works.” She looked at him and smiled. “Want some help?”

Cloud nodded. “Sure, why not?”

~*~*~

It wasn't hard to run Corneo to ground in a newer part of Edge than where Cloud and Tifa lived. His tastes were just as overblown and ridiculous as Tifa remembered. “How did he even find all these materials?” she wondered, as Cloud rang a doorbell.

“I can guess, but you won't like it,” he replied, scowling.

Tifa shuddered. “Reeve would be impressed with his procurement skills, but not his methods.”

“Hmm.”

The door opened and a man with a scar running down his face poked his head out. “What?”

“Here to see Corneo,” Cloud said, placing one hand on the hilt of his sword. “We don't have an appointment.”

“Get lost.” As the door began to close, Cloud drew his sword and jammed it into the gap.

“Ah! Get lost!”

“Tifa.”

“On it.” Tifa grabbed the door with both hands and pulled. The man lost his grip and it swung fully open.

“Like I said,” Cloud repeated, taking a step forward, “we're here to see Corneo.” He continued to advance, forcing the bigger man to back up until both he and Tifa made it inside.

“We're old acquaintances,” Tifa said from behind Cloud.

“Yeah, do whatever,” the man replied, holding his hands up in surrender.

“Thank you very much!” Tifa passed Cloud, then beckoned him after checking the coast was clear. “Corneo spent all his money on trappings, huh? No lackeys anywhere.”

“Hmm...” Cloud's eyes darted around, keeping a look out for sudden attacks.

They made it all the way to Corneo's inner sanctum without seeing another person.

“Guess you were right,” Cloud said to Tifa, as he pushed open the double doors and walked into Corneo's office.

“Then, how is controlling everyone?” Tifa shook her head. “It doesn't make sense.”

“Maybe—watch out!” Cloud grabbed Tifa's wrist and tugged her to safety as a hidden goon leapt from the shadows brandishing a knife.

“Surprise!” Several more appeared.

Pulling her behind him, Cloud drew his sword. “Good to go?”

“Always!”

After making short work of Corneo's thugs, Cloud and Tifa moved past the office and into the back room.

Tifa sighed and shook her head. “I must be seeing things. This looks just like his room at Wall Market.”

“With a couple new additions,” Cloud replied, crossing to the far wall and examining a collection of photos lining it. “Asshole.” He ripped one down and shoved it in his pocket.

“Cloud?” Who's the photo of?

“No biggie.” He looked around. “Where's Corneo?”

“That scumbag. Did he escape like last time?” Tifa balled her fists.

The sound of a toilet flushing came from behind another door.

Cloud glanced at Tifa, seeming to deliberate something, then shook his head. “We'll wait 'till he comes out.”

Tifa's eyes crinkled at the corners as she ducked her head and smothered a laugh. “Thanks.”

By the time Corneo emerged from the bathroom, Tifa had taken a seat at Corneo's desk with Cloud leaning against it beside her. Both smothered their surprise as a thin, pasty man wearing a faded red velvet dressing gown appeared. Most shocking about the change in his appearance was the wheelchair.

“Guess he didn't weasel out it totally after all,” Cloud commented. “You look like shit.”

Corneo stopped and looked up. “Oho, my little Avalanche kittens. Come for a visit, have you? Well, I expected you sooner, but I heard you'd gotten caught up in your little business venture.” Corneo continued wheeling himself around the room until he reached his bed. “Little help? I take it you've incapacitated my men?” When Cloud took a step in his direction, Corneo sneered. “Not you, her.” He pointed at Tifa.

Cloud blocked the way with his sword as Tifa got up from the chair. “Forget it.”

“Oh, I wasn't going to help,” she said, as she placed a hand on his arm and gently urged him to lower his sword. “I was going to kick him and see if he's faking.” She gave Corneo a bright and very false smile.

“Be still my beating heart!” Corneo put both hands to his chest. “How could you think I'd lie about something this serious?”

“Because you're a snake,” Cloud replied. “What are you up to in Edge?” he added, coming straight to the point.

“Up to? Me? Why nothing.” Corneo smiled. “I'm just a businessman seeking new opportunities in the new metropolis.”

Tifa could feel the lies permeating the room. “And what kind of opportunities would those be?”

“What's it to you? I'm not hurting anyone. I'm just going about my day. You're the ones who ruined me so I have to start over, remember?” A vicious look crossed his face as he fidgeted in the wheelchair.

Crossing her arms, Tifa said, “You brought that on yourself, and you'll bring worse if you don't behave.”

Corneo got a saucy look in his eye. “Oh, will you punish me?” he asked, voice dropping an octave.

Tifa repressed a shudder. “Sure,” she said in a bland voice. “Cloud, you still have that bat with all the nails in it, right? That'd make a perfect paddle.”

Corneo's shudder was clearly one of pleasure. “Promises, promises.”

Cloud bared his teeth at Corneo and took a step forward. “Now look—”

“All right, all right.” Corneo put his hands up in surrender. “I'll behave. Wouldn't want your boyfriend getting jealous, am I right?”

Tifa nodded, as Cloud said, “Right.” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. He'd never admitted he was her boyfriend before. It made her feel strangely shy. She noticed his cheeks turning red as he glared at Corneo, so she ducked her head and tried to focus on the task at hand.

“Oh, you two are cute. Once I build a new coliseum you'll compete, huh? Really bring in the crowds, especially when they hear former champion Cloud has a new lady on his arm.”

“Not new,” Cloud snapped.

What's this? Tifa looked at Cloud again and this time he seemed embarrassed. Who is Corneo talking about?

“We don't have time for your bullshit. Stay out of trouble or I'll finish the job the Turks started.” Cloud was already sheathing his sword and turning to go.

Tifa took one last look at Corneo and followed.

~*~*~

Back at Seventh Heaven, Tifa trailed Cloud into his office and noted his desk needed tidying again. She frowned at the medical text book littered with notes. Is he looking for a cure for Denzel? Her gaze softened as it tracked to him. “Cloud?”

“I wasn't with anyone else in Wall Market,” he said, keeping his back to her. “They misunderstood. They thought that Aerith and I...”

So, it was Aerith with him. “Aerith fought in the coliseum?”

Cloud nodded as he turned around. “We needed money for that dress she wore to the audition.”

She'd never asked about the series of events that led to Cloud appearing in Corneo's dungeon in a gothic style dress. She hadn't ever pictured him like that, so it was a huge surprise when she realised it was him under all the makeup and trappings. Why did he come, anyway? “I know we said we'd drop it,” she began in a hesitant voice, taking a step towards him, “but, you never told me why you went through all that.”

Cloud glanced at her, then ducked his head and smiled. “How else was I supposed to rescue you?”

“Rescue me?” Maybe she suspected that was the reason. She hadn't really thought it through at the time. She'd been so focused on getting info out of Corneo that Cloud's purpose sneaking in eluded her. “Is that why you came?”

“Of course it was.” He chuckled and shook his head. “You think I'd go through that much for anyone else?” He dug his hand in his pocket and withdrew the picture he'd swiped from Corneo's earlier. “Souvenir.”

Tifa stepped closer and looked at the picture. “He took photos?” She looked into Cloud's face with dismay. “Then, that wall...”

“Is how he controls people,” Cloud finished with a nod. “Monsters like that always have an angle.”

“Shouldn't we do something?” She took the photo from him and replaced it with her hand.

“Corneo's the type to step in his own shit. He'll slip up sooner or later.” He squeezed Tifa's hand and shrugged.

“I guess so. It just feels wrong to let him run around all over town when things are just starting to settle down.” She sighed, posture sinking.

“Hey,” Cloud wrapped an arm around her shoulder, “if you let it get to you, then he's already won. You think I'll let that happen?”

That's right. Cloud will take care of things. Corneo won't ruin what we're working so hard to rebuild. “Mm, thanks.” She leaned her head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “I always know I can rely on you.” She peered at the photo in her hand. “So, how did you end up in a dress?”

Cloud chuckled shortly. “Aerith and Andrea Rhodea's doing.”

That was enough information for her to make a guess at how things went. She'd gone through similar at the Gold Saucer. “Thought you didn't dance?”

“I only dance with you,” he replied, kissing the top of her head.

She giggled, feeling her cheeks heating at the memory. He'd come so close to kissing her during their performance, it still sent tingles through her whenever she thought of it. “Shame we can't get Andrea to come take over from Corneo; he'd be the better choice,” she said, trying to deflect from how flustered she'd become. Her eyes drifted towards the cot Cloud set up in the office for those late hours when he returned and didn't want to risk waking her. It's the middle of the day. The kids could come home at any time. We really shouldn't. She snuggled closer and wrapped her arms around his waist.

“Tifa?” Cloud tucked her hair behind her ear as he whispered her name. “Wanna dance?”

Tifa giggled again and answered with a shy nod.

#final fantasy 7 remake #cloti #cloud strife #tifa lockhart #fan fiction #final fantasy 7r #final fantasy viir #final fantasy 7 #ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 advent children #otwtas #the turks are alright #final fantasy 7 compilation

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alastanor · 4 years

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To start, I would like to thank @cis-het-angel-kinnie for bringing this video to my attention, even if it was to praise the video rather than to point out it's flawed arguments against Charlie for main character.

If you have not seen the video yet, I recommend giving it a watch prior to reading this or you may be confused.

Click to read more...

What Is A Protagonist?

I am not bringing up this question because I think the source used was incorrect. However, the statement that "protagonists ask questions and antagonists make arguments" is an oversimplification of both roles. And I am going to explain why.

The trope of protagonist vs antagonist is an age old theme which has been used countless times throughout storytelling's history in books, plays, films, and story-driven video games. As such, the definition of both roles has continued to flourish and evolve over time. It is no longer good vs evil.

While @diregentleman used books written by, I assume, published writers for his argument, I am going to use Creative Writing and Literary Experts from a Masterclass article.

In the article, a protagonist is described as this:

"In storytelling, a protagonist is the main character or principal character or group of characters in a story."

More than one character is capable of being an antagonist in this story. Given that demons are meant to be redeemed, fitting the theme of the story, it is fair to surmise that all (or the majority of) the demons surrounding Charlie are protagonists in some form.

The article goes on to state that the protagonist's goals reflect the overall story goals and the plot moves forward based on their decisions.

This being said, Charlie's overall goal reflects the premise of the story, that being that Hazbin Hotel is a story about redemption. This is a goal that Angel Dust does not have.

In DireGentleman's video, he claims Angel Dust joined the Happy Hotel with the intention of being redeemed, albeit skeptical whether it could actually be done. This is actually inaccurate, and we see this in both the pilot and the comic.

Angel does display skepticism straight from the gate, but when they explain their reason for approaching him (that no one else has agreed), he makes this face:

Does that really look like someone who believes redemption may be possible? But for further establishment of just how little Angel believes redemption is possible, Angel also laughs them off and calls their goal "lame."

The only reason Angel agrees to Charlie and Vaggie's proposition is because it is a rent free place to stay. He admits as much just a bit further into the comic. By the end, Angel says "Redemption, it's silly. Huh, Nuggs."

The tone we are led to believe he uses is one of contemplation and relief. Relief due likely to the fact that there is some light at the end of the tunnel to the shit situation he was in.

This is just comic evidence, of course. If we go to the pilot, when Angel is engaging in the turf war with Cherri Bomb, he explains that he is using Charlie and Vaggie for free rent. Further exemplified when he later asks if participating in the turf war meant he didn't have a free room anymore. But also in his conversation with Cherri, he also admits that he is still taking some drugs behind Charlie and Vaggie's back. Something that we see immediately toward the opening of the pilot when Angel buys a bag of Angel Dust.

Character Dynamic

I cannot emphasize this enough, the Hunicast is NOT a good exemplifier for character dynamics. Every single "character interaction" is based on fanon, not canon, and they are prompted by the fans themselves. Only Viv really knows exactly how Angel and Alastor would canonically interact. It is no better a source for character dynamic than the wiki is for accurate information. IE, some things may hold true, but the majority of it is not and it is better just to wait until it is confirmed canon.

Moving on...

There is a lot of focus on Valentino as a main antagonist, based entirely too much on the hope that Angel will be the main protagonist. And this is really just disingenuous when you consider there are two other implied Overlords, as well as several other sources of strife within the world of Hazbin Hotel.

An Antagonist is someone working against the protagonist to prevent them from achieving their goal. Alastor would not meet this criteria, as he is a self-professed observer and conflict creator. But he is not a main antagonist. Someone working against the goal of redemption could be anyone from the Overlords (which, far as we know, would include Valentino), Lucifer, or even Heaven itself.

Where antagonists come into play, quoting Masterlist once again, I think these two types of antagonists were overlooked:

A conflict-creator. An antagonist doesn’t have to be a “bad guy.” Sometimes, they’re just a character whose goals are in direct conflict with the protagonist’s, like Mr. Darcy in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice or Javert working to arrest Valjean in Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables.

The protagonist themselves. The main source of conflict in a story can be from within the protagonist themselves—their shortcomings or insecurities are keeping them from reaching their goal. A prime example of this is Holden Caulfield in J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye. While Holden comes into conflict with many characters in the novel, the ever-present antagonizing conflict comes from his own obsessions and insecurities.

Now, why did I bring up these two types? Well! I'm glad you asked! You see, where conflict-creator comes into play would line up more with Alastor. He isn't really the bad guy, but he does create some friction where his goals meet with Charlie's. He is a professed observer, but it is strongly believed that there is something else, another goal, that he has omitted.

As for the Protagonist themselves, this lines up pretty strongly where Charlie is concerned. You could argue that it does for Angel too, but Angel's goal, as mentioned before, is not Redemption. That goal is Charlie's, and hers alone. Yet it is her naivety, inexperience, and insecurities surrounding her failures as a princess that are holding her back from achieving her goal. Going by this, not only do we have multiple protagonists, but we also have multiple antagonists.

"So far, no one else's past is wrought with tension like Angel Dust's."

Even if this wasn't a sweeping, dismissive statement made with limited information, it would still be incorrect. Why? Because each and every character in Hazbin Hotel is going to have their own story to tell. Stories that will each be as relatable and wrought with tension, the only reason we know Angel so extensively is because Viv put the most work into him. She has admitted that Alastor and Angel were characters she wrote based on past dealings and experiences she had. Let those implications sink in a bit.

Now, to further this, people don't need to empathize with a character to like them. They can sympathize as well, even if they personally cannot relate to the emotions the character is feeling.

And where Angel is concerned, he is not addicted to drugs. Angel has used drugs to escape the pain of his trauma. His response in the pilot to having his drugs stolen from him is not one of a typical addict. Which leads us to believe the drugs are simply a coping mechanism more than they are an addiction.

Real Audience for Hazbin is 12 to 16

I would really fucking hope you are joking. I'm gonna go out on a limb here and guess that this was said by someone who isn't a parent. While yes, kids will be sneaky and watch or play things they're not supposed to, a show with drug use/abuse, rape, sex, physical/mental/emotional abuse, and suicide is as much for them as Rick and Morty.

Further, it is not just these themes that make the show for adults. It is the format of the storytelling. Yes, you can complain about what you consider issues with the pilot. But at the end of the day, it did it's job. It established the story premise, introduced important characters (Fat Nuggets does not fall in that category, calm down), gave a basic understanding of their relationships to each other, and get the audience interested in continuing the series. Considering the views for the pilot and the resulting disproportionate growth of the fandom, I would say it did that in spades.

Hazbin Hotel is not Steven Universe. I cannot say this enough times, and the reason I cannot is because I cannot tell you how many times I have come into contact with the underage side of the fandom griping about lack of lore, griping about lack of production information, and overall being exceedingly impatient. At the risk of sounding like an old miser, the underage side of the fandom has never had to wait for additions to a series. Like waiting for Homestuck updates, or the new release of a Harry Potter novel. They have had a steady schedule of content, along with shows that give exposition dumps "in the first 3 minutes."

So don't look at Hazbin Hotel through the lens of kids' show fandoms. It has so much more to offer than that.

Alastor vs Valentino

No, this is not about whether Alastor could beat up Valentino. In the video, DireGentleman pulled a huge pet peeve of mine and lumped Valentino and Alastor together, labeling them both "monsters." Which is opening a huge can of worms for me. So, I will give a brief summary of why that is wrong, and provide a link to one of my other posts for deeper diving.

So, there is a reason why Valentino is more hated than Alastor is. Lumping them together is a mistake.

Valentino is a pimp that abuses and manipulates his victims through intimidation and (implied through) some kind of addiction to the red smoke (whether that is real or symbolism is yet unknown). He takes who and what he wants, be damned the consequences or who gets hurt. He is incredibly self-serving, with no consideration for anyone else. He uses people like pawns, and when those pawns refuse to do what he wants, what does he do? He forces them to do it anyway.

By comparison, while Alastor may use his people like pawns, he also has more consideration for them and doesn't abuse them (far as we can tell). The evidence to support this is the attitude of those serving under Valentino vs those under Alastor. Niffty and Husk both seem to not have a problem with Alastor, and where Husk is concerned it seems that his attitude toward Alastor is their typical banter. But definitely nothing that displays abuse. In fact, when Husker is hesitant or even refusing to do as Alastor asks, Alastor doesn't force Husker. He offers payment in the form of something Husker genuinely likes.

Now, while some might argue this is also manipulating through addiction, one could look at it this way. However, Alastor didn't make Husker an alcoholic. That was Husker's vice to begin with, Alastor simply has no intention of fixing it. After all, Alastor has said he doesn't think anything can change a sinner.

For further explanation and delving into Alastor, click here.

Parents don't 'get' Charlie = Disney Princess

Once again, we fall upon the slippery slope of disinformed statements. While the joke was made that the princess of hell expresses herself best through song, parent issues do not equate to being something that is relatable primarily or only to kids and teens. It's kind of offensive that there is a sort or implication in this statement that adults don't have issues like insecurities surrounding their own failures, or parent issues like what Charlie has or worse. And once again, we fall into the empathize vs sympathize realm and I once again will say that the audience does not need to empathize with the protagonist to make them a good protagonist.

Charlie is a failed princess, her people don't respect her and didn't even prior to her hotel announcement. Yes, she is sheltered and naive. Likely due to how little she was able or allowed to interact with sinners. After all, her ex-boyfriend was from another hellborn family. One that, from what we can surmise, interacts rather frequently with the Magne family.

And it is because of this naivety and inexperience that her method to redeem sinners will not work.

In the video, DireGentleman states that we can pretty much assume that Charlie's redemption methods will work. But her methods, as we see in her song, is to inject demons with meds and take away/burn their vices. She is seeking immediate resolutions to problems that require therapy and a long process that should be making sinners want to change. All Charlie is currently accomplishing is earning the ire and scrutiny of her people. This is why I previously mentioned that Charlie is both protagonist and antagonist, as she is getting in her own way to accomplishing the goal of redemption. And this is where we find that Charlie meets the "starts out being wrong" requirement mentioned in the video as well as "admiring a character for trying."

Charlie is also in a perfect position to be the tour guide for us, the audience, as we observe the metamorphosis of every demon who needs to be redeemed. She is, once again, surrounded by those who need to be redeemed which means we will witness every character arc. This includes Angel, who does not need to be the central focus for us to witness his story.

Finally...

It was stated, or at least implied, that Hazbin Hotel's pilot is no longer relevant. This is a statement that pretty much leaves me puzzled. The only way it would be irrelevant is if Hazbin went in a completely different direction, and we have no reason to believe it will. Vivziepop is still creative director for Hazbin Hotel, and A24 is notorious for giving creators their creative freedom. What A24 is doing is animating, making VA regulations, and ensuring there is an air tight lid kept on the project. Especially given it's popularity in such a short amount of time.

Contrary to what DireGentleman said, Hazbin Hotel will definitely live up to it's hype. Being picked up by A24 will not compromise the show simply because it's not in the same realm of indie production that Helluva Boss is. And it's a bit unfair to Vivziepop to imply as much.

In Conclusion...

Please do a bit more digging in regards to not only the show, but everything surrounding it. Don't lump fanon and canon together and expect them to be equal sources, and please do not claim an obviously adult-audience show is more fit for children and teens.

And lastly, please do more digging to better understand media and storytelling. Reading books is great, but what you were using as the foundation for your arguments were far too simplified and vague,, given the complexity of the protagonist and antagonist roles. Overall, the video just came across as one huge helping of Angel Dust bias with a side of strong dislike for Charlie.

#Youtube #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin hotel charlie #hazbin hotel angel dust #hazbin hotel husker #hazbin hotel video critical #video analysis #long post #diregentleman #counter argument

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eldritchwriter · 4 years

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Defeating Sunrise by @eldritchwriter | Fandom: Final Fantasy VII | Rating: Explicit | Relationships: Sephiroth/Cloud Strife, Zack Fair/Aerith Gainsborough

Additional Tags: Time Travel Fix-It, Found Family, Slow Burn, Pining, Hero Worship, Cloud Strife Needs a Hug, Sephiroth is Oblivious, Denzel is So Done With Them Both, Grown-Up Cloud

Summary: Cloud isn't good at this whole 'parenting' gig, and even when he tries, it doesn't seem to be doing him any good. He's ready to give up, when he is inexplicably pulled into the past with his young protege in tow. The last thing Cloud expects is to be dropped straight into the Wutai War and in front of a Sephiroth who is younger and still in charge of his own mind.

As Cloud spirals headlong into his trauma-filled past, trying to make sense of his memories and discern truth from his own fictions, long-buried feelings for Sephiroth begin to emerge. With Denzel's help, he can surely change the future, but the biggest question of all is what that future should look like at all. Read here on AO3 or read more below:

Chapter One

“It’s not so easy. We’re all traumatised by what we went through. Cloud most of all.”

Cloud rested his head back against the door to the rebuilt Seventh Heaven and let out a soft sigh. He hadn’t meant to intrude on the conversation between Tifa and Barret, but now it was inevitable. He guessed he was lucky that he hadn’t just walked in and that his enhanced hearing had picked up the urgent tone of Barret’s voice before he’d opened the door.

At least this way he could steel himself for whatever Barret was going to ask him to do.

“Well, we all got heaps of trauma. Enough to keep the shrinks goin’ for decades. But Cloud’s tough. He’ll do it, no problem.”

Do what? Cloud wondered. What more could you possibly have to ask of me?

“When he says no, I don’t want you to push it,” Tifa’s reply was exasperated sounding, and Cloud detected the sound of a bar towel hitting the floor. “I mean it, Barret, I know that Cloud needs… reminding sometimes that people need him to do things, but I don’t want you pestering him. This isn’t something he’s duty-bound to do.”

“I wasn’ planning on it,” Barret said, a creak of a bar stool. “It’s just the easiest way, is all.”

“Well, have a Plan B ready.” The sound of glasses being thrown into a dishwasher, one of the newest additions to Seventh Heaven, now that there was running water into the place.

Cloud had plumbed it in himself, after several assurances from Reeve that the water was definitely clean and not contaminated. Cloud had made him drink it straight from the tap when it was plugged in just to prove the point.

“Roger that. Say, how’s Denzel been doin’ in school? Marlene’s been tellin’ me all kinds of stories- “The conversation turned to the children and Cloud stopped listening. Whispered conversations about him rather than with him were the norm, and he’d long grown used to people acting in his best interest without consulting him. Sometimes he was glad that Tifa acted as a buffer between him and the ridiculous requests of his onetime comrades, other times it frustrated him.

Today, he was just tired.

He pushed away from the wall, steeling himself to head inside, to listen to whatever Barret’s request was and to grit his teeth and give his answer whatever way it went, but then…

Why?

Why indeed. Why did he have to? He had his own plans for the rest of the week. Nothing urgent, certainly, but he had a few delivery jobs, a run out to the Chocobo Farm… Hell, it was Parent-Teacher Meetings this week and he’d promised Denzel that he’d make it to this one despite not feeling remotely like an appropriate paternal figure.

If he stayed away, eventually Barret would leave. Tifa had made it clear she would not bring up whatever this was. He didn’t have to deal with it now unless he wanted to, and quite frankly, he didn’t want to.

He stepped off the porch and walked towards Fenrir, kicking his leg over it. It showed how lost Tifa and Barret had been in their conversation that they hadn’t heard the thing roaring up next to the bar in the first place.

No, he wasn’t going to deal with this now. He’d pick it up later, much later.

He disabled the kickstand and revved the engine.

Cloud was not in the mood to deal with this today.

It somewhat surprised Denzel to see Cloud outside his school. Some older boys had gathered around Cloud’s bike, trying to strike up a conversation with him. Cloud remained detached though, his arms folded on his chest and his eyes showing that he was completely lost in thought.

Not so unusual, and it probably made him look cool to the kids who had flocked around him, but Denzel knew better. He knew that, no matter how cool Cloud looked with the all-black motorcycle and the enormous sword strapped to his back, that his unwilling mentor was just a shy space cadet.

“Er, hi?” Denzel leaned around the front of the bike to put his face in front of Cloud’s and snap him from his reverie.

Cloud blinked slowly, then the corners of his mouth tilted up a bit. “Hey. Thought I’d give you a ride back from school today.”

Denzel wondered what had spurred that decision, but he knew he wouldn’t get an actual response from Cloud about it. Cloud and Tifa had been involved in his life for years now. He was in his teens, but they had nowhere near what could be called a father-son relationship. Cloud was too distant, his reasoning for his actions too coloured by his own past, to be much use to Denzel in learning to navigate the world.

But still it was useful, especially when wanting to seem cool in front of some upperclassman.

“Sure. Can I shove my backpack in the storage?” Denzel asked, like it was an everyday occurrence for Cloud to let him ride on the back of Fenrir.

Cloud got off the bike, showing an impressive show of strength by just casually holding it upright with a one-handed loose grip while the other opened the under-seat storage to let Denzel dump his bag in. The other kids were goggle-eyed at Cloud, and that made Denzel smile a bit.

Cloud shoved a helmet and goggles into his hands, causing Denzel to pout. It was less cool to wear this thing. Cloud pulled on his own goggles though, without a dorky helmet though. Denzel knew that Cloud probably couldn’t be killed by coming off the bike at speed like he could though, and if it meant that Cloud might rev the engine harder it was worth looking stupid for.

Helmet in place, Denzel clambered onto the back of the bike. Cloud leaned forward, then looked over his shoulder, waiting for Denzel to adjust himself.

“Hang on,” was all Cloud said, before the engine roared and Cloud was already kicking the bike into a higher gear.

Denzel scrambled to wrap his arms tightly around Cloud’s waist before he fell off the back and found out precisely how effective his helmet would be. Cloud weaved the bike through traffic and crowds and back allies that definitely shouldn’t have been driven down.

In anyone else’s hands, this would have been suicide, but though it was exhilarating, Denzel felt safe. For all Cloud’s faults and sometimes dumb decisions, he never purposefully put anyone in danger. The incredible strength to manoeuvre the bike through tight gaps, and the lightning-fast reflexes he had meant that it was rather more like riding on a rollercoaster. The safe journey to their destination was all but pre-determined, so Denzel could just enjoy the ride there.

Pulling up outside Seventh Heaven wasn’t exactly welcome, but his arms were sore from holding on. Cloud kicked down the stand and waited for Denzel to dismount before making sure that he had his bag and that the helmet and goggles were stored appropriately.

Cloud reached out, self-consciously ruffling Denzel’s hair in a way that was a shadow of paternal instinct that just made both of them feel awkward.

“Go say hi to Tifa,” Cloud said, grabbing a box from inside the storage attached to the bike.

“You mean, go check the coast is clear, don’t you?” Denzel asked, putting his hands in his pockets. “Not that I’m not grateful for the ride, but you only come pick me up when you want a buffer between you and whoever’s in there.”

Cloud’s shoulders hunched. “That’s not- “

“It’s fine,” Denzel said, shrugging. “But at least be honest about it, at least to yourself if not to me.”

He didn’t wait for Cloud to turn round, instead announcing his entry to the bar and greeting Tifa brightly. No one else was here, so maybe Cloud was just trying to avoid being alone with Tifa. It wouldn’t be the first time for that either.

When Cloud entered, he didn’t meet Denzel’s eyes, but there didn’t seem to be a tension between him and Tifa, so Denzel let it go. Whatever this was about, he’d find out in the end anyway, when the row inevitably started and Cloud roared off on his motorcycle at 3am to Ancient’s knew where.

“Denzel!” Denzel turned to see Marlene running from behind the bar, pink bow bouncing in her hair. “Papa says I can stay for dinner tonight! Let’s do our homework together?”

Cloud groaned. “Is Barret still-“

“’Sup. We need to talk.”

Returning to Nibelheim, to this Nibelheim, left Cloud with an itching soul. The people here, the few that had returned, were not originally from the town. They didn’t know the legends of the local mountains, or the best way to trap Nibel Wolves, or which paths to avoid so they didn’t run into dragons.

Most of them didn’t even know that Nibelheim had once burnt to the ground. All they knew was that there was a town here, rebuilt and mostly empty, and that the WRO was interested in generating hydropower from the waterfalls in the mountains. That was enough for them.

As usual, it was capitalism that was the driving force of Nibelheim’s destiny, and a new flow of money brought a new flow of residents and washed away the blood and soot and smoke. Even the acrid tinge of mako in the air had long since dissipated except in Cloud’s mind.

“I didn’ think you’d come, bein’ honest,” Barret said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Cloud had fully intended not to, but there were some things that he still felt he couldn’t say no to. This was one of them. Nibelheim was a wound on his soul that wouldn’t heal and that he couldn’t stop picking at.

“Right, not feelin’ talkative, got it,” Barret scratched the back of his neck with the barrel of his gun-arm, looking sheepish. “I’ll be headin’ out into the mountains a bit, gotta check up on the generator to report back, y’know? But you’ll be alright here, right?”

“I’ll be fine,” Cloud waved him off. “But you can’t take longer than a few hours. I have to get back.”

“Yeah. School shit. I remember. I won’t make you late to play daddy, promise.”

Cloud didn’t want to question Barret’s parenting skills, but he thought out of all his former-comrades, the one was most likely to put work above ‘school shit’ was probably Barret. For all his bluster and dedication to Marlene, he had a somewhat lax attitude towards the formal things that it seemed children needed. Like routine. Or regular schooling. Or a parent figure who didn’t disappear on them at the drop of a hat.

Well, Cloud couldn’t really judge any of that. He hadn’t exactly been a model guardian either.

He didn’t bother to answer, instead turning towards the hotel and hoping that there’d be somewhere for him to sit and wait. He had no desire to explore the town the way he had done coming back here five years ago, where he had frantically run from house to house trying to work out why it was different, his own fear and horror reflected at him from Tifa’s eyes.

The hotelkeeper was new, a man with a Rocket Town accent and clothes that were just a little too thin for the mountain temperatures. He greeted Cloud warmly, offered him a room for the night – which Cloud politely declined – and then offered him a warm meal instead.

And so, Cloud spent the afternoon eating Nibel Stew that someone who had never tasted the original had clearly prepared, and waiting for Barret to return. He kept his eyes firmly on the woods outside the window, trying not to give in to the ghosts in his vision of the old townspeople, of the flames, of the shuddering clones.

He didn’t think much of it when it started to rain.

Cloud didn’t expect Denzel to actually throw something at him in frustration. It was only a towel from the bar, soaked in beer, but it still hit him in the face with a soft whump all the same. Cloud let it slide to the floor, just as he’d let it hit him. He deserved this.

“I waited for you for hours!” Denzel yelled.

Tifa reached out hesitantly for Denzel’s shoulder but he caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and jerked away from her.

“Denzel, I’m sorry. The dam that Barret was working next to burst and-“

“I don’t care! You should never have gone! You could have gone next week! Or he could have found someone else to go with him!” Denzel shouted, his fists balled by his sides. “No one would have died if you’d waited!”

Well, that was debatable, as it wasn’t like Cloud or Barret’s presence had set of the chain of events that caused the dam failure. In fact, their being there had saved many lives. But none of that was going to make an angry thirteen year old like him any more, Cloud was sure of it. Long gone were the days where Denzel was impressed by heroic tales from far-off places. No, now he wanted something more concrete from Cloud, stability and dependency, both things that Cloud had never been in the best situation to provide.

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” Cloud offered, putting up his hands in a placating gesture. “I should have said no. I shouldn’t have let you down.”

It seemed like the wind went out of Denzel’s sails at that but instead of doing what he usually did and apologising too, it seemed that Denzel truly had settled into his teenage years because he stormed out of the front door of Seventh Heaven instead, letting it bang behind him.

“It’s late, you should go after him,” Tifa said after a few moments silence.

Cloud shook his head. “Better if it’s you. He doesn’t like me much right now.”

“Which is why, it’s got to be you.” Tifa began to push at Cloud’s shoulder, forcing him towards the door. “You might not be forgiven, Cloud, but you have to sort this one out yourself. Family don’t go to bed on fights.”

“We have plenty of times,” he pointed out. “You’re always yelling at me late at night after the patrons have gone.”

“Yes, well, I’m not thirteen years old and I didn’t just wait for you for hours,” Tifa countered, pushing Cloud towards the door again. “Just sort things out, Cloud. And next time… just don’t be late.”

Cloud reluctantly stepped out of the door and onto the porch. Denzel hadn’t gone far. He had a rock in his hand and was standing next to the Fenrir, but Cloud couldn’t see any scratches on it. Clearly Denzel had entertained the thought of scratching it, but thought better of it.

Good, because Cloud would have hated to add that to the fight as well.

“We’re going for a ride again,” Cloud said, walking past Denzel and getting on the bike without looking at him. “Hop on.”

“No,” Denzeil said stubbornly.

Cloud waited as seconds rolled by to become a minute.

He felt hands on his shoulders as Denzel climbed on and waited until the boy was settled before he took off.

He hadn’t really known where he was going until he ended up on the cliff edge. He’d brought Denzel here once before, to show him the place where a hero had died. It seemed fitting that they were here now, in the place where the hero that Cloud had tried to emulate before all else was memorialised, to have this conversation with a child who emulated him.

Cloud got off the bike and went to sit on the edge of the cliff, looking over at the lights of Edge and the ruins of Midgar. There was still so much rebuilding to do.

“I’m only human,” Cloud said finally, mostly to the night, but knowing that Denzel was still awkwardly perched on the bike and no doubt watching him. “If there’s one thing I learned, through all of it, it’s that I’m only a human with faults and flaws.”

“Yeah, well, one of them is being really shitty about remembering to show up for things.”

Cloud couldn’t deny that. “Memory is not my strongpoint, agreed.”

“You’re just never around, even when you promise you’re going to be.”

Again, not something Cloud could deny. How many birthdays and holidays had he missed? Sometimes on purpose, sometimes because he simply forgot about them? His thoughts were always scrambled, stuck in a past he fuzzily remembered and one that he had constructed for himself from pure trauma.

None of those were things that a teenager would understand though, even one like Denzel. Cloud had no intention of burdening him with the knowledge of it either.

“I won’t promise you I’ll always be around,” Cloud conceded, and he heard Denzel getting off the bike. “But you know, there are some things that you get to do that others don’t. You’ve never seen me let Marlene anywhere near the bike.”

“Only because Barret would riddle you with bullets.”

It seemed Denzel wasn’t going to join him, so Cloud stood up, giving up on the male bonding moment over the edge of the cliff with a sight.

“I know it doesn’t mean much, but I am doing my best. This… this whole series of events is just…” Cloud struggled to find the words. “Every event in my life has taken the worst possible turn. Even when I try, I still mess up. It seems inevitable at this point, and though I’m going to try my best, I know that I’ll still disappoint you.”

Stood before Zack's grave, with Denzel's quiet censure worrying between his shoulder blades, Cloud couldn't remember a time when he'd last felt good about himself. He hadn't asked for this hero-worship, or to be the guardian of a teenager who was turning out to be just as taciturn and unruly as Cloud had been at that age. He hadn't asked for any of this, and duty could only take him so far down a path before he had to put some effort in.

"If you truly think this is the worst timeline, the worst it might get, then do you really think it's okay to throw in the towel?" Denzel asked, eyes hot and accusing. "Is it really okay to just give up and not even try for a better one?"

"A better timeline?" Cloud rubbed his temples. "Sure. We'll just magic one into existence for everyone, shall we?"

“Now who’s acting like a kid?” Denzel challenged him.

Cloud turned now, ready to just apologise again, but what he saw chilled his blood. A shrouded figure with long, reaching fingers.

“Denzel! Come here!”

But it was too late, the creature had snatched Denzel, dragging him into a dark portal.

Cloud’s heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. He lunged after the creature, into the dark and cold unknown. It lasted only a fraction of a second where he felt like he was floating in the Lifestream once more, before his boots hit ground at a different level than he’d been expecting and he tripped.

He landed on something soft, and was relieved to take in a surprised expression under a mess of red-hair.

“Where’s the monster?” Cloud asked, looking around them.

Their environment was completely different. From the vegetation, Cloud guessed they were somewhere near Wutai, which was not only impossible, but was also deeply worrying. How had they got so far from home?

“Cloud! Behind you!”

Cloud didn't think, he reacted, immediately bringing First Tsurugi up to parry the blow he vaguely caught from the corner of his eye that would rend him and Denzel in two. He didn't expect for the katana to spiral through the air, landing six feet away, embedded in the dirt with the moonlight reflecting off its blade.

Masamune.

No.

Sephiroth was frozen, hand empty. Green eyes, glowing and surprised, fixed on Cloud and for the first time Cloud recognised that this Sephiroth was not the same Sephiroth he had fought last. He was younger, his features still a little softened by adolescence. The Sephiroth that Cloud had seen in the papers fifteen years ago. The Sephiroth that he had idolised, left home for, joined Shinra for.

"You have got to be fu-" He remembered Denzel was still behind him. "'Effin' kidding me."

#sefikura #sephiroth #cloudstrife #sephiroth/cloud #final fantasy vii #ff7 #slash #timetravel #ff7r fanfic #fanfiction #sephcloud #seph/cloud

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kingbennyboyyy · 3 years

Text

benny’s RWBY rewrite: the relics & maidens, part 1

hello again! it’s been a little bit, but i’m back as a reward for getting a long-ass essay done! this will be the first of probably several plot-related changes i’ll be making to the story, starting with something with a lot of potential: the relics and the maidens. i’ll be going into my personal rewrite of the story of the maidens, and then their powers, and how they interact with the relics and vaults.

this will be the first part: the origins of the maidens, story-wise. the second part will be the mechanics of the maidens and relics, and how they interact with the story at large.

if you’re still interested, there’ll be more under the cut!

so, the first thing i’m going to do is alter the mythos surrounding the maidens. i like the idea of a bunch of girls visiting a hermit, but i’d like to expand upon it. firstly, i’d like for the hermit to have a bit more character. i’ve opted to name him kurloz, as he’s a bit different than most of the other ozma reincarnations we’ve seen, and i wanted his name to reflect that.

the hermit is a hermit for a reason: he’s come into his own, realizing that he isn’t really himself, but i also think that he keeps himself sequestered away because he really doesn’t know what to do. this is where the maidens come in.

the gods of light and darkness outlined four virtues that define humanity: knowledge, creation, destruction, and choice. i want to add to these virtues that they can be used for evil as easily as they can for good. the four maidens, along with being manifestations of seasons, should also embody these virtues strongly, both in their original iterations, and in the people who hold the maiden powers. these virtues connect the maidens and the relics: the relic of creation will only grow into its full potential in the hands of the spring maiden- the embodiment of creation. i did also swap the relic/maiden lineup, but i’ll go into that as well.

so, the story goes as follows:

long ago, a hermit lived deep in the forest, in a cabin away from all of civilization. his home had the strange ability to attract those who he wanted to speak to, and deter those he didn’t. the winding woods around his home were mazes to those with impure intentions.

during the winter, the hermit was visited by a young woman. by her opulent dress of blue and white silks and lace, she was a noble, the heiress to a faraway throne. she greeted the hermit politely, and he knew after a bit of talking that she was wise beyond her few years. they spoke for a while about science and art, the advancements the hermit had missed in his decades of hiding. the hermit, satisfied with what he’d learned of the maiden, asked her a question: in a world gone mad, what would she do to fix it?

the maiden replied, “share your knowledge with the people of the world. you cannot vanquish an enemy you do not know exists.” the hermit, who had been paralyzed by fear because of his knowledge, was surprised. the maiden continued, “knowledge eliminates fear. it shows you that all there is to fear is the unknown. the only choices that matter are life or death. all else are reached with knowledge.”

the hermit sat with this insight for a time. as the maiden stood, he asked that she visit again in the middle of the next year, when the sun was at its highest. she politely agreed, and with a bow, she left the hermit with his thoughts.

as winter changed to spring, and the flowers began to blossom, the hermit was visited by another young woman. by the dirt covering her overalls, and the strength in her body, she was a humble farmer. she carried a bushel of fresh fruits, and ran toward the hermit, offering him a few of what she’d harvested. in the blooming grove, they spoke of the beginnings of spring, what would grow and blossom, and what would be done with all that emerged. the hermit, amused with the maiden’s enthusiasm, asked her a question: in a world gone mad, what would she do to fix it?

the maiden thought as she chewed a tart she’d made. smiling, she replied, “the world is mad, sure, but look at all the good in it! we must take the seeds of goodness, plant and nurture them, and wait for better to grow.” the hermit, who had seen new worlds war with one another, was surprised. the maiden continued, “everyone has to work together to create a better world. i can’t tell you alone what better looks like, just as you can’t tell me that either.”

the hermit sat with this insight for a time. as the maiden gathered up her baskets and bags, the hermit asked that she visit again in the middle of the next year, when she sun was at its highest. after leaving the hermit with a bag of seeds, she agreed, and bounded back into the woods, leaving the hermit with his thoughts.

as spring turned to summer, and the heat took the forest, the hermit was visited by yet another young woman. bandits had somehow found their way to his home, but a huntress, identifiable by her masterful combat prowess, managed to defeat them. rather than dispatch them, she scolded them for attacking a defenseless old man, and shooed them away. the maiden, armed with masterfully-crafted weapons, was patched up by the hermit as she spoke about everything she had done, the people she’d saved and killed. the hermit, stricken by the maiden’s perseverance, asked her a question: in a world gone mad, what would she do to fix it?

as she rolled her stiff shoulder, the maiden replied: “make up your mind! you claim to care so deeply for the strifes of the world, and yet you sit and do nothing but think! you let the world burn while you ruminate.” the hermit, offended by the gall of this maiden, was speechless. the maiden continued, “get off of your ass, leave this little shack, and do something.”

the hermit sat with this insight for a long time. as the maiden gathered up her weapons and tightened her bandages, the hermit asked that she visit again in the middle of the next year, when the sun was at its highest. she grumbled out an agreement, and after thrusting a simple firearm into the hermit’s hands, she left in a huff.

and as the leaves crinkled and turned yellow and brown, and the cool breeze of autumn took the woods, a final young woman visited the hermit. she was silent, almost shy as she simply sat on the hermit’s porch, with an unreadable expression on her face. the hermit emerged, offered her tea and company as she sorted through what she felt. in an attempt to break the silence, the hermit asked her a question: in a world gone mad, what would she do to fix it?

the maiden bit the inside of her cheek. after a moment of silence, she replied: “this world is broken beyond repair. if it seeks endlessly to destroy us, maybe we should destroy it first.” the hermit, having sequestered himself for fear of doing just that, was appalled. seeing the hermit’s fear, the maiden continued, “we’ve ruined this world. we war and kill constantly. maybe if we burn everything down, something better will grow in the fertile soil.”

the hermit sat with this insight for a long time. as the maiden stood, she confessed that someone she loved was taken from her. the hermit offered his condolences, and asked that she visit him again in the middle of the next year, when the sun was at its highest. she only gave a nod before she vanished back into the woods.

the middle of the next year came quickly enough. the hermit, excited about the return of the maidens, had set out food and drink on his porch. the maidens from winter, spring, summer, and fall arrived in sequence, bringing their own gifts for the hermit. the winter maiden brought a collection of all the hermit had missed in his hermitage. the spring maiden brought cakes and tarts, all made from the produce she’d grown. the summer maiden brought a set of weapons, a sword and bow, for the hermit to use as he wished. the fall maiden brought tinder for the hermit’s fireplace, for the coming autumn and winter.

at the end of their feast, the hermit revealed himself to be a powerful sorcerer of old, who had been waiting for someone to prove themselves worthy of his power. the sorcerer granted the winter maiden power over ice and cold, and the power to use her intellect to keep her enemies at bay. he granted the spring maiden power over plant, flower, and vine, and the power to create flora to aid in her companion’s fights. she granted the summer maiden power over wind, and storm, and the ability to choose who to blow close, and who to sweep away. he granted the fall maiden power over fire, and the ability to destroy the enemies of the new world she wanted.

the magic of the maidens, over time, was shaped by the strength of their wills. the virtues they embodied gave their magic a type of sentience, that would seek out those who exemplified their virtues. in time, the maidens learned of the relics from another oz, and used their combined powers to create vaults that only they could open. the winter maiden's lamp of knowledge was kept in the first’s home nation: mistral. the spring maiden’s staff of creation was kept in the second’s home nation: mantle. the summer maiden’s crown of choice was kept in the third’s home nation: vale. the fall maiden’s sword of destruction was kept in the fourth’s home nation: vacuo. the academies built above these vaults were informed by the maidens, and the governments kept close tabs on where their respective maidens were. the goal was to keep the maidens and relics separate, until a significant threat called for them to be gathered. after all, the maidens were the only people alive with the power to present the relics to the gods, to summon them to judge the state of the world.

with that, i hope you enjoyed my retelling of the maiden myth! i’ll be going into how this influences the story in the second part of this mini-series.

if you have any feedback, feel free to send me an ask!

#benny's rwby rewrite #rwby #story

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darksiders-scenarios · 4 years

Note

Hi it's a beautiful day today I hope you days been good I was hoping for a scenario for Strife,Draven and your favourite character about a family member abusing s/o like the one you did for war/death plz maybe

I know this is so so late, I am extremely sorry. I added Fury and Azrael as a continuation from the previous ask. Really sorry. Keep safe

Here’s for War and Death.

Strife

Your abuser's lashing insults morph intochoked splutters when the muzzle of an enormous gun rams into their mouth,breaking their teeth like shards of glass, the impact so abrupt that it sways themoff balance and they land on their haunches.

'Please, don't stop on my account,'came the low, strangely amiable voice.

Recognition dawns in your abuser'seyes when they lock onto its wielder, renewing their attempts to escape. Howdid he get in here?

'You remember me! I'm flattered.'Your abuser's legs pinwheel frantically as Strife slowly rise to his fullheight, Redemption still pinned to the roof of their mouth. 'What'sthat?' Strife asks, mock concern etched on his face and he eases the pressureof his killer grip, allowing your abuser to speak.

'M... Mercy,' they manage to gasp,blood and saliva running down their chin, fingers reaching up to grip Strife'swrists. At the same moment, their body is hurled across the room, slammingagainst the wall and crashing in a heap on the floor.

'Granted!' Strife laughs, whippingout the twin pistol and pointing it at your abuser's prone body.

'Strife,' a tremulous whisper behindhim. 'Please, that's enough.' Strife does not turn to you. 'You think I'm justgoing to stay back and do nothing? This has gone on for far, far toolong. I'm putting a stop to it.'

'You... don't know the full story,'you say after a while.

He whips around. 'I don't care!' hestorms, guilt engulfing him when you flinch away. 'I don't care what you did,what ‘punishments’ you think you deserve, this doesn't justify-' he trails off,eyes wild. He stores his guns away and walks to your abuser's unmoving body,bends down.

'I know you can hear me, scum. A gentlereminder that it is parasites like you that make me understand my sister'sdisdain for humans. You should be grateful to your kindred. While you sat on yourarse, this good-for-nothing-little-shit saved lives and gave hope to brokensouls. A shame, such a shame that you are too stupid to realise that,' Strifeleans closer to whisper in their ear. 'Consider this your final warning, asshole.The next time, Y/N won't be able to protect you.'

Strife sits back and is quiet for along time. Every breath produces a shudder to his limbs. He feels your lighthand on his shoulder. 'Strife?' your voice is small, as though hesitant.

'Do you think I can keep ontolerating this?’ he asks quietly. ‘Your silent suffering from this filth, yourresolve to not show pain. That this has been going on for Creator knows howlong?'

He hears the wet click of your throatas you struggle to contain your emotions. You begin to withdraw your hand butStrife clasps his hand over yours and turns to you. Your cheeks are wet with tears. 'Let me bethere for you,’ he says softly and then carefully hugs you to him, tight in a way tohopefully make you feel secure.

'I’m sorry,' you mumble against hisshoulder. 'I’m sorry Strife.'

'And stop apologising all the damntime. If anything, I should be the one sorry for not noticing before and forshouting at you,' he sighs and places his chin on top of your head, reassuringhimself that you are safe now.

Draven

Your abuser finally snaps and hurlsthe empty glass at you, along with another barrage of colourful curses. Youreact. You catch it mid-air and without thinking, you throw it back at them andit promptly shatters in their face. The room is filled with the shrill cries oftheir frustrated rage, their face decorated with bloody cuts and budding bruises.Your fist is clenched but you are frozen on the spot, shaking in sheerdisbelief and panic.

'Come on then!' your abuser yells atyou. 'Hit me again, I dare you, you ungrateful bitch!'

'Perhaps I can do the honours,'sounds a calm voice. Before they can react, your abuser's arm is suddenlyyanked harshly behind their back and you hear the disgusting pop signaling adislocated shoulder. You gawp wordlessly at the newcomer. You were obviously toodistracted to notice Draven slipping through the window.

'Draven, please,' you try to warn,knowing the futility of it. ‘

'Get out of my house!' your abusershrieks. 'Let me go or I'll-'

'You'll what?'

They respond by screaming some moreand struggle to free themself. Draven tightens his hold over them and in oneexpert move, he slams them into the table, snapping it in two. You watch,wide-eyed in horror, as your abuser coughs out blood and groans in agony.Draven kneels beside them and they immediately quieten, as though now comprehending their situation.

'I remember,' Draven begins softly,'For centuries, I wished for nothing more than to be reunited with my people.Back in that prison, I would count the days and nights and wait and wait andwait. Now I see how grossly wrong I am,' his voice lowers and his eyes darken.'I also remember the bitter taste of countless betrayals in a distant time and I swear I will see that my friend never suffers the same betrayal as I have. So Ipromise you this; you will never lay another finger on Y/N. How, you may wonder; for I am takingthem away,’ he stands up, keeping his gaze pinned on your abuser’s sweatingface. ‘With that, I bid you farewell.'

Draven turns to you, and you see thesilent question in his eyes. You give the smallest of nods and hurry upstairsto begin packing.

Fury

'So you're telling me that simplytouching this thing will send me to where human survivors are?'

'That is the very function of the BridgeStone,' Fury smiles at your abuser. 'And you will be pleased to know thatY/N is there too.'

The spark that lights their eyescould very much be mistaken for hope but Fury knows it for what it is, the eyesof a debased predator. It sickens her to the core. 'They're alive? How do theylook now?'

'As much as anyone who suffered thepremature war.'

'No, I mea-'

'Isn't the fact that they're aliveand safe enough for you?'

'It is,' they lie hurriedly.

'Besides, why don't you find out foryourself?' Fury says calmly, mustering as much control as she could. She holdsout the Bridge Stone to your abuser. Their fingers close around the relic with several cracks as Fury breaks them in a tight grip. Their screams aremuffled when her hand clamps to their mouth. 'Why?' comes the strangled cry.

Fury leans forwards. 'If you as muchtouch a breadth of hair on my friend...'

'I never tou-'

'...the next thing I'll do is gouge youreyes out and skin your face off all the while slowly pulling your organs out,one by one, as you're crying out and gasping for me stop. But I will only healyou to torture you again.'

She withdraws her hand. Your abuser clutchestheir broken hand. 'You… you have no proof,' they gasp, voiceshaking. 'You honestly believe them, as ‘mighty’ as you are? They are nothingbut a manipulative, lying rotten rat. Even now, after all this, even now,when there's my chance for freedom, they're trying to sabotage me. Rotten pig,I always knew they were a mista-'

Your abuser's diatribe ends in chokedgasps when their neck is being collared by Scorn, hands reaching up,struggling desperately as they're slowly being strangulated. Fury staresimpassively, her grip never faltering.

'Don't struggle. No one can hear youanyway,' Fury whispers in perfect imitation of your abuser. Their eyes bulge, twitching fingersdesperately clawing at the tight noose around their throat. Their grip slackening, struggles weakening, strength fading...

Fury lets the unconscious body dropat her feet. Frustration burns in her but she did promise the old Maker to bring them alive. Hopefully, hopefully this will be sufficient to hammer themessage and fear into their skull.

Back at the Tree, you had overheardthe conversation; Ulthane's instructions to Fury about teleporting stray humansback to Haven. You had withdrawn from everyone then and mostly kept toyourself, crafting trinkets with the other Makers and obsessively doing smallerrands around the place. You would always deflect the topic whenever Furytried to talk to you. Ulthane was the one to reveal to her about your abuser.

'We need 'em alive,' Ulthane hadwarned Fury. 'See if they learn, time will tell. If not, well, I'm sure little Y/Nwon't be too remorseful if they, say, accidentally, drop from the Tree.'

‘You insult me, Maker. You know I amcapable of more than that.’

Fury parts your abuser's lips andgrips their tongue. She taps into her ice hollow magic and freezes the softflesh.

'Y/N will never hear your twistedlies again.'

And crush.

Azrael

Azrael presses his fingers to histemples this time, wincing at the sympathetic stab of pain. No longer can heignore the signs. He closes his eyes and through his mind's eye, he sees thedark grey of your panic, in weak retaliation of the lava-red bursts of yourabuser's rage, mingling with the night-purple of their sense of grandiose.

Azrael focuses. His connection with the material world fades.

'What the f- where am I?'

'You are safe,' the voice of Azraelreassures your abuser in their mind. 'I am the archangel Azrael, also calledthe angel of death.'

'The... Maybe I should really startcutting down the whiskey.'

'This is indeed a dream of sorts, butone that only I control its direction whereby you are a passing audience. Youare not hallucinating.'

‘So what’s happening?’

'I only appear to a rare few in the Third Kingdom. Y/N is one of them. Now I come to you.'

A pause, a hesitation. 'You know therunt?'

'I know your kindred very well. And Ihave been observing you for a while a/n.'

The cold spike of their fear laps atAzrael's conscious. 'Is this... If you're an angel, then am I being blessed?

'I appear in connection with yourcurrent flow of action. I bring you a message. I will show you your potentialfate should you carry on this path.'

'My path, wha-'

The pulse of lightlances through their essence without warning, piercing their psyche, drowningyour abuser in suffocating darkness. Your abuser wakes to the sounds of brutish snarls and snapping fangs. Below your abuser lay shoals of terrible abominations, nightmarish fiends of insatiable hunger andvampiric bloodlust.

The Well of Souls stares back.

All this occurred within fiveheartbeats.

You never feel the blow. You riskglancing up to see your abuser stumbling away from the room, their voicefaltering between stuttering mumbles and strangled weeping.

Before you can process anything, something soft and gentle wafts overyour shoulder, as though the comforting fingers of a friend, there but notthere at once.

'Azrael?' you whisper, eyes brimmingwith unshed tears.

The gentle air envelops you in acomforting cloak, in a protective embrace. And this, this feels real.

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judgmentofcorruption · 4 years

Text

Episode 6–The Sinking Story; Scene 2

Judgment of Corruption, pages 181-189

As the name suggested, the “Misty Mountains” that sat at the border between Asmodean and Lucifenia would, depending on the season, be shrouded in a deep mist. As a result it was not a place that people often went to, for fear of being stranded within.

Gallerian, Tony, and Shiro had made their way to the mountains via an automobile driven by Bruno, however given the fog and the steep road they had to abandon it midway and continue ahead by foot.

“Hey, Gallerian. Is this really the right road?”

At the head of the group, Tony turned around, but the only ones behind him were Bruno and Shiro.

Gallerian was walking so much farther behind as to be lost in the mist.

“Huff…You guys…walk too fast…don’t leave me behind…” he grumbled when he finally caught up to them, out of breath.

“You’re too slow. What’s the guy with the map doing walking all the way in the back? …Geez, no wonder you’re always doing desk work—”

As Tony was getting put out, Gallerian handed over the letter from Ma on which the map was drawn.

“Maybe you should…hold onto it until we get there…”

“I guess so—Hmph, so this does appear to be the correct road…Unfortunately it seems like the fog has gotten considerably thicker. It might be dangerous to keep pressing on recklessly like this.”

“…But…turning back now could also be…”

“This fog doesn’t look like it’ll clear up if we take a rest. So then what to do—Hm, what’s wrong, Shiro?”

Shiro had been quickly tugging on Tony’s sleeve, and now she pointed ahead.

"There is someone…on the other side of the fog."

“What? –Are they an enemy? Do they have any weapons?”

"I can't tell. …Sorry…"

“Right. Well then, Officer Netsuma. I’ll have you do reconnaissance--have you got your gun on you?”

"Y-yes…"

Shiro hurriedly drew the revolver that she had in her side holster.

The moment that she had her favored “Naga E895” in hand—Shiro’s eyes seemed to sharpen.

“—Roger that. Shiro Netsuma, beginning reconnaissance of this uncivilized region.”

She moved forward into the fog at a crouch, wary and yet at a rapid pace.

Gallerian looked on, dumbfounded.

“…Her attitude changed to something more confident so quickly…”

Bruno gave a smirk. "Didn't you know? Shiro's personality changes when she's holding a gun. –Or rather, this may actually be her true self. It’s just that her usual social anxiety is too severe.”

“…Well, I guess if that wasn’t the case she wouldn’t be in the military.”

“I always thought you knew, my lord. Since you made her the leader of PN—”

“Hel is the one who recommended her. At first I wanted to make her into the leader of PN. But she apparently hates being in positions of leadership or being at the top of anything. So I just went with it…”

"On the battlefield and in places of strife at least, there is no one more reliable than Shiro."

“It looks that way—Oh, she’s coming back.”

Reappearing from within the fog, Shiro nodded slightly to Gallerian and company.

“It is not an enemy. The identity of the target is ‘Postman’—an ally.”

Postman appeared shortly after her.

“So, it was you who brought us the letter after all—where is Ma?”

“…”

In response to Gallerian’s question Postman said nothing as usual, but instead they turned around and slowly started to walk in the other direction.

“I guess we’re supposed to come along?”

“Let’s follow. If they get too far away we’ll lose sight of them.”

Gallerian nodded, and pressed on with everyone else tagging along.

Eventually the troupe arrived at an old stone ruin.

It seemed as though at some point the fog that blanketed the area had thinned a bit.

In front of an altar that sat in the center of that ruin was Postman and--

Ma, who looked almost as though she hadn't changed from 14 years ago.

"Ma!"

When Gallerian called out to her, Ma smiled in response.

"You came. --It's been a long time, Gallerian."

“What are you doing so deep in the mountains—No, before that!” Gallerian abruptly flew into a rage. "Why did you suddenly leave me fourteen years ago?! You didn’t say a single world—"

"…I had become a little bit tired. Of associating with other people.” Ma said, giving a fleeting glance to Bruno behind Gallerian.

"Is that possibly…because of me?"

“No, that’s not it. It was nothing that you did. …It’s just. I was never all that comfortable being in front of people, and I’m a very fickle woman. So I figured that it might be nice to live in some remote place like a hermit.”

“Have you been living here all this time?”

“I mean, it’s not like I’ve been here for the entire fourteen years. I was in Elphegort’s forest, and a few other places besides. These ‘Misty Mountains’ are where I ultimately ended up. This is a good spot. People seldom come here, and surprisingly enough I don’t want for food either.”

Ma took out a basket filled with edible wild plants and showed it to Gallerian.

Bruno walked up to Ma.

“So then…why did you send a letter to Gallerian? If you stopped interacting with other people, why would you…!?”

“—Don’t make such a scary face, Bruno. Didn’t I just say? I am a very fickle woman…all of a sudden I just wanted to meet her.”

“Her?”

“Michelle. She must be—what, sixteen now? I imagine she’s grown up a bit. She was so cute when she was a baby. I’m sure she’s become a lovely young girl…All that just sort of came to mind, and so I just wanted to see what she looks like.”

“…Aren’t you a complete stranger to her? The young miss would have no memory of you.”

“That’s what’s great about it. That’s precisely why I was wanting to see her all harum-scarum like that. Such is the impetus for my return to associating with people.”

“I don’t understand.” Bruno sighed, shaking his head. “—If what you’re saying now is true, why go out of your way to call us here by letter? You could have just returned to Levianta yourself.”

“Actually, I had a little favor to ask of you,” Ma said, pointing off to the side a little ways away.

She was pointing to a carelessly piled stack of books.

“While I was wandering here and there, I found some rare books and wrote a few new screenplays and such—Before I knew it, I had a ton of luggage. Since you’re already here, I was thinking you could carry these in your car.”

“…Unfortunately, the car is at full capacity. There was already four people on the way over here—we can probably get at least one more person in, but when it comes to Postman and the textbooks—”

“You don’t need to worry about Postman. They said that they’d walk back alone.”

“By ‘said’ do you mean that you can talk with—”

“Ah, pardon. I phrased that a bit poorly. I mean that they wrote to me.”

Tony and Shiro had been standing in wait a behind Gallerian and the others, but they approached the altar now.

“If that’s the situation, then the two of us can get back home through other means. There’s a military garrison down the mountain, right by the Babul Desert. We’ll just borrow a military vehicle.”

Ma’s expression grew faintly suspicious. “Shiro and—who are you?”

“Ah, forgive me. I am Tony Ausdin, major general of the USE allied forces. I’m an old friend of Gallerian’s. I came here because there was something I needed to speak with you about, but…perhaps it best we save that for after we get back to Levianta.”

“Someone of the Ausdin family, huh? My my.”

“We have met once before, but…Well, I suppose you don’t remember. At the time I was just a simple part-time security guard, ha ha ha—Anyway, I’ll be seeing you.”

Tony and Shiro bowed.

Then Bruno turned and started speaking to Gallerian.

“Sir, you should go with the two of them and head back to where the automobile is waiting. I have to stay here to package and carry over these texts.”

“Will you be alright by yourself? I can help if you want.”

“Given your strength levels you’re likely to pass out partway through carrying all of this, hahaha. Don’t worry. I can handle this much. I’m quite used to carting around heavy things.”

Ma added on, “I’m going with Bruno as well. I wouldn’t be able to bear it if he were to damage my precious books, after all.”

“I see…Alright, I’ll wait ahead at the automobile,” Gallerian said, leaving the ruin with Tony and Shiro.

--Postman had disappeared at some point too.

That left only Bruno and Ma.

“Now then…Let’s start packaging these.”

Bruno took out some wrapping cloth that he had on hand and started to neatly pack up the piled books.

Ma spoke to him from behind. “—You don’t need to worry. I have no intention of doing anything with Gallerian at this stage.”

“…I suppose the way that you remained formal while speaking with him just now made your intentions on that clear…That’s how I’d prefer it though, yes.”

“It’s been fourteen years already. I can’t see Gallerian wanting to re-ignite any old flames either.”

“…I would think Gallerian didn’t notice because you were standing in fog, but…how do you plan to explain the fact that your appearance hasn’t changed at all?”

“As for that—Well, I’ll find some way to cover for it.”

“…That’s not reassuring. At any rate…just don’t be anything more to Gallerian than a friend. And…when you two are together, you are not by any means to get him to drink anything. That’s all I want to say to you.”

“—Roger.”

Ma and Bruno, carrying the wrapped up books, descended the mountain and met up with Gallerian who was waiting by the automobile. The three of them then returned to Levianta.

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