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funkymbtifiction · 5 years

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INTJ v. ISFP: The Men Who Renounced God

SUBMITTED BY H.

I recently re-watched Bram Stoker's Dracula and it struck me that ISFP Dracula (as portrayed in that movie, at least; the book diverges on some important points) and INTJ Salieri (from Amadeus) are strikingly similar in a lot of ways and would make for a good comparison between unhealthy SFP and NTJ cognition and behavior. They are also both core Enneagram 4's, albeit with different wings and fixes, so cognitive function order plays an even more important role in shaping their at times divergent behaviors and attitudes. I've compiled a small collection of observations and thoughts of mine below.

Both men decide to renounce God because they feel God did not live up to His part of the bargain they think they had with Him, and here's where the Fi-Te function axis comes into play; a Fi-Te user, regardless of function stacking, views the basis of morality, of trust, as an exchange of services. Quantifiable, verifiable services. Tit for tat. If you have let down a Fi-Te user, you won't get away with flattering their ego, as you might with an Fe-type. If they put in X effort they expect a Y outcome, and should the other party fail to deliver, you will have a very angry, displeased FP/TJ on your hands.

Dracula, being Fi-Se, is more direct and forthcoming than Salieri in both his desires and responses; finding his wife dead from suicide, he concludes simply that "this is God's 'reward for defending His church" and has a very immediate, visceral and violent reaction - and his feelings do not change from then on. He holds true to his first judgment about people and events, refuses to compromise on his stance, and he holds grudges - literally for centuries! There is nothing particularly abstract about it; Fi is his primary and conscious orientation, and it's running the show, backed up by easily accessible auxiliary Se, which gives him an impulsivity which does not always work in his favor, but allows him to adapt quickly to his physical surroundings and use them to his advantage, be it for attack, defense or seduction. Dracula, when threatened, frequently uses theatrical, Se-based scare tactics heavily dependent on his current environment.

As Fi-doms usually are (the unhealthy ones, anyway) he's easily offended and prone to lashing out with aggression, like when he tells Jonathan Harker about the history of his order and how their relationship with the church was not "entirely successful". Jonathan chuckles and Dracula perceives this as a grave insult against his person and points a sword at Jonathan, and hisses "It's not a laughing matter! We Draculas have a right to be proud!" Pure, unfiltered Fi, right there. His inferior Te shows too; he's not good at gauging what is culturally appropriate behavior for a situation, regardless of what century he's in (e.g. following Mina around London after she snubs him). He has another reactive, aggressive response when he finds out Jonathan has a mirror and impulsively breaks it; you can tell he knows he made a mistake then, with Harker, and tries to smooth it over with "You are in Transylvania. Our ways are not your ways. Some of what you see might seem strange to you." Fi and its general attitude to social convention can be observed here as well; Dracula alludes that since they are different people with different origins, they do not have to conform to the same social, moral, or behavioral standards.

Both Dracula and Salieri become recluses late in life, but for different reasons. Dracula, having an inferior extroverted judging function, withdraws from the rest of humanity because he feels so alienated and disconnected from it that isolation becomes a preferable alternative. "I am dead to the world." He does not see the value in fostering or maintaining diplomatic alliances with other nobles or royals. He just... exists, marinating in his own misery, hatred and loneliness. Unlike Salieri, who is industriousness personified, Dracula doesn't actively work toward an over-arching goal, at least not until he spots Mina's photograph amongst Jonathan's possessions. Until that point, his plans for London were vague and oriented mainly toward pursuit of sensory experiences - he wants to "walk the crowded streets of London and merge with the whirl and rush of humanity". Dracula, much like Salieri's nemesis Mozart - a fellow ISFP, does nothing to foster a sense of fellow feeling or Fe-based belonging in other people. He persuades, with somewhat uneven results, through the force of his own private and at times infectious passion. His pursuit for the finer things in life and in-your-face vivaciousness is what endears him to Mina, who is not used to such open displays of sensuality. "I have never met any man with such a passion for life". In contrast the pious Salieri, while in possessions of similar desires, does not indulge. You also see his Fi dominant orientation - and judgments - emerge when he realizes that Jonathan is engaged to a woman whom he believes is a reincarnation of his long dead wife. Until he spots Mina's picture on Jonathan's desk, he had been amicably disposed (or neutral) toward Jonathan, but once he begins to see him as a rival for Mina's affections, his attitude changes like the flip of a switch, and because he is a feeling dominant, he cannot suppress his true feelings even for an instant. From then on, he becomes increasingly hostile and cruel towards Jonathan, first in a passive-aggressive way (pretending not to understand him, knowingly startling him, breaking his mirror, alluding to the dangers awaiting him in the castle should he leave his rooms, etc.) but gradually escalating into open hostility and outright sadism (letting his brides ravage him and then feed on a human infant in front of him).

Conversely, when he is happy, Dracula's conscious orientation toward Fi and Se can still be seen in his open pursuit of his momentary desires (Mina, Lucy, excitement for the cultural and technological marvel to be found in a big city) and he is quick to create an exciting and enjoyable environment for himself and others to sample.

Salieri, being an Ni-dom and thus a perceiving dominant, is comparatively slow to reach lasting conclusions, but once he does, (about the path he wants to take in life, his opinion on Mozart, and his eventual decision to destroy his rival) he does so with absolute, unflinching certainty. Salieri's repressed Se and complicated relationship with this function can be seen in his compulsive avoidance of anything that he perceives as excessively indulgent - basically everything he hates about Mozart can be encapsulated into hatred of his inferior function and thus his own weaknesses. Salieri, like Dracula, feels wronged by God, "why implant a desire in me without the talent to match it?" but unlike Dracula's direct, straightforward conclusions about other people and their motives, Salieri routinely abstracts events and happenings and ascribes to them meaning way beyond what can be considered factually realistic or even in the realm of possible. "That was not Mozart laughing, that was God, laughing at me through that obscene giggle!" Salieri abstracts Mozart's entire person and existence into nothing but a personal affront against him, by God, and in his eyes, Mozart ceases to be an independent agent with feelings and desires of his own and becomes nothing but an instrument through which a spiteful God mocks Salieri and his efforts.

Emotional restraint - at least in the eye of the public - is one key difference between an ISFP and an INTJ, and it can be observed in these characters. Dracula does not hesitate to show or express emotion, even in its most raw and unbridled form, which gives this sinister character an unexpected air of vulnerability. He rages, he cries openly in front of Jonathan and makes spontaneous gloomy, morose statements such as "My life, at its best, is misery. I would be better off dead." Salieri, while intensely emotional, is surprisingly emotionally unreactive with excellent control over his temper, even in the face of blatant public humiliation. He does not "blow up", he retreats into solitude to nurse his hurt feelings and never lashes out with physical violence, regardless of the scale of the offense against his person. Salieri's auxiliary Te, when led by Ni and supported by his tertiary Fi, gives him a keen eye for politics and diplomacy; he is not a "divine" composer like Mozart, but he can easily intuit and deliver what other people, including the Holy Roman Emperor, want from him, which gives him a powerful and much coveted position at the Emperor's court.

Where Dracula, due to inferior Te and the consequent unwillingness to compromise or adjust, fails to forge alliances with other powerful people, which leaves him without a reliable defensive safety net, Salieri, with his higher use of extroverted judging, excels in this department. He does not necessarily agree with current social conventions, but he does not needlessly flout them either. For example, Salieri holds off passing judgment on Mozart's choosing an "obscene" German libretto for the first opera commissioned from him by the Emperor until he is sure of how the Emperor leans on the subject. Though his motives might superficially seem like Fe, they are not; Salieri simply does not volunteer his personal convictions in a professional setting because he does not want them to be held against him. He abjectly derides the Emperor's lack of musical skills once it's safe for him to do so, and mentions how much he hated playing duets with the man, when "the Emperor had no ear at all". I mentioned earlier Salieri's complex relationship with Se and all that it entails, and this can be observed throughout the course of the movie. Salieri tries very hard not to subject himself to situations that can be unpredictable and outside of his control, and once that happens, he responds with a "deer in the headlights" reaction, which can be seen during the visit from Mozart's wife Stanzi. Salieri had not expected Stanzi to take him up on his offer ("come back tonight, alone, and I will speak on behalf of your husband. Certain favors require favors in return.") and when she arrives and begins to disrobe, Salieri is caught in a state of paralyzing fear and calls for his servants to promptly remove "Frau Mozart" from his house. Salieri is also not a violent man does what he can to avoid a direct, physical confrontation; he confesses that although he passionately envisioned the death of God's Creature, Mozart, at his hand, he was not sure how to actual go about it. "How does one kill a man?"

At the end, Salieri chooses a coward's way of murder through poison to snuff out his rival and permanently silence The Creature. The only Se-driven urge that the pious Salieri appears not to resist at all is his massive sweet tooth; indeed, this urge stays with him even when he is dying and committed to an insane asylum where fresh sugar rolls become the highlight of his day! Salieri's extreme reluctance to engage in a physical altercation, despite obvious stress, becomes obvious when he is confronted by Stanzi while urging the dying Mozart to finish dictating the commissioned Requiem mass. He freezes and does nothing to stop a woman he could easily overpower from tearing the notes out of his hands and placing them in a locked cabinet - away from his reach. To compensate for his "cowardice", Salieri is extremely calculating and prides himself on his foresight and knowledge that he has the power to crush someone utterly through deliberate, systematic repuation demolition. As Salieri ages and becomes increasingly infirm, his mind begins to crumble and he is plagued by crippling guilt over his crimes. Unable to maintain the practiced psychological defenses found in his conscious cognitive orientation (Ni and Te), he falls prey to his unsophisticated tertiary and inferior functions. Now a recluse but nonetheless rich enough to live a life of opulence, the aged Salieri is shown relying on crude sensory comforts (sweets, alcohol) for distraction from his hellish conscience. Since he is an introvert, Salieri turns his capacity for destruction and cruelty against his own person, which finally culminates in an attempt to slit his throat. Dracula, while arguably more disordered, has a more sophisticated use of Fi and Se and never resorts to outright self-harm; he is able to maintain a purity of subject and thus a purity of the ego, which allows him to freely pursue his desires without being plagued by a conscience. His inferior function instead prevents him from drawing rational conclusions from events around him - such as when it's time for a tactical retreat. Now on to where their cognitions converge - both Dracula and Salieri use Ni and Fi, which together have a polarizing and singular effect on the dichotomy of the internal versus the external world. Fi and Ni help in create a relatively uncompromised, separate ideational world, and Te and Se in turn offer a corresponding counter-orientation towards the external world, that appears to them on objective and comparatively unfiltered terms. Both have a strong drive to make a direct impact on the external world that is in accordance with their personal desires. Both interpret certain seemingly incidental occurrences as signs of destiny compelling them to commit to a certain path (with Dracula, it was seeing Mina's portrait on Jonathan's desk, with Salieri it was the unexpected death of his father, freeing him). Both began their careers as devout men dedicated to what they believed was a divine path, one driven by purity of vision (Ni), the other by purity of values (Fi). Salieri nurtures his vision of becoming the greatest composer to have ever lived, and Dracula prizes his love for his wife above all else. The latter has a concrete outlet for his passion, while the former gravitates toward the cerebral and ideational. Both turn against God but make their peace with Him and are - supposedly - granted absolution on their death bed.

#submission #isfp #intj #intj x isfp #isfp x intj #type contrast #enneagram #enneagram 4 #unhealthy #dracula #bram stoker's dracula #amadeus

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crwnfell-a · 5 years

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@drkvoids || plotted - ish

Pained groans resonate throughout the forest , sticks snapping and dragging behind the damaged man , the pain was absolutely horrid . Yet he pays no mind to it as he puts weight on his broken , mangled and absolutely scarred leg , causing him to exhale harshly through his teeth .

Oh how he wishes he had his cane , it was pathetic , being unable to properly walk without some sort of support made him seethe with anger . He could have one of his pokemon to lean on if he wanted , but he already knew it would have unwanted consequences , his pokemon would take joy in his suffering and he knew it fully .

It is then when a red hue catches sight of Tobias that has him heading toward the boy with spite , and displeasure written all over him .

" 🕉🕄🕂♯〰🛆 ." His voice is scratchy , deep and almost noticeably gone , it must've been from all the screaming and yelling .

Ancient unovan is the language he goes with , not by choice , but out of habit . He pays no mind to whether or not he is understood , all he wants is to DESTROY . This feeling of anger , pure unbridled hatred swells within his chest , he doesn't know the reason why but he does not care . The voices in his head scheme , they do not waver as they provide violence to Ghetsis despite his condition .

#▪A GOD AMONG MEN || in character #drkvoids #verse tba.

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plutoandpolaris · 5 years

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Fantasy AU: Rebellion

Summary: After putting on a show for the people, Anti brings Jackie back to the palace to present him to Rihannon personally.

Warnings: Death/injury mention, weaponry, general discomfort, (being possessed by a god isn’t a good time).

Weeks passed as Jackie slipped in and out of consciousness, plagued by strange and barely comprehensible nightmares that blurred the line between the waking world and what laid beyond. The pain from his wound pulsed on the edge of his senses, voices filling his ears with a cacophony of ever present noise.

He couldn’t tell whether he’d been asleep for a few minutes or several years, but the only thing he could register as he awoke was how incredibly cold he was. Every limb felt chilled to it’s very marrow, the near paralyzing cold threatening to pull him back into unconsciousness.

With a sudden burst of energy Jackie fought back, though the simple act of prying his eyes open took more effort than he’d care to admit.

The first thing he noticed was the hard surface underneath him, a polished wooden floor. His hands were tied behind him with a coarse rope, though he doubted he would’ve been able to make a run for it even unbound.

Soft footsteps echoed nearby. Jackie’s eyes had since adjusted to the dim lamp light, and he could just barely make out a figure pacing in front of the window. Otherwise the room was silent, the soft hiss and crackle from the lamps almost giving the room a comforting feel. That was, however, until Jackie looked a little closer.

The figure pacing near the window was the King. Jackie could just make out the twin pinpricks of green shimmering in the darkness, surveying the room. He hadn’t seemed to notice that Jackie had woken up, and the knight quickly slumped back to the floor, letting the fatigue wash over him.

He could hear the King muttering but couldn’t make out the words. He sounded irritated, hand hovering near his belt like he was expecting to be attacked at any moment.

A cold wind blew through the room, so sudden it nearly winded him, stifling the lamps and plunging them into pitch blackness. He heard the King curse briefly under his breath, followed by the soft scrape of a weapon being drawn.

“Don’t you think it’s a little rude to greet a guest with a drawn blade? I would think your mother taught you better than that.”

The voice was deep and tinged with a silvery sharp tone, each word rattling him to his bones. It came from every direction, emanating from the darkness itself, and Jackie couldn’t help but notice the slight mocking humor in the voice as it echoed throughout the room.

The King clearly noticed it, but continued like he hadn’t heard.

I̢’v̢e̵ bro͢u͠ght ̶y͢o̢u your̡ ͜s͟a͢c̴r͟ifice̢,͞ R̕ihannon̷. ̧It’҉s t̕i͟m̢e͡ ͜yo̵u ͞r̨e͘pa͏i͏d̛ ͠yo͢ur͜ ̀side o͟f͞ ̛the͞ b̶ar̵gain.” ̧

The voice hummed slightly, seemingly pleased.

“I must admit I was surprised when you pledged me a living sacrifice. You certainly know how to drive a good bargain.”

Jackie could feel pressure on his neck and face, seeping into his blood. It felt almost like a hand ghosting over his skin, but the feeling quickly dissipated.

“Let’s hope he lives. Would be an awful shame if his poor mortal heart gave out before we even got to the good part.”

This time the voice was centralized, right outside his ear. It send convulsing shivers through him, his stomach knotting as the voice chuckled softly.

“Eńou͡gh ̸ga̕mes.̧ Y͜ou̕’́l͠l͜ ̢g̴iv͏e ͝me͝ w͢ha̧t ̨I͘’͝m ͏owed,̷ ̸i̡ńse͏n̡ze.”̀

Rihannon growled low in his throat, the sound laced with a rage so potent that Jackie swore he felt the floorboards shake.

“I will tell you nothing until I’m sure you haven’t pledged me a weak blooded rat.”

Jackie couldn't find the energy to be offended. The voice seemed to be coming from within him now, each word so deafening in his ears he could barely comprehend anything else.

The chill spread, hardening in his bones, and he could feel Rihannon’s presence taking over his body, shoving him back into the recesses of his own mind. It hurt, each pull on his subconscious wrenching him further down as the God’s thoughts flooded into him.

Pure unbridled rage swept through him, so violent he could feel himself being pulled apart by it. He felt centuries, millennia of pent up anger and hatred, each becoming so clear he could nearly hear Rihannon’s voice echoing through them, muttering in Daemotic, each word dripping with disdain for every single useless living thing on this planet, God’s and Mortals alike.

His vision sharpened for just a moment before going dark, and he could’ve sworn he saw actual fear on the King’s face.

The Knight rose, snapping through his bindings easily, craning his neck to the side with an unnatural sounding crackle of bone. His eyes were now black, but not the black of a demon. These eyes were smooth and reflective as marble, regarding Anti with such intensity that he felt himself take a few steps back.

“The boy lives.”

Hearing the Knight’s voice tinged with Rihannon’s strangle lilting speech was off putting, to say the least.

But still Anti held his ground, hand tightening around the weapon at his side.

“I’v̷e͠ f̵u͞l̛f̸il͏led ҉m̡y end, th͢e͡n.͞ Yòu’͞l̶l tel͡l m͢e wh͘at I n͠e͟e͡d ̀to know ̡o͡r ͟I͝’ll͢ p̕u͞t̛ y̴our͢ ̀pre̶t̴ţy̴ ̨l̛it͘ţl͏e ͡host ou͠t ̸óf h̶is̵ m̸isery͠.́”̷ ̴ ̷

Rihannon laughed, suddenly and uproariously, the sound grating harshly on Anti’s ears.

“You really have to work on your threats, cihervan. I’m not quite convinced.”

Rihannon using Proelia’s degrading nickname for him sent a sharp spike of rage through Anti’s chest, but he forced it down.

He knew his limits, and this was a fight he couldn’t win.

“You want out from under Proelia’s thumb, don’t you? At least you figured out she’s using you before her plans got you beheaded or worse. Better than any of your unfortunate half siblings ever fared.”

Rihannon paced around him, each step slow and calculated, dark eyes boring into him from every angle.

“Lila, stabbed through by her own people and bled dry for weeks until she was nothing but a desecrated corpse. Kiren and Mante, damned to the deepest circle of Rancor’s realm to rot for the rest of this world’s pitiful lifespan. Jihane, beheaded and forced to spent her entire afterlife searching for her head, kept sane through spite of death alone.”

Rihannon leaned in close, breath reeking of death and blood.

“Proelia’s children certainly don’t have the most favorable track record, do they?”

In a flash, Anti’s knife was pressed against Rihannon’s throat, every muscle screaming for him to rip the mocking smile off of his face by force. All thoughts of restraint were off, unquellable anger singing through his veins.

Rihannon didn’t even flinch.

“I am͢ don͝e̡ ̷be͘in̵g͘ ͞Pr̀oe͏l͠ia’s͜ pupp̢et. ̷You̡ ̶are͘ t͢he̕ on̵ly͘ b̕ei̷ng ̴wḩo’̨s͘ ev̡e͏r ̡d̛èst̷r͟o̧yed her̀ ̡phy̶s̕i̵c̡al̸ form̢.”

Rihannon’s eyebrow quirked slightly, but his expression remained unreadable.

“T͏e̴lĺ ͢me͢ how.”

I hope you guys liked this one! It’s a bit niche but it’s important for advancing the story. I’ll probably have a God Files up for Rihannon soon too.

Daemotic Translations:

Insenze: formless one. Rihannon takes this as a huge insult due because it pokes fun at the fact he has no physical form and must possess others.

Cihervan: Little one. Proelia calls Anti this because she likes how angry it makes him. Other Gods like using it to mock him.

[Taglist]

@egopocalypse @shadowsonthemoon @epicfangirl01 @kitnkas @mijako98 @anothermarkiplierfan @iris-the-asparagus @bunchofdoodlesinspace @awkward-bullshit @amockingbirdslament @the-cosmic-creations @wingsofthefierydragonheart @eightales7 @acuriousquail @hollenka99

Let me know if you want to be added or taken off!

#jacksepticeye #antisepticeye #jackieboy man #antisepticeye fanfiction #writersofjack #pluto’s writings #pluto’s fantasy au

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waystobuild-blog · 5 years

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A Hero’s Fall

So this is way long overdue and honestly, I forgot that I even wrote this. So what I do is I write in between my college classes and yeah. This is something I wrote in 2018 as a request for one of my friends. He wanted to see Sonic succumb to darkness and I decided to write that. So, I hope you and everybody else reading this enjoys.

Sonic didn’t know when it started.

He didn’t understand what had changed.

And unfortunately… He didn’t know if he could stop it.

It was almost unnoticeable at first, he would get slightly rougher with the Badniks or a little testier with Amy than usual. It wasn’t like him at all.

But it just kept on getting worse and worse…

A few months prior, Tails had tried to speak to him about him about it.

“Sonic…” The fox tentatively approached him.

“Yeah, bro?” Sonic grinned.

“Are you…” He paused, trying to find the right words. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Never better! Why?”

“Well….” He held the end of that at the tip of his tongue, still unsure of how exactly to put it. “You were a little more… rough on the Badniks than usual…”

He gestured to the land around him to show the busted robot parts scattered all over the place in odd directions, the indents in the ground from thee spindashes and homing attacks that had been done with a little too much fore and the trees that had been sawed in half by the aggressive nature of the supersonic hedgehog.

But Sonic brushed it off. “Eh… you know me. Always getting into trouble. Nothing out of the ordinary, buddy.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m fine.”

Tails looked tentatively at his older brother and slowly nodded.

“What the hell was that?!” Shadow snapped at him.

Sonic just shook his head. “What’s wrong?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, idiot. Breaking the sound barrier in the middle of a city!”

“I had to!”

“No, you didn’t!”

“Yes, I did!”

“You caused immeasurable destruction with that stupid stunt!”

“Eggman was getting away!”

“You’re not this irresponsible!”

“Who cares?!”

“People could’ve died!”

“Well more would’ve if I didn’t catch him when I did! For Chaos’ sake, I didn’t have another choice, Shadow!”

“You always say there’s another choice!”

“Well, this time there wasn’t!”

The Ultimate Life Form glared at the fastest thing alive for a long time, inspecting him, trying to see what was wrong with the fast footed hero. Sonic the Hedgehog was never like this, at least not in the years that Shadow had known him. Shadow knew him as a fool with an ego bigger than the amount of Chaos Energy he had packed into him. But he always respected him for his desire to help others and make sure everyone was safe even if it was in his own unorthodox way.

But what he saw before him today, he had zero respect for. The scowling hog with his back to him, brow furrowed, arms crossed and nose upturned in disgust was more like looking into a mirror than looking into the usually calm emerald eyes of the true blue hero and he hated it. Sonic was reckless but he wasn’t stupid. Not where he would risk the lives of thousands in favor of catching the mad doctor or any reason for that matter. And this whole argument was different than his usual brand of immaturity. He was usually met with snarky remarks, dumb jokes and the coolest smirk the hog could muster not this foolish defensiveness that he was facing today.

Just what was the matter with him?

And that’s when he felt it. Like a slap to the face or a bucket of ice cold water dumped on his head, he felt it.

“Y-your Chaos Energy-” Shadow stammered.

Sonic looked at him, raising an eyeridge.

“It’s negative.” Shadow stated.

Sonic brushed this off. “Please, you must be joking.”

Shadow didn’t stop glaring at him.

“Nothing’s wrong!” Sonic yelled. “You guys keep moaning and groaning about something being wrong with me. But I’m fine! And right now, the only thing I care about is stopping Eggman.”

With that, the hedgehog ran off, not uttering another word.

“I have to admit Sonic,” Eggman smiled. “I’m a little impressed.”

“What are you talking about?” Sonic snapped back.

“Exactly that.” Eggman laughed. “This new attitude you have lately.”

“I don’t have an attitude.”

“Oh, but you do.” Eggman insisted. “But even that’s not the part I care too much about. Not really.”

Sonic continued to glare at him.

“No, I am impressed that you’ve finally put all that power you’ve got to good use.”

He then gestured to Metal Sonic who was missing an arm and a leg, had fire spilling out of the thruster on his back and was spazzing uncontrollably on the floor. The glass that made up his eyes had a spider web of cracks that if one squinted they could see his eye flickering between his usual irises, line of code and just emptiness.

“You took down Metal Sonic as soon as I called him out. I had heard rumors that you had turned to rage but seeing it up close? This is beyond what I ever could’ve imagined.”

“I am not angry.”

The Doctor laughed. “In all the years we’ve known each other and you think you can lie to me? I can read you just as easily as you can read me, you know? And even so, that unbridled rage is written all over your face. It’s hilarious.”

Sonic growled. “Cut the chatter, Eggman. You know why I’m here.”

“Yes, but I’m going to keep talking. I just want to say that this is a good look for you, Sonic. We’ve always been two sides of the same coin, you and I. Playing this game of cat and mouse since you were a mere child. And now? Well, it seems we’re more alike than you’d care to admit.”

“I am nothing like you!”

“But you are. Using your rage and aggression to fuel you; using all the power at your fingertips to take the world and have it bow to your will. Who does that sound like to you?”

At that, he didn’t even get an answer. Instead, his eggmobile shook and he was surprised to see his nemesis had clung onto it. He was so fast that he hadn’t even seen him move. Just as quickly as he landed on it, he had grabbed Eggman by the collar of his shirt.

“Stop it!” The hedgehog snarled at him. “Stop all of it now!”

But the doctor simply laughed. “And this is exactly what I’m talking about. But stop? No. Not when I’m so close to attaining the ultimate power.”

Sonic growled at him, pulling him even closer.

But the doctor was prepared for this and quickly punched a large yellow button on his console.

Immediately, thousands of volts of electricity jumped off of the hull of the pod and into the hedgehog’s body. He could feel himself collapsing to the floor before everything went black.

And now he stood on the day of his enemy’s triumph watching as the world set ablaze and everything he knew and loved was destroyed. It was all his fault.

He looked on in his anger, in his rage, in his pure unbridled hatred at it all.

And he knew he had to be the one to stop it. And with that, he called upon the seven emeralds.

They appeared before him in a radiant flash of light. He dug deep, calling on the power within his heart and within the emeralds.

At that, his fur turned not to the comforting gold that those knew but to a spiteful obsidian; his eyes were not a righteous crimson but instead a soulless black void and his aura an ugly coal color instead of the powerful sun.

Darkness had taken the hero’s heart and as he took in his new form, he couldn’t help but be fueled by more hatred.

Dark Sonic had arrived and he wanted nothing more than revenge.

#sonic #sonic the hedgehog #writing #fanfiction #fanfic #sonic fanfiction #t #Miles Tails Prower #shadow the hedgehog #eggman #dr eggman #Doctor Eggman #Ivo Robotnik #doctor robotnik #oneshot #dark sonic

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franciebeck · 5 years

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Oh boy. There would be a lot to unpack.

Quentin Beck had died more than a decade ago. Self inflicted gunshot wound to the head.

He was an honest man, doing honest work. Beck had a talent in film making and had started up his own business with his fiance Rebecca Schnieder. They were oh so close to that happily ever after indeed…

Kingpin and Daredevil had totaled his startup movie studio some 2 years before hand in a skirmish, leaving him a casualty of the incident. His hospital bills had been extremely high, and he had been confined to a wheelchair to the rest of his life due to a spinal injury from the conflict. No longer could he perform his hobbies nor work.

His fiance had stuck with him for a time, she was rather supportive of him, for their love was genuine, but the crippling financial situation and his emotional state had driven a rift between the two.

Beck had taken his insurance company to court over the lack of coverage, even though he had paid for such services. Super human crime was apparently not covered; the rules had been bent to screw him over since most total packages did include such things. They had committed a crime, but the judge turned a blind eye to fraud on that day. Perhaps they had been bribed. Nothing would be compensated.

Murdock had buried Beck quite literally, in rubble and in debt, for he was the defense lawyer for the insurance company. Weren’t heroes supposed to defend the civilians and take responsibility for their actions? Apparently not Murdock. Nor was he sympathetic that he had also caused a disability. There was no empathy from the blind on that day.

Now, with legal bills to pay, hospital bills and medical equipment, the total loss of his income, and the property damages he had to pay as well, he was, well… totally f*cked. Up sh!t creek without a paddle. His mental state had taken a huge hit.

It was after all of this that Rebecca, his fiance, had left him. After everything, she could not be dragged down with him, he knew that. It had broken Quentin’s heart even further, but he had hoped she could at least be spared from this nightmare.

He was wrong, and learned a few months later of her tragic fatal car accident, along with the disappearance and supposed death of his cousin, Maguire Beck.

He had truly lost everything. His ability to work, his lover, his family, his joy.

Everything had been stripped from poor ol’ Beck. He was beyond angry at the world. He wanted nothing more than to kill the bastards who had ruined him so completely.

But there was absolutely nothing Quentin could do. His life was completely out of his control.

Control? Well, there was only one more choice he could make at this point.

He got his father’s gun, and in pure spite, blew his brains out. Now life could not hurt him any more.

God, was he wrong. He could not pass on into the light, his soul was too tormented, too angry to let go of his pain and move on. It was not that he was a bad person, far from it. Beck was a victim through and through. It was his own inability to let go that held him back.

So he plummeted straight into hell. It was a place for the wicked, yes, but also a way point for those who had not let go of their previous issues. A purgatory center of sorts, until those souls could be free. It was not a place of torture.

Quentin was a furious soul, the demons and guardian spirits backed away from him for fear of his unbridled wrath. A soul, no matter what creature it seemingly came from, could summon near unlimited power based upon their emotional and mental state. Maybe. Maybe he was just a unique case.

Regardless, on that day, there was nothing in heaven nor hell that could stop a Mysterio scorned.

So he was cast off back into the mortal world, and there he remained. Stories had popped up about his horrible rampage. How Beck had brutally murdered and haunted Kingpin, Daredevil, and their family and friends.

No trace of their legacy remained other than the Curse of Mysterio. The horrible reminder of the fate of the wicked within New York, or those unlucky enough to attract his ruthless attention.

Sometimes he haunted the rich and powerful or places of wealth. Perhaps it was his lingering pain over his financial situation that drove him to appear in such places and cause unnecessary chaos.

Of course, the records only traced back to his death. Only a few theorists had decided it was old man Quentin. Who else would have such a vile vendetta against both Murdock and Kingpin at the same time? The timing between his death and the ghost’s appearance was also a point raised.

These web pages were years abandoned now. It seemed people just didn’t care all that much about the origin of the ghost in Central Park. The only things that matter were the new stories or disappearances or sightings of the enigma.

But none of it could be proven. None of these people online had any power over Beck or any evidence to their claims. Power was given only if Mysterio knew or acknowledged them, like he had with Miranda. It had to be spoken out loud, in close proximity to him, not a country away over a keyboard.

That’s cheating the dead.

————————-

Mysterio had stopped gliding, dead in his tracks and stared down the Spider.

“What do you want?”

His voice was on edge, ready to snap. The Spider had ruined last night and partially today. Mysterio was quick to anger, so the spirit had better make it snappy.

He would not hesitate to banish him from their enchanted realm again for a time. Literally forcing the spirit onto the streets into daylight until the next new moon. It had happened a couple of times before. It was not pleasant for a spirit to be ousted from their local realm, but it was not permanent. Only an exhausting and annoying experience.

One that would put a drain on their essence of sorts.

Beck was not one to bluff, either.

That was exactly why even though the Spider bothered him even though he was already on thin ice with the wraith. The Fae had no problem with getting revenge on his enemies but to go after their family and loved ones was too far. It broke one of the most primal rules of love: it punished innocents for no other crime but caring for his enemies. And for this alone it made Mysterio the enemy of the Spider. Good should not be repaid with evil. Love could not be repaid with hatred.

“I want to you know I will protect that woman and her child.” The Spider told him fearlessly, “Even from the worst of your wrath.”

If that was what it would take he would do it. But then again, the Spider would protect Miranda and Francis from everything.

__________

Christ the poor man. It hurt Miranda to see pictures of him looking so defeated. Seeing Mysterio hunt down friends and family did worry her, even if it was a decade ago.

Still she could only imagine what a lack of justice did for the soul. Now he was out there without justice or love. It was rather pitiful.

Okay, game plan: She was going to give Mysterio one chance. She’d protect herself by using the knowledge of his name to do a binding and expulsion spell if he every harmed a single hair on Francis’s head. But other than that she would keep his secret and give Mysterio the benefit of the doubt that she would’ve given Quentin Beck.

That day she gathered materials needed in case he went feral on their daughter and prepared for when they would meet later that evening.

@neomysterio

#neomysterio #((home again!))

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wargod-archive · 5 years

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CANON AU: WAR TALISMAN This is an alternate verse I created as a branch off of Arita’s original canon seen on this blog. It includes many of the same aspects of their original canon but gives Arita a more active role within their own world. (also gives them the chance to be happier than in the ending of their original canon)

There are several deities in the world, born in tandem, together and apart, throughout time. Some are extremely powerful, able to fell foes with a glance. Those great and powerful are compared to Gods. Other deities are simple and barely show any semblance of divinity. And then there are godlings in between, local deities and deities who rule over vast lands and kingdoms. These deities, while born to parents all around, share traits that bind them to being a deity.

1) They are born without limbs and bare a sun insignia on their navel

2) their arms, or ‘branches’ will grow as they grow. It’s always been the average number of branches a deity will have is between two and eight.

3) these branches include red, blue, yellow, orange, purple, green, pink, white, and black. Each color represents an aspect of the deities powers and affinity towards certain abilities.

Deities possess other physical traits as well that often differ from humans. Be it extra features, tails, wings, fur, feathers, eyes, horns, skin texture and pattern, etc. Deities come in all shapes and sizes, personalities, strengths and weaknesses. But as is common knowledge among the deities, the more arms one has, the more powerful they are.

Deities are born at random, spawning when the Gods above will it. It’s general consensus that deities are sent to earth and birthed from humans to protect, lead, and rule over them. To bring harvest during famine, health during plague, and peace during war. This was how it was supposed to be. Most deities are put in place of power. A religious figure besides the human ruler. Other times lesser deities are tasked with keeping the peace within villages and towns. They help with agriculture and caring for the young.

The world in which the deities live, as a whole, is called The Motherland. It is made up of several kingdoms and states in various level of prosper and disrepair. Currently war wages on with several of the states while others sit and watch the conflict continue to cause chaos. Much of the time war subsides and peace falls, but approximately twenty - four years ago war has become increasingly violent and common.

Arita was a deity born very frail and weak. As a child they were sent off to a small monastery with several other deity children to learn of their origins and responsibilities as a deity. At the monastery Arita made several friends and formed a sibling like bond with all the deities there. As Arita grew up with their found family of deities, one by one was each deity deployed elsewhere. Across the motherland deities are taken to preserve humankind. Arita had not been developing nearly as fast as their siblings and was thought to be one of the weaker deities and was told to stay and help the monastery instead. Arita was now in the permanent care of the monks who would teach Arita of their local scriptures, prayers, and typical household chores such as laundering the robes correctly and cooking.

During this time Arita was often visited by their older brother figure, a more powerful deity named Miakako. He was a nature based deity who brings plentiful harvest, can control weather, and shape shifts into various animal forms. Miakako was a laid back, albeit mischievous young deity who took a liking to Arita and would often travel away from their prospective kingdom to keep them company. Arita also made friends with a local kid who would often come out and terrorize the younger deities at the monastery. The youth’s birth name was Addle, but he went through several names during his young years before deciding on a more permanent title. The boy came from a family of outcasts who renounced the Gods for what they described as unfair and unjust treatment. The family was unfortunate, often times plagued with illness and disease that would cause physical deformities as well as genetic medical issues. Due to being unhealthy they were cast far out of the village they once lived in and were forced into solitude. The nameless boy, who had a different name every day, would often come and cause trouble for the monastery, albeit trivial. The deities and monks themselves were the ones to bring the family food and water each day, but still they were bitter. The boy’s parents, as they grew sicker and sicker, slowly began to realize their hatred was ill placed. But now they were bedridden. The boy’s parents passed away when he was young and he was forced to bury them along with his several other relatives. He continued to live within the decrepit shack alone, only venturing out to receive aid from the deities and to reign havoc on them as well.

The boy one day met Arita who was then 14 years old and had only just barely grown two branches. The boy who’s name that day was Trumeur (pronounced ‘tru’ and ‘mure’ as in demure) loomed over Arita with a staggering height. They met in the opening of the woods that bloomed various wild flowers. Trumeur felt something within him on first sight. Not an emotion he ever felt so pure and passionately. Unsure of it’s origin or it’s name, he immediately associated it with hatred. Trumeur hated more than anything, and claimed it was the only thing keeping him alive. Trumeur attacked Arita on sight, although was shocked to find Arita did nothing to fight back or defend themself. After a short one sided scuffle the two of them sat in the grass, muddied and bloodied. Arita seemed entirely unfazed by this altercation which only seemed to make Trumeur increasingly angry. But the two of them shared their own personal stories of why they had ventured out so far from their home. In Trumeur’s case the shack he lived in began to smell of rot and plague so he decided to go to the place that smelled nice. And Arita was feeling awfully down about themself for being such a weak deity that they wanted to be alone in their thoughts. The two of them, holding complete opposite opinions of each other ( Arita finding Trumeur to be pleasant in his own disgruntled way and Trumeur announcing his hatred for Arita both in principle as a deity and in personality ) ended up meeting together an abundance of times during their childhood. Trumeur ended up keeping the name he gave himself that day. And Arita started sprouting more and more branches at a pace unseen.

By 15 years old Arita had five branches of various denominations and powers. This shocked the monks to the point of bringing in a powerful deity by the name of Zauna who was known as seer. She was an elusive travelling deity who’s great power she thought was too dangerous for the likes of mortals so she walked freely on the land unbound to anyone or anything. Zauna met with Arita already knowing of their fate and told the monks that this child is to be protected and cared for with the most esteem. And with that she left. Arita who was now justifiably worried about their own fate and existence as a whole sought out Trumeur for comfort. Trumeur was growing sicker, his body seemed to be decaying from the inside out but still he states he lives out of spite. Arita expressed to him that they were worried and scared, that the implication that someone or something would come and get them was terrifying. Trumeur listened to their fears then shooed them away out of his home.

A few days later Miakako arrived to see Arita after hearing news of their sudden development. Miakako was also incredibly shocked by what’s been happening with Arita and decided to stay with them for the time being to boost their defences against whatever it is that they needed to be protected from. Miakako was also contacted by Trumeur who asked them to teach him how to fight. Miakako did have a good amount of knowledge in martial arts and with various weapons at a rudimentary level but found it odd that this boy was so adamant on learning. But being as he was, Miakako agreed and began to proctor Trumeur for the next few years.

It was at the age of 17 did Arita bloom nine branches. Nine arms, the absolute max number of arms that were thought those were able to have was eight. Arita has gained a staggering amount of unbridled power in an extremely short amount of time causing the monks to panic as well as other deities to become worried, fearful and even jealous. Arita displayed this volatile energy in destructive ways, unintentionally, but still chaos began to brew within the small village which they were housed. Because of Arita’s powers coming into itself so quickly, Arita was locked away in a large stone shrine where they would be sealed up for the time being. Arita was given food and water through a slit in the stone, the only opening to the sunlight and outside world. Being just as frightened as those around them Arita did not complain. They thought this was best, the monks know what they’re doing, it’s to protect them and me. Simultaneously during Arita’s turmoil, war was brewing outside in the larger city states of the Motherland.

Arita stayed in the shrine for about 6 months before sneaking out with Miakako’s help. Trumeur, who seemed to be growing stronger and healthier the past months was suddenly brought down by an illness said to be an infection by Diem, the devil figure within The Motherland’s broad religion. The illness was killing Trumeur quickly, an illness that seems to only kill those with a weak heart and will. In Arita’s absence Trumeur had taken up fighting as a means to protect Arita from whatever it was that was going to take them but never did they admit that. Their weakness was shown in their inability to admit their faults, their feelings, and be truthful. Arita met with Trumeur as he lays dying, not believing that Trumeur could be affected by the devil’s infection like this. Arita, wanting to be able to save someone with their powers decided to counteract the devil’s influence with their own. Arita lends Trumeur their power dwelling within the ‘extra branch’ the black branch that’s misconception is that it’s an evil and sinful branch. Infusing Trumeur with that divine power as well as giving him a ‘will’. Trumeur had always said they live out of hatred and spite, that their anger fuels them, so Arita made a doctrine that bound Trumeur to continue living. “As long as I you hate me you will live, and as long as I live you will live”

It was within that spell Trumeur became a sort of pseudo deity, infused with divine power but being human born. Trumeur fell unconscious after the binding and that was when their location was stormed by soldiers.

Name of a war god has been tossed down to the world of conflict, causing chaos in ignorance. A city state currently at war with another were in dire straits. Their own deity who watched over them with blind eyes that could only see vague imprints of the God’s will saw the birth, death, and rebirth of a deity. This deity would be a world destroyer, soul devouring, monstrous entity. That is what this oracle saw and they instructed their army to retrieve this deity from the woodlands of a remote village monastery.

Arita was kidnapped, Miakako unable to fend off the vast number of soldiers who came to abduct their friend. Arita pleaded to Miakako within the panic to take Trumeur and escape with him, to keep him safe. Miakako begrudgingly did so, fleeing the scene as a large white wolf, holding the unconscious boy in their maw.

Arita was taken to their capital and interrogated endlessly and mercilessly. Undergoing physical and mental torture in order to get some intel, some sort of power surge out of the deity but to no avail. Arita did not fight back. Arita was in their captors grasp for 3 weeks before the next large scale battle was to be fought. This battle would be pivotal for the city state if they were to win but the opposing side had several powerful deities in their ranks, while they had an oracle and Arita. The oracle, who only spoke when seemingly possessed by visions and words of Gods or by Deim told their rulers that they should use Arita as a talisman. A good luck charm given power by prayer and brought with them into battle. And then they would win.

Arita, who had no qualms with doing so was brought into the battlefield, fitted with ceremonial garb and ridden into the warfare on the back of a horse with the general. While there were a great number of casualties and those pronounced missing in action, the oracle’s faction did win the battle and several consecutive battles there after. Arita was a living war talisman. The more prayers and offerings they received the higher chance of victory. News spread of Arita, a deity so powerful and yet so submissive to their subjugation and situation. A pacifist who watches war apathetically, tossed around, kidnapped, used as a trading piece in negotiations. Seen as both a deity and a thing, since Arita’s birth peace was never known fully again.

All the deities across the Motherland had their own opinions of Arita. Some loathed the deity for causing such turmoil, death, famine and plague. The chaos Arita caused with their mere existence could not be forgiven. Others pitied Arita for their tragic upbringing, felt sorry that they were fated to be such an awful tool. Deities felt no way towards Arita, deities who had met Arita and spoken with Arita often times liked Arita quite a bit, and those who had only heard stories could only form their opinions from that. But Arita, despite their war torn life remained fairly chipper in the company of those they were fond of. In each place Arita found those to connect with, whether it be their retainer or a maid or the children within the palace. Arita, most notably, loved with a full heart. Cruelties seemed to have no affect on them. No matter the abuse they could smile wide and genuine. But deep in their heart they were tired, they were straining to find happiness in the smallest of light before it flickered out.

Around the age of 22 now Arita is completely used to war strategies, negotiation meetings, going into battle and walking out with opposing side. They had learned healing magic in the meantime in order to restore mass wounded as well as heal disease along the way. Their life was violent but they were not.

During the five years after Arita’s initial kidnapping Miakako was travelling with Trumeur who was getting used to his power. Trumeur could now materialize several arms consisting of a black matter akin to an animated slime like material with the sheen of metal. Physically he has undergone some changes as well. He has the distinct scent of smoke about him, smoke and ashes. His hair is long and black but when faced with an intense emotion it becomes inflamed. His face has black tattoo like patterns across it, which he calls ‘war paint’ that changes pattern with his general mood. Ability wise he is able to conjure the undead masses, necromancy as well as summon his own ‘war dogs’ which are entities forged from the same material as his arms and are semi-sentient. Trumeur, as dictated by Arita, continued to live and is powered by hatred and hatred alone. But in order to continue living he must find Arita and protect them because “There is no point in hating something that is dead.”

Trumeur enlisted in the opposing military from Arita’s current homestead. During the first battle he rode into he immediately summoned the undead and overpowered the enemies in one wave. Attacking the calvary that was tasked to protect Arita during the battle he grabbed the deity and hoisted them up and made his escape with them. Returning to the monarch who held his current loyalties he announced that wherever Arita was to go he would follow. Trumeur was named a warlord and a threat to the Motherland. He was dangerous, volatile and held powers that did not belong to him. Word of this pseudo deity spread across the land and he was generally hated by all, mortal and deity. Because of his affiliation with Arita, the opinions of Arita shifted to a more negative light. Nobody knew exactly why or how Trumeur had any connection to Arita but Arita was more than happy to explain to anyone who asked.

Both Arita and Trumeur are now 24 years old, with possibly an eternity ahead of them. Miakako is also in the frey, drifting in and out of their life primarily checking on their health and happiness. Trumeur has mellowed out slightly since being reunited Arita but still retains a grumpy and pessimistic exterior. They are still ones of war, cause war, stop wars, and start wars again. With Trumeur’s presence and intimidating air those who are thirsty for power and desire Arita’s divinity have backed off more or less and the warring states have been on the downward spiral. Peace is slowly becoming more common but still there will be conflict as long as Arita is alive. Dimensions begin to collide, the deities as a whole are radiating so much divine power in one place that other planes of existence are starting to feel it.

Tl;dr: Basically, in this verse Arita is a sort of ‘living war talisman’ who brings about war as well as higher probability of winning a battle. They were kidnapped from their monastery in their teenage years after saving the life of a boy named Trumeur, granting him divine powers making him a pseudo deity. Arita has since then travelled the world with various countries and city states, on and off the battlefield, in political meetings and in strategy rooms. They still love with their whole heart but have become jaded from their life of constant turmoil, and knowing they are the one causing it. The only reason they stay alive is because Trumeur is out there still living for their sake, and living because they are alive. To take away their will would mean he would die as well. The two of them are reunited however and travel the land together as peace begins to fill their homeland once more. There is a high concentration of divine power radiating from their world that has travels past the bounds of their own dimension, seeping into others.

Trivia:

Trumeur is a trans man. He’s 7’2”, very muscular and covered from head to toe in scars from numerous battles. He chooses not to heal his scars although he is capable of doing so. He believes each scar he has is a sign of strength in some way shape or form. His motifs are insects, usually beetles and scorpions. Image.

Miakako is Arita’s older brother figure and Trumeur’s mentor. He’s around 30 years old currently and a free spirit who cares greatly about those two. He’s laid back, mischievous, and while he seems to have loose values he’s steadfast in his beliefs and doesn’t waver when it comes to his friends and family. He’s a nature deity, has the ability to shapeshift into various animals. When he does so the animal of choice is white with golden eyes.

There are several deities within this verse ranging from nearly god like to minor godlings. All the original deities share a bond similar to a familial relationship. They are all siblings. The exception being Trumeur who was born human and given deity powers by Arita to save his life.

The Motherland refers to the entire world in this context and the entire world shares the same basic religion but with varying denominations based on local beliefs and creation myths. Similar to Christianity and its various denominations.

#░░☾ war talisman; canon au 1 ☆#░░☾ a creation of the gods; for mortals to play; they will soon ascend; let their truths be heard ☆#ITS DONE ish #long post //

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cjwallflower · 6 years

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Philip’s duel

Word Count: 2514 words

Genre: Angst

Warnings: TW, death, blood, swearing

Philip sighed as he looked up at the overcast sky. It was a boring day, but he knew tomorrow would be better. He was planning on proposing to his long term girlfriend, Theodosia Burr Alston, after 3 years. Philip smiled as he felt the small box in his pocket, but his smile dropped when he heard his father’s name. He turned to see a man he vaguely knew as George Eacker up on a parapet, preaching to a crowd, and abusing his father’s name. Philip grew angry and stormed over.

“Hey! What are you saying about my father?!” he yelled, silencing the crowd and even the man who’d been slandering his father’s name.

But the corners of Eacker’s lips turned up into an amused and all the more aggravating smirk. “Your... father?” he asked, placing a hand on his hip and sneering at the shorter boy, who glared more.

“Yeah. What. Did you say. About. My. Father?!” Philip growled through gritted teeth.

Eacker suddenly burst out laughing, as did a few others. “You’re telling me, that you’re the son of that cowardly, good for nothing piece of shit who doesn’t deserve to live?!” he asked, wheezing.

Philip’s eyes were ablaze, and he only saw red as he punched Eacker square in the jaw. The whole crowd went silent. “Why don’t you put your money where your mouth is, then?” he growled lowly, and Eacker glared.

“Let’s talk over there” he said, and dragged Philip away from the crowd.

Philip would’ve usually been intimidated by that gesture, but he was too fuelled by anger. He growled up at Eacker, whose jaw was now bruising. “You. Me. Tomorrow at dawn. For a duel of gentlemen” he said through bared teeth, but was more infuriated when Eacker had that same shit eating smirk on his face and nodded. Furious, he glared hotly at Eacker, and pushed past him, going home. He had a duel to prepare for.

The door to Alexander’s study slammed open. The aforementioned man looked up from where he was grading tests, and was concerned when he saw his son with a murderously angry look in his eyes.

Philip only uttered three words as he met Alexander’s eyes. “Where’s the guns?”

Alexander’s eyes widened and he shook his head, as if awakening from a dream. “What?” he asked softly, and flinched as Philip got more angry.

“Where. Are. The. Guns?”

Alexander realised he’d heard his son correctly and started to shake a little, honestly terrified. He pointed to a safe in the wall. “I-In the s-safe..” he managed out as his son advanced to the safe. “Ph-Philip, wh-what’s going o-on?”

Philip spun the lock, glaring at it. “A man named George Eacker was smacking you around in the streets. I challenged him to a duel.” he cocked a gun, clicking it into safety. “And I’m not going to lose.”

Alexander’s mouth fell agape and he stood up. “What?! No! You-“ he tried to reason with his son, but Philip definitely wouldn’t let up on this one. “Just because someone says something bad about me doesn't me-“

Philip cut him off by meeting his eyes. Tears of anger were streaming down his face. “No! He went too far dad, I’m not gonna let it slide!” he exclaimed, making his father flinch again. This was scarily unlike the Philip Alexander had known for 19 years.

A beat of silence resonated between the two as they stared into each other's eyes.

In Alexander's eyes, there was fear. People often died in duels if shot in a really bad area, and Philip was only 19. He didn't have training, and though he was definitely smart enough to figure it out, Philip didn't even know how to fire the gun. But then he read the look in Philip's eyes, and tears welled in his own.

Philip's eyes had so many different emotions in them. First, foremost, and most prominent was anger. He wasn't angry at his father for trying to stop him, but he was too angry at Eacker to be stopped. Secondly, spite. This one was subtle, almost nonexistent, as Philip was never spiteful. The only reason Alexander recognised it was because that look was no stranger to Alexander's own iris, and he suddenly knew how it felt to be on the other side of that terrifying gaze. Finally, there was a flicker of fear, and Alexander realised that Philip didn't want to duel Eacker, but he wasn't going to let anyone hurt his father's name. Not whilst he was alive, that is. Alexander came to the realisation that he couldn't stop Philip no matter how much he wanted to, no matter how hard he tried, and pleaded, and reasoned with his son. Philip was going out to those duelling grounds, and not even God Himself could stop him.

Alexander sighed, hugging Philip tightly. "Take my guns, be smart" he warned.

Philip hugged back, bearing a smile. "I'll make you proud, Pops."

"You always do."

The next day, Philip awoke before the sun peeked over the horizon. He contemplated resuming his previous sleeping state, but as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he sat up. The barrel of his father's pistol glimmered in the moonlight.

Philip got up with a soft sigh, looking in the mirror and smoothing down his wild curls and looking in the mirror as he got dressed. He slipped the small velvet box into his pocket, thinking to himself, 'I'm going to win this duel for the Hamilton name. I may as well if I'm going to bring another person into it'.

Philip pulled on his jacket, looking around and making sure he hadn't woken anyone up. He stopped in front of his parents' room, looking at them cuddling and sleeping peacefully. He smiled softly, sighing silently. "I'll make you proud, Pops. I love you, Mom. I'll see you after the duel" he whispered in the silence, and set off into the cold November dawn.

Eacker and his friend were there when Philip arrived with his friend and a doctor that both friends knew. George looked nervous in his eyes, but he still had that cocky grin on his face that made Philip's blood boil over. Despite his apparent anger, he attempted to be cordial with the man he'd soon shoot. "Mr. Eacker! How was the rest of your evening?" he asked, but glared when his attempted kindness was spat to the ground.

"I'd rather skip the pleasantries, let's go" Eacker growled.

"Fine by me."

Philip sighed as the pistols were mixed around and given to the men. Philip's friend looked at him. "Philip, can we just call this off?" he whispered lowly, but Philip didn't budge.

"Under no circumstances do you let him win this argument, got it?" Philip asked, and his friend sighed, approaching Eacker's friend.

As the two tried to negotiate, Eacker and Philip glared into each other's eyes. George was a little unsettled by the look of hatred, malice, and pure, unbridled rage in Philip's eyes, but George stood his ground like a man. In reality, Philip was more scared than Eacker, but his father had taught him the basics that he needed to know in order to win this battle. Both friends came back with the news that there would be no peace, and they were clear to duel. Philip took a deep breath as the men started counting to ten.

One.

Philip passed Eacker as they both took their first step. He closed his eyes, thinking about the advice his father gave him. 'Look him in the eye, aim no higher. Summon all the courage you require. Then slowly and clearly aim your gun towards the sky' Alexander's voice rang in his head.

Two.

Philip thought of said father, and how proud he'd be when he came home with his head held high. He'd pat Philip on the back, and tell him he did a good job. His father was already proud of him, but this would validate it even more. He smiled to himself. "I'll make you proud, Pops" he whispered.

Three.

Philip's mind flashed to his mother. She was already feeling down because of recent events. Most prominent of those events was grieving over the loss of her father, whom Philip was named for. A brief spot of doubt flashed in his mind. 'What if I end up dying in this duel?' he asked himself, but straightened up, nearly slapping himself. 'No. I'll come home for breakfast, and she'll cry with pride. I'm not gonna leave her.'

Four.

Philip then thought of all his younger siblings. He was the eldest, and when they needed someone to fight the monsters under the bed, he was always there. He was their brave soul who cradled them when they couldn't sleep, and sung them lullabies and told amazing stories during dinner. They all looked up to him, and he knew he'd live to protect them another day.

Five.

Philip thought about Aaron Burr, his girlfriend's father. Burr never liked him, and just tolerated his father. Philip was constantly threatened by Burr, and once almost lost his life due to a misunderstanding where Theo Jr had been crying over a book where an innocent's life had been taken, and Burr had thought Philip had hurt her. If he saw that Philip could hold his own, and defend against opposition, maybe he'd finally have Burr's stamp of approval. In that case, he had to make Burr proud, too.

Six.

Philip saw Theo Jr in his mind. The wind blowing her beautiful curls, the sun kissing her beautiful soft skin, her brown eyes sparkling in the sunset. He imagined her face when the moment came for him to get down on one knee. As he raised his gun to shoot to the air, he smiled. 'I have people to live for. I'm gonna win this. I'll make them all proud, and later, I'll propose to Theo, and it's gonna be so perfect. I love you so much, Theo'

Seven.

Eacker turned around and fired his gun.

Everything seemed to stop, the world stopped turning. The men stopped counting, the duelers stopped pacing, and Philip stopped thinking. Philip felt the bullet fly into side and get stuck in his right arm. He shakily looked down at the bullet wound, the blood oozing out, and he collapsed to the ground, quickly losing consciousness as the doctor rushed to his side.

The phone at the Hamilton household rang loudly, as Aaron Burr and his small family of three sat with Alexander in his living room, having tea. Eliza was still sleeping, so Alexander answered quickly before it woke his wife up.

"Hello, is this Alexander Hamilton?" asked a soft female voice. Alexander was uneasy.

"Yes, may I ask who's calling?"

“This is the receptionist at Orlando Hospital. I’m calling in regards to your son, Philip Hamilton. He has you listed as his emergency contact”

Remembering Philip had gone dueling, Alexander's eyes widened. "What's happened to Philip?"

The receptionist's next words felt like a spear had pierced his heart.

“He’s been shot in the side. We think it may be fatal”

Alexander dropped the phone in shock. Hearing the noise, Aaron looked over into the kitchen. "Alex? Alex, are you alright?" he asked gently.

Alexander turned to them, trembling with wide eyes that were welling with tears. "Ph-Philip's been.. shot.." he managed out.

Aaron's eyes widened and he jumped to his feet. "What?!" he asked. Theo Jr covered her mouth in shock, getting to her feet as well, tears pouring down her face. Aaron quickly pulled her and Alexander to his car to drive to the hospital.

As they approached the hospital, Theo tried desperately to wipe her tears, and she only had one thought on her mind.

'Stay Alive, Philip...'

The trio rushed into the waiting room, two of the three crying desperately. Alexander saw the doctor that had been at Philip's side at the time of the duel. Holding back a sob, Alexander rushed forward to see the doctor.

"Where's my son?!" he asked, gripping the doctor's shoulders. "Where the fuck is my son?!"

The doctor flinched, but recognised Alexander. "Mr. Hamilton, come in, they brought him in half an hour ago, he lost a lot of blood on the way over.

Theo ran over and joined them. "Is he alive?!" she cried desperately.

The doctor hesitated. “Yes, hes alive, but you have to understand, the bullet entered just above his hip and lodged in his right arm-“

Aaron cut him off, holding his daughter tightly. "We need to see him. Now."

The doctor led the three to Philip's room. "I’m doing everything I can, but the wound was already infected when he arrived" he said.

Theo sobbed into her father's chest. "Will he stay alive?!" she asked, but the doctor didn't answer her. If it weren't for Aaron holding her up, she'd have collapsed by now. It didn't help seeing Philip's blood splattered across the doctor's uniform.

They entered the room to see Philip in the hospital bed, festering and weak. He had a thin stream of blood leaking from his mouth, and his hands and clothes were drenched in his own blood, a terrifying sight to see. What was most unsettling was how leaking through the bandages was more blood, accompanied with a strange yellow colour. Theo cried and rushed to his side, holding his bloodstained hand. Philip's hazel eyes weakly opened. As he tried to talk, he choked out even more blood. He finally managed one word that broke Theo's heart when she heard his normally soft, cheerful voice now breaking as he lie on the brink of death.

"H...Hey..."

Theo sobbed harder, her heart clenching as she stared at him. Philip managed a weak, bloody smile, and he squeezed her hand, wincing in pain. Theo cupped his face gently, tears clouding her vision. "O-Oh... O-Oh dear god, Ph-Philip... Philip why..?" she asked softly, her heart aching as she stared at her dying boyfriend.

Philip's smile only widened painfully. “I-I showed h-him.. u-us H-Hamiltons.. w-we aren’t w-weak..w-we...aren't..c-cowards...” he whispered, closing his eyes.

Theo's eyes widened and she started sobbing. "Ph-Philip! No, don't go yet!" she cried.

Thankfully, Philip’s eyes opened a little. “I-I’m... still... h-here...” he croaked, coughing up more blood. Theo smiled softly at him, trying to stay calm. She couldn't control the flow of tears streaming down her face however.

Suddenly, the door burst open again. There, shaking and sobbing, was Eliza. “Philip!” she cried, hugging him tightly. Philip hugged back. “Wh-what happened? Wh-who shot you???” she sobbed.

“I-I.. got i-into a d-duel.. a m-man.. talked.. b-bad about.. P-Pops..” he managed out.

"M-Mom, I love you.." he wheezed weakly, and the room felt a bit brighter. He felt weaker. Lighter.

His pulse slowed to a stop, and the room was filled with sobbing.

#this was supposed to be short #my hand slipped #this is my first story #be gentle #philip hamilton #theodosia jr #george eacker #hamilton

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izanyas · 7 years

Note

7 or 10 for shizaya? also: the way you write izaya is a+++, tbh it's one of the most in character portrayals in the fandom

thank you

10. pinning the other against a wall

warning for vague asphyxiation kink, for izaya being really messed up about sex in general & especially the concept of being treated nicely during it

-–

Izaya prided himself for honesty toward himself regardless of his one (two) glaring exception, but he didn’t think he would ever be ready for the truth of why, exactly, he was being so reckless.

Maybe it had to do with boredom, he thought fleetingly. Maybe it had to do with unspent energy, maybe it was just that bothering Shizuo to the point of blind anger had always been one of his favorite pastimes. That must be it.

Still. He had no preparations for Shizuo actually catching him.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” was the first savage declaration, and Izaya would have found it pathetically predictable were it not for his windpipe crushed under Shizuo’s palm, his nape stuck against a solid wall.

He grinned despite the bright pain in his lungs. They burned from the chase and they burned from not being allowed to expand fully, to repair the damage that effort had done.

Shizuo wasn’t even out of breath. If his voice was thin, his eyes blown open and his face red, it was all from fury.

“Congratulations,” Izaya wheezed.

“Shut up.”

“Surely you wouldn’t waste your victory with my silence—”

The hand at Izaya’s neck tightened, not warning but execution, and Izaya’s mind went blissfully empty, his body hollowed and his tension snapping apart, and.

And.

That was a bad thing. Not unexpected, considering the last time someone had a hand wrapped around his neck, but he thought for sure Shizuo would act as a deterrent to any sort of pleasure. His own hands had shot up to grab Shizuo’s wrist and uselessly try to pull it away.

“I’ve been waiting for this for a long fucking time,” Shizuo said, unaware of the heat that crackled up Izaya’s spine the second his grip relaxed. He didn’t even notice that he was bleeding, out of every sharp cut that Izaya’s nails had drawn in his skin. “What am I gonna do with you now, pest?”

He was still pinning Izaya’s entire weight to the wall with only a wrist. He didn’t even need to apply any visible effort. Izaya’s mind processed this in slow bursts, as if dragging itself through mud.

He managed a smile.

“What indeed,” he replied pleasantly. That his voice came rough and painful was of no consequence now; Shizuo would not show mercy, of this he was sure. “Do I get a phone call?”

“Who the fuck would you call?”

No one, Izaya thought. “The police,” he answered, lips stretched painfully. “I always did say you belong in a cage.”

Izaya thought about his options in the time it took for Shizuo to understand the insult. He watched Shizuo’s lips curl back over his teeth and considered the advantages of drawing a knife now, eyed the thick darkness surrounding them and thought of the off-chance anyone would walk by if he screamed who would be willing to call for help; and Shizuo chose this moment to step closer, until Izaya felt all the cold winter around him dissipate out of sheer proximity and Shizuo’s own body warmth find resonance in himself. Shizuo wasn’t, apparently, exception enough that Izaya would misname the heat tightening low in his belly.

“Do you want to stretch the moment, then?” he asked, to gain time and to distract himself. “Never took you for the kind to play with your food, but I guess I can accommodate you this time. I promise I’ll scream if you hit hard enough.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Well, think fast. I haven’t got all night.”

Shizuo didn’t answer. His calm breath washed over Izaya’s face warmly. It didn’t even smell bad—it never did—but Izaya found himself holding his anyway, too aware of the fact that Shizuo would be able to feel the ever fastened beat of his heart under his palm. He would feel him swallow, if Izaya allowed it.

He didn’t.

“Why are you here, Izaya?” Shizuo asked quietly.

Izaya wished he had a truth to tell about this that didn’t make him want to vanish into thin air.

“Vast question,” he answered. “My mother loves my father very much, you see, and when two adults—” he choked when Shizuo’s hold tightened warningly, unable to stop himself from laughing. “Sensitive, are we,” he rasped. “I thought only teenagers had this sort of knee-jerk reaction to mentioning sex.”

Izaya expected Shizuo to flinch with childish embarrassment, to betray the same shame that had shaken him when they were still young and Izaya brought up the topic, but he didn’t. His gaze stayed unwavering.

“Or,” Izaya said, “maybe you have grown a bit. Who in their right mind allowed you to touch them, Shizu-chan?”

There was the outrage—Shizuo’s lips curled again in a snarl that would have warranted a grown were he truly an animal, and he said, “Shut the fuck up.”

“This is amazingly, frankly. I always thought you’d die a virgin.”

“Yeah?” Shizuo cut in, pressing even closer. Izaya’s words died on his tongue. “You think about that often, Izaya?”

Izaya stilled.

In all the years they had known each other, through all the fights and chases, that was the one thing he had never done. He wasn’t foolish enough not to notice that he refused himself these insinuations either—and he couldn’t tell, wouldn’t tell, if he refused them out of self-preservation or simply because there was something very pure, very wholesome about the untainted hatred Shizuo held for him.

Izaya’s own hatred wasn’t so unsoiled. He had never allowed himself to communicate any of it, he knew that. He had made sure of that.

He felt anger, now, unbridled and almost shaking. It crawled up the pressurized space of his throat and sank nail-first into his head. It made it very easy to fall into a relaxed slouch against the wall of the alley, in spite of the hand holding him by the neck, thanks to the hand holding him by the neck.

Shizuo had no idea what he was getting himself into. He would regret this more than he would regret allowing Izaya to flee.

“Should I?” Izaya said softly. “Do you like that idea, Shizu-chan?”

Shizuo’s face lightened with his confusion. Izaya took that lapse of time to raise a hand again, and he smiled at the immediate wariness Shizuo showed, even though he was holding no blade. His fingers came to rest around Shizuo’s wrist again, much more loosely than before.

“If I told you that I have thought about you having sex before,” Izaya went on, “I wonder what you’d do?”

“Stop fucking lying,” Shizuo growled predictably.

Izaya’s laughter was smoother now, lower than its usual pitch. The kind of laughter he reserved for other nightly activities. “I’m not lying,” he said. “I always wondered if there people suicidal enough to want to bed you.”

“You’re suicidal enough to want to piss me off.”

“I am, indeed. Does that make me fit your criteria for a partner?”

“What are you doing,” Shizuo breathed.

Izaya smiled thinly, gently. Eyes lidded over and body relaxed in the grip of the beast.

He had been in this position too many times, with too many people, to be afraid of it—and that was what Shizuo, in his holy anger, would have no inkling of.

“Is that what you want, Shizuo?” Izaya let Shizuo’s name stretch in his mouth like warmed caramel, not thinking of the line he was toeing, not thinking of the catch in Shizuo’s breath, looking for the anger and disgust he wanted. His thumb stroked the inside of Shizuo’s wrist, right over the ridges of his veins. He would cut through them one day, he knew. “You’re making this last so long,” he said in no more than a whisper. “You’ve caught me, after all these years—do you expect a reward? I’ll give it to you.”

Shizuo stared at him, stricken. He looked almost numb with surprise.

“You can’t want this,” he replied eventually. “You’re... you’re messing with me.”

Having Shizuo think things this way—Izaya not wanting it, when it was the other way around—was the sort of exhilaration found at the edge of a rooftop. Izaya, when he breathed, felt nothing short of drunk.

“Try me,” he said.

And he waited for the rage, for the bone-deep revulsion that this one too many drop would renew; he waited for Shizuo’s hand to tighten around his neck and finally cut the breath out of him until he dripped out of consciousness with vicious glee on his tongue, with unbearable heat in his loins; he mourned for Shizuo’s unspoiled hatred that he would never meet again, now that he had tainted it.

Instead, Shizuo kissed him.

Izaya didn’t close his eyes. He didn’t move at all. He stood, swept clean of every thought, as Shizuo’s warm lips pressed onto his in the dark of this rundown alley, out of light and out of sight.

He felt his mouth accommodate Shizuo’s almost automatically despite the stillness that had taken him body and mind—and Shizuo was slow, tentative, not at all what he had sometimes imagined in flickers of unwanted (wanted) dreams, a soft and inexorable presence, from the breadth of his shoulders and to the closeness of his hips. Because Izaya was kissing back, he didn’t stop. Because Izaya took in a shaky breath, because Izaya opened his mouth to him, the hand around his neck turned bracing, fitting itself to the side and stroking shivers through his skin.

Izaya’s own hand slid from Shizuo’s wrist to rest at his elbow, when Shizuo’s fingers dragged upward to catch the back of his head, to tread through his damp hair. Izaya’s blinks turned slower, turned longer; eventually he didn’t blink at all, eyes closed through the rolling heat, answering every flick of Shizuo’s tongue, and—Shizuo wasn’t supposed to kiss so well, he was never supposed to kiss at all, certainly not as if Izaya was something he ever wanted to hold this tenderly.

Izaya was never supposed to enjoy this. He was never supposed to moan faintly into it as he did then, never supposed to arch his neck into the curve of Shizuo’s hand to better respond to him.

Shizuo should be crushing the air out of him with his hands. He should be biting him until he bled. He should be pinning him to the wall until Izaya had no choice but to struggle free for fear of—

Shizuo’s other hand came to rest at Izaya’s hip, gentle, and Izaya realized that he had never felt more trapped than he did in that man’s loose embrace. He opened his mouth when Shizuo pulled away, and found that he couldn’t speak at all. Shizuo’s lips trailed down the side of his face and came to rest at his neck. He kissed there wetly, all of his body aligned with Izaya’s, scorching heat everywhere they touched, and Izaya... Izaya couldn’t breathe.

His heart was beating at the roof of his mouth. His throat constricted until no air went through. Shizuo stilled against him.

“Izaya?” he asked, lifting his head.

Whatever he saw on Izaya’s face made him let go as if he were holding hot coal.

“Izaya—fuck, I thought—”

“Get off me,” Izaya said.

Shizuo stepped away almost before he was finished speaking.

In a way, this was hilarious. Shizuo had spent so long trying to catch him, and now that he had him, he was giving him a wide opening to leave. Izaya thought he would have found the strength to laugh if he weren’t hyperventilating.

His fingers slipped on the handle of his knife when he took it out of his pocket. He brandished it shakily, not raised nearly high enough, and yet Shizuo said nothing. He didn’t approach, he didn’t grow defensive. Izaya didn’t look at his face.

He stayed like this until his breathing quieted. Shizuo didn’t try to move in any way.

“Let’s call tonight a draw,” Izaya said, once he was reasonably sure his voice wouldn’t break.

“A dr—what the fuck?”

“I admit that I hate to lose, but—”

“Izaya,” Shizuo cut in. He sounded angry again, which was reassuring. More reassuring than the way he had said Izaya’s name a few minutes ago. “I thought you said...”

Izaya tried to meet his eyes and failed. “I’d really like to go home,” he made himself say, staring somewhere under his chin. “If you don’t mind.”

Silence hovered for a second.

“Yeah,” Shizuo replied, more subdued than Izaya had ever heard him. “Yeah, sure. Okay.”

He said nothing at all while Izaya stepped backward, all the way to the opening of the street. He didn’t try to follow him. The last Izaya saw of him was that strangely mournful face, too close to an apology for him to understand at all.

He felt the imprint of his kiss for hours more.

#godscape #answered #durarara!!#shizaya #tumblr fic

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words-for-alice · 4 years

Text

3:57

4:68

5:08

2468

3579

Lying here, watching the time and fixating on numbers feels just like I'm in the ward again.

I had nothing to look forwards to upon waking up, then.

I'm never going to get that place out of my head. It feels like I'm never going to forget it.

I could perfectly reconstruct it all, given the chance.

It's always going to be a part of me. Those smooth white walls, soft furniture, fixed & rigid lunch chairs.

They served the most plain & flavourless scrambled eggs. They felt like MRE's.

The first time I was there, I ate a surplus of the saltine crackers. I can't see lunch trays the same again.

This blanket feels as thin as the one that was in my room. There were many light switches in there.

I remember carrying my sketching pad, bringing on top of it my CD player + headphones. Those were invaluable.

Unsurprisingly, the people I was sorted with forced a sort of violent disagreement inside my brain just about daily. They were quite loud, put on the trashiest pop music and whistled frequently.

It makes me think about the way I snapped. Like it might've been a form of revenge.

Was I... He? Was I pretending to befriend them? It was as though I had just flicked a switch to become social. It didn't feel genuine. Like I was.. Stringing them along, somehow. But I didn't know what I was doing. It was my unconscious doing it all.

I found myself speaking those words without knowing why. Feeling empty inside.

What if it was out of hatred? Of the audacity for one of them to even address my existence, after all that silent torture? I think I felt anger.

I'm currently displaying Daisy-esque tendencies, but that's more of a sidenote.

I was being guided by a hand of hate without even knowing. I felt not interest, but a black thing form. It felt as though they weren't friends at all.

How much of it all did that unconscious plan?

Was it all in hate? Was there a shred of purity, or was it all to prime that betrayal? That forced laughter, absolutely dripping with fucking malice?

Was that forced, choked cackling a reveal of some kind? A reveal of just how much I hated everyone in the room?

When I quietly caused that conflict to explode before I laughed, did my unconscious plan that? There was a slight smile to my words when I twisted the key. Was that real? Did I truly expect that all to happen?

How could my brain be so poisoned? It felt like a personal justice.

That laughter must've been the product of a decades' worth of silent torture. All that time I grit my teeth to my brain being split apart by the whistles and sound. It must've cultivated in that one moment of pure, unbridled spite.

What's scary is those noises hurt me less ever since.

All of this happens without my realising. It seems only in hindsight do I realise what was under the puppet's mouth.

0 notes

classpect-crew · 7 years

Note

holy shit.. your blog is awesome. can you do bard of rage for me?

Thanks so much! I’ve been in and out of hiatus because of working full-time (and honestly not having much motivation sometimes) but I’m trying my best to get back into the swing of things whenever I can. I really do love analyzing Classpects, after all!

Now, as for the Bard of Rage, a lot of inspiration can be drawn from our canon example, Gamzee Makara, though it should be noted that a person’s unique personality, culture, and session will have a very large effect on what their title means for them. Keep in mind that while some titles are given to go along with a person’s natural strengths, sometimes their titles are meant to challenge them and inspire large amounts of personal growth.

With that in mind, I’ll summarize the Bard of Rage: they are responsible both for destroying Rage, and for destroying through Rage. In contrast to Maids, who directly create their Aspect, or Sylphs, who support their Aspect’s growth, Princes and Bards are responsible for their Aspect’s destruction. It all balances out, just like in other Class pairs. It’s almost as if the universe itself demands such balance, because too much or too little of an Aspect can be detrimental to the universe as a whole. In canon, we observe Gamzee living up to his title on many occasions. At first, he appears very relaxed and easygoing, constantly trying to open up the minds of his friends to the existence of miracles. In this way, he destroys Rage, both in a literal sense and also on a deeper level. It’s important to note that when one Aspect is destroyed, its opposite--on some level--is created in the process. This is particularly noticeable in the case of Princes and Bards, but it’s also true of Maids and Sylphs, who destroy their opposite Aspect indirectly by creating their own. By destroying Rage, which can represent closed-mindedness, limited options, and stubborn pessimism, it allows the growth of Hope, symbolizing open-mindedness, a wide variety of possibilities, and determined optimism. Gamzee’s early behavior fits in quite neatly with these qualities, but it becomes clear later on that the Bard of Rage has another very different way of living up to his title.

When Gamzee finally goes berserk, he switches from destroying his Aspect and swings toward destroying through it instead. He sees only one course of action during much of this period, although his motivations can also seem rather capricious at times. No doubt this is in part due to his subservience to Rage itself--the Bard is a Passive Class, after all, and thus he acts based on the whims of a very, very dangerous Aspect. To hear the call of pure, unbridled Rage, after all, is not something everyone can cope with. Rage as an Aspect is primal and animalistic, driven not by hunger but by fury. It eats away at childlike innocence and leaves only spite and hatred in its path. It speaks not in whispers, but in tortured screams and guttural growls. It’s represented in the power to barrel through a brick wall that dares to call itself an obstacle in the Hero’s path. It is extremely powerful and utterly terrifying, particularly if one must call Rage their master instead of the other way around. Any Bard of Rage who’s going to survive their test of Rage is going to need a strong mind as well as a vigilant group of allies to keep them grounded in reality.

As a Class often referred to as a “wild card”, the Bard is one of the more mysterious Classes when it comes to their exact abilities, which are further obscured by the fact that we only see two Bards in canon, one of which is a Dancestor who gives no insight into combat tactics whatsoever. Still, one can see the Bard of Rage as a servant of their Aspect at times, while also paradoxically seeming to be a force opposed to it. They’ll likely be at least somewhat reminiscent of Gamzee’s early attitude, destroying Rage itself, although one could certainly imagine an immature Bard of Rage being subject to anger issues and a stubborn nature, always trying to convince people that their way is the only way while generally grinding everyone’s gears. If they can someday turn their powers against the enemy, however, they might find their particular talents quite useful--a Bard who’s fond of destroying Rage might be used as a double-agent, infiltrating the enemy forces while acting as their ally, gradually lowering their guard and decreasing their conviction that all-out war is the only option. On the other hand, one who prefers to work in tandem with their Aspect might use their abilities to rip apart the enemy forces in a devastating attack, channeling pure Rage in a blinding fury. Just make sure your allies are out of the way when they unleash their ultimate attack, because once that kind of power is coursing through your teammate’s veins, it’s going to be very difficult for them to stop short of killing even their closest allies, should they get in the way.

“Anger is a killing thing: it kills the man who angers, for each rage leaves him less than he had been before--it takes something from him.” - Louis L’Amour

#classpect #classpect analysis #bard #rage #bard of rage #xenojusticar

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moonprincess92 · 7 years

Text

Rebelcaptain fic: Take me out tonight (5)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Read on AO3

Chapter 5: and maybes

“You are being rescued. Congratulations.”

The mechanical voice came moments before she was grabbed by the collar and thrown to the hard-packed ground under her. Jyn choked out a gasp. Move, she needed to move! She had nearly been free, she had almost been away, she would not just lie here, she needed to move –

Her brain was spinning. She had gone from a desolate cell in Wobani prison, to a miraculous escape route suddenly presenting itself (and subsequently waning) within an hour. The adrenaline was pounding through her. Her ears still rang from the grenade exploding, dust choked the air and out of it came the lumbering figure of a droid that for some reason, behind all the pain, she thought she recognised.

“K-2 …?” she managed in a slightly strangled voice.

“Jyn?” If it was possible for a droid to sound surprised, K-2SO was it. He stared down at her on the ground outside the exploded transport, before adding, “You are Jyn Erso?”

“This – this is some rescue,” she gasped.

Optimism was not a trait that Jyn Erso bore well (if at all).

She had no idea why the Rebel Alliance had decided now of all times to rescue her. She had been rotting away for months, but admittedly a part of her traitorous mind was thinking Cassian. K-2, the bastard, refused to tell her anything during the journey off-planet and as a result, she dared wonder whether Cassian had finally found her. It was utterly stupid to think – she had begged the man not to, and why wouldn’t he be here himself, if he was behind rescuing her? – but she couldn’t help the small sliver of hope that ran down her spine.

She did not like the feeling.

A rebel soldier glared at her from across the transport. Jyn may have smashed his face in with a shovel as an attempt to break free, and she didn’t regret it one bit. At least the Empire was direct about their hatred. The Rebel Alliance only spoke up when they wanted something, and she had no idea what it was they were currently after. Maybe it was just easier to hope that Cassian was behind this. The man was an idiot, but she missed him like an ache, and with pain stabbing her like a knife in her head thanks to the explosion, she wasn't sure she could take much more. Wobani had drained a lot out of her.

They touched down on a red gas moon, covered in jungle. Ziggurats decorated the landscape and their transport landed in the shadow of one. Despite the rescue, Jyn sure did still feel like a prisoner as she was forcibly marched straight off the transport and into what was apparently a base for the Rebel Alliance. She kept her face blank as she took in the large hangar, pilots running around in jumpsuits, soldiers whispering and muttering as she was escorted past. The sheer amount of people, shuttles and space left her in a silent kind of awe. This wasn’t just another outpost. This had to be Base One for the rebellion. Even if she did agree to whatever they wanted from her, Jyn still wasn’t sure she’d even be allowed to leave …

The man she had hit with the shovel was the one who shoved her roughly inside a large bunker, a conference table being the main feature. He seemed to find great satisfaction in practically pushing her down into a chair. The men in front of her looked like they were important somehow and Jyn quickly took them in, as her eyes skipped throughout the room. There were others working throughout the bunker , but there was only one other person who looked like they were also part of the party waiting for her. He was lurking off to one side, arms folded like he didn’t want to be there …

An intake of breath and their eyes met.

Cassian looked like he might pass out.

“You’re currently calling yourself–” One of the men on the other side of the table was apparently demanding her attention. “–Liana Hallik. Is that correct?”

No. No, this wasn’t happening.

“Possession of unsanctioned weapons, forgery of Imperial documents, aggravated assault, escape from custody, resisting arrest … imagine if the Imperial authorities had found out who you really were,” the man tried to goad her. “Jyn Erso? That’s your given name, is it not?”

She couldn’t look away from Cassian. She said nothing.

To have her past suddenly spilled out in front of her like this with no warning, to be used as blackmail, to try and get a reaction … Jyn had to hand it to the Rebel Alliance. They knew how to play it. She could feel Cassian still watching her and was sure the accusation had to be there in his eyes: Jyn Erso. You are Jyn Erso, daughter of Imperial weapons designer, Galen Erso. You never said.

God, this wasn’t supposed to be how it happened! It never was. Jyn hadn’t denied herself the memories this time in prison. They had been the only things that had kept her alive, and she had dreamed so much more for this. Meeting again was supposed to go so differently. He was supposed to find her again by chance, on another world far from where she had broken free. They were supposed to have time, this time …

A woman in white joined their party and introduced herself as Mon Mothma. That was about when Jyn really knew she was fucked. Mon Mothma, as in the Alliance chief of state. This was about something big, and Jyn didn’t have a moment to even try and figure out where her mind was when suddenly Mothma was gesturing to Cassian still half hidden in the shadows and introduced,

“This is Captain Cassian Andor, Rebel Alliance Intelligence.”

I know, Jyn wanted to spit in the woman’s face.

But a glance at Cassian, and just from the look she knew he was warning her. Don’t. I know you want to, but don’t. He stepped forward finally, his posture as cold as his face, and this was the spy, the soldier version of him. The man she had first met in a bar was buried deep somewhere, even if he was still in there at all. It had been a long time. For all Jyn knew, he had suffered even worse than she had, and she didn’t know which scenario she preferred.

“When was the last time you were in contact with your father?” he asked.

At least his tone wasn’t as cold as his voice. While the general (a General Draven, apparently, but she wasn’t exactly concerned with names right now) had tried to intimidate her, whereas Cassian was clearly trying to appeal to her casual side. Was this what it all came down to in the end? Him interrogating her once more about things she was in no shape to revisit? Ironically, Jyn might have eventually told him anyway (had they been given more time).

“Fifteen years ago,” she answered coolly.

“Any idea where he’s been all that time?”

“I like to think he’s dead,” Jyn said. “Makes things easier.”

It was subtle, but she thought she saw him flinch. I can’t do this was in his every expression, every move, and it was General Draven who took over the aggressive negotiations. Jyn was offered freedom in exchange for providing the rebellion with a connection to Saw Gererra, a man she was certain she never wanted to see again in her life. Jyn might have even still said no, just to spite the general, but the mission was apparently with Cassian, and he was watching her now with what could only be described as unbridled desperation.

She said yes.

They left the conference room together. They were under the watchful eyes of the council members until they had escaped out into the base’s corridors beyond. The activity here was a flurry of soldiers. For a long time they never said anything to each other. Jyn simply followed him throughout the base until they reached the main hangar, and it was then Cassian suddenly grabbed her wrist and yanked her behind a large shipment of wooden crates, no doubt containing supplies of some kind.

“Wait–”

He didn’t wait. He kissed her within an inch of her life, her back pressed up against the crates and his tongue in her mouth. She whimpered, gripping his hips tightly as his fingers tangled in her ratty hair. This wasn’t the time or place (was it ever?) and Jyn should stop it. But if there was anything Wobani had taken from her, it was warmth, and in Cassian’s arms she suddenly felt alive again. For the first time since she had last left him, she didn’t feel bone-shattering cold anymore.

He burned around her.

She didn’t think she would have the strength to pull back, but thankfully she didn’t have to. Cassian broke the kiss she was still feeling in her toes to simply press his forehead against hers. Their heavy breaths mixed together, longing and passion infecting them both. “I said … when I saw you again,” She could feel him smile against her. “First thing I’d do.”

“Technically, the first thing you did was interrogate me.”

Jyn didn’t mean to sound bitter, but she supposed a part of her still was, and that’s the part Cassian apparently picked up on. He sighed, moving back and away from her so that their positions behind the crate were a little more appropriate for public eyes. They were supposed to be heading straight for the transport, but Jyn’s mind was still reeling a little from the sudden turn of events this day had taken and she was grateful for the moment to think.

“You know I – Jyn, I had no idea it was you,” Cassian rubbed his scruffy face. He looked tired. “I wouldn’t have – if I’d had a choice, you know I wouldn’t have ever talked to you like that–”

“You really had no idea it was me? How many ‘Jyn’s have you met before, Cassian?”

“On some planets, it’s a fairly common name,” Cassian didn’t look at her. “I didn’t want to let myself hope–”

“No, who would want to hope that I was Jyn Erso, daughter of an Imperial weapons designer?” Jyn was being callous, but she couldn’t help it. The small dwindle of hope that Cassian had still been looking for her, despite all her insistence that he didn’t, apparently hadn’t entirely faded on the journey over here. She had wished he was the one breaking her out purely for selfish reasons (because he wanted her) but of course this was all just a scheme for the Rebel Alliance to get what they wanted. Maybe he was saying he didn’t know it was her just to be nice.

She immediately wanted to choke on the words. What had prison done to her?

“Jyn, you’re not your family–”

“I’m not doing this,” Jyn insisted at once. “You don’t get it, I feel like I’ve been gutted and everything has been splattered back onto the floor, here. I had absolutely no choice in my entire life getting thrown in my face like that, and I’m not talking about it with you! We have a mission, Captain Andor,” she threw out the rank like it might separate herself from the situation. “I suggest we get started.”

She didn’t want to see the hurt that was no doubt on Cassian’s face, so she quickly turned and fled. Jyn stormed through the hangar with no idea where she was going and forcing back the stinging behind her eyes. She was retreating inside herself, letting the old self-preservation take over, she knew it, and she was powerless to stop it. What made everything worse was that this might have been their chance for more time. This mission was no doubt going to take more than a couple of hours, so that was already a record for how long they had ever spent together. And at the end of it, she might be pardoned … and free to spend her time however and with whoever she wished.

If she kept this up, Cassian would want nothing to do with her.

She quickly shook her head, realising that she was still clueless as to where she was going. Thankfully, upon staring around the bustling hangar, she finally recognised the stupid droid and reluctantly made her way towards it.

“K-2SO,” she acknowledged.

“Jyn Erso,” K-2 nodded shortly. “Alias Liana Hallik, prisoner 6295 alpha.”

She winced a little, but luckily the droid didn’t seem to notice. “I could shoot you,” she decided to retort with.

“I have calculated an 86.5% chance that you will,” K-2 told her. “I will admit the data was difficult to analyse, especially with all your history with Cassian.”

“I wouldn’t call randomly meeting a few times over the last two years ‘history’.”

“Still,” K-2, she swore, was almost smirking at her. “This is a bad idea. I hope there will be no more fornication on this mission.”

Jyn inwardly groaned, storming forward past him up the loading ramp to the transport. Screw the 85% or whatever chance, she was getting her hands on a blaster and shooting that bastard of a droid right between the eyes. If Cassian were there, she would know exactly how to find one in his boot, but he had yet to follow her. All she had at her disposal was a large duffle bag that had apparently been dropped just inside the shuttle earlier in preparation for leaving. She made a beeline for it, immediately riffling through the contents. By the time she found the spare blaster, however, she had noticed how impersonal his belongings were. There were spare clothes and weapons, but nothing that indicated what kind of man owned this bag. It made her pause, still crouched on the floor of the transport.

She had seen a young man in him. Cassian Andor like his drinks strong and loved to dance. He hadn’t been afraid to reach out to her. He could be carefree and spontaneous and loving, but he was also very, very good at hiding it. Possibly, Jyn was one of only few people who even knew he was capable of such things.

By the time Cassian finally made his way to the u-wing, K-2 was already adjusting the flight settings. She couldn’t tell his expression, but he quickly brushed past her to join K-2 in the cockpit. “Sorry I took so long,” he murmured to the droid. “Draven wanted to speak to me before we left.”

“I still don’t think this is a good idea,” K-2 pointed out.

“Neither do I,” Jyn muttered.

K-2 stared at her, like he didn’t quite believe she was agreeing with him. She almost laughed.

Cassian sighed, before finally turning to meet her eye. “Look,” he said, every bit the professional. “I’m sorry, Jyn. I’m sorry that we’ve clearly dragged you into something you don’t want to do. I’m sorry that we have to do this together, considering …” He didn’t finish the sentence. “but this is bigger than us. It’s about the future of this entire galaxy. I’m going to need you on Jedha, count on you.”

I needed you. I counted on you.

“You don’t see me running,” was all she answered.

“One thing I want to know,” K-2 quickly felt the need to pipe up. “is how come she gets a blaster, and I don’t?”

Jyn gritted her teeth at the droid basically telling on her that she had gone through his bag, but Cassian just snorted. “Because she actually knows how to use it.”

“Jedha is a war zone, I should be allowed to prepare,” K-2 said, petulantly.

“Stay with the ship and you’ll be fine,” Cassian retorted, and Jyn listened to the droid complain some more as the two began to launch the start-up sequence. She and Cassian had been in war zones before. They had survived explosions and Stormtroopers and been torn apart again every single time. Would they get through this, would they find Saw on Jedha and get the message the Alliance so desperately wanted, only for them to again be separated for whatever reason the universe decided to throw at them next?

The Force kept putting them together for a reason. It clearly trusted her to be able to do this. Maybe Jyn needed to finally trust that it would keep them together this time.

Trust went both ways, after all.

The journey to Jedha was spent in almost-silence.

Jyn hadn’t quite known what to say or do and had figured it would’ve probably been easier for them both if they just spent the journey apart. However, she soon found that Wobani was still hanging over her, and with it came an irrational need for comfort. She had no place asking Cassian for that comfort at all, but it didn’t stop her from imagining it. They ended up circling one another throughout the transport, one never far behind the other. Never in direct contact, but always within the line of sight. Cassian co-piloted until they were safely in hyperspace, Jyn hovering behind somewhere. She restlessly moved to organise supplies and he silently joined her at the utility bench.

In a way, it was what she needed. Since Saw had left her, Cassian had been the only person in the entire galaxy to ever apparently care about her. Jyn was not in the right place to be falling into his arms, but she found herself clinging to the image of Cassian at least being at her side the closer they got to confronting the father-figure who had abandoned her, and that was good enough for now. She planned speeches in her head during the journey. She thought of the things she might eventually say to Saw, the specific words that she knew would hurt, and debated whether she should demand answers or not.

She broke the silence not far from Jedha to say,

“A part of me wants to accuse him,” She didn’t meet his eyes. “demand why. But then, maybe I don’t want to know.”

Cassian glanced up from his place opposite her. “It’s better to know than be ignorant,” was all he said in answer.

She wished she could agree.

When they landed, their conversations were kept necessary and professional. Saying Jedha was a warzone wasn’t an understatement, and K-2SO whined about being left behind, but there was no way they would blend in with an Imperial droid lumbering after them (and maybe it was a little satisfying to shut him down). Her thoughts were a jumbled mess of Kyber crystal and planet killers and how Cassian kept close to her side as they stalked through the city. She was thankful that she’d had the journey to Jedha to be able to process thinking since she had woken up still in prison that morning. Her life had been thrown out from under her once again in the space of less than a standard day. She never had any choice, did she?

Maybe that was also why she was agreeing to do this, when surely any other time, Jyn would have told the Rebel Alliance to simply piss off and send her back to prison. She was sick of her life being out of her control. She was thrown from one event to the next, things always happening to her but never because of her (well … maybe a few kisses had happened because of her, but still). If she did this, if she could be pardoned at the end of it, then she could finally choose what happened next.

She could take control of her life back.

She exchanged a glance with Cassian as they stuck close to each other’s sides. They didn’t need to speak much in the midst of the bustling city. A hand at her back, a firm grab of her shoulders, hundreds of actions passed between them, rendering words unnecessary. Jyn wondered a little about when they had become so in synch. He always knew when to hold her back against idiots who slammed into her on purpose, or when to push her forward. She remembered the first time they had ever met, and the subsequent shoot-out they’d ended up in at the cantina. They had fought side by side then like they’d been doing it forever.

Maybe they had been born to fight together.

Jyn Erso was finally crying.

Somewhere between my love for her has never faded and we call it the Death Star, the tears had started falling. Now they stained her face, and she could still hardly move. Dimly, her brain was aware that something was seriously wrong. The monastery where Saw’s rebels had been hiding was shaking, crumbling. People were running and screaming, but Jyn Erso could only see the holo image of her father, who wasn’t dead, who apparently wasn’t a traitor, whose message had sent her to her knees. Gutted raw felt about right. She hadn’t expected any of this.

She didn’t even know what to think of Saw in front of her. She’d thought of so many things to say to him and now they were all choked in her throat. She thought of Cassian’s words that it was better to know than remain ignorant, but she thought she understood now anyway. She had been left behind because of her name. She was left behind because of her father and the ties she had. She was too much of a risk. Saw Gererra had been the one to raise her and in the end, he had left her because of something she couldn’t even control. They always left –

Cassian was there.

“We’ve got to go,” his voice was sudden and urgent in her ear and it was barely piercing through the other ringing thoughts that currently dominated her head. She tried to tell him that she knew. She knew something was wrong, Jedha was slowly disintegrating around them and a part of her whispered planet killer. Another whispered my father did this.

My father is trying to stop this.

He left you.

He’s trying to save you.

“I know where your father is,” Cassian suddenly urged. “Jyn, come on!”

She finally turned to look at him. She couldn’t feel her legs, but she clambered to them regardless. Saw was left behind. She shoved it away, couldn’t think of it now. The world was falling apart around them and it took Jyn several disjointed moments while running to realise what the thing looming over the planet was (or what she thought it might be). They were joined by others that they had apparently picked up along the way: two Guardians of the Whills, one who had stopped her earlier in the streets, and the pilot defector who had triggered the events leading them here. Cassian dragged her after him, practically throwing her into the shuttle that they had apparently managed to steal in time.

They ran fast from the nightmare that was happening behind them.

With so many new people on board, Jyn felt herself retreating inside even further. She was barely holding herself together. Too much had happened, the day was catching up on her and she wanted to hide. She wanted to take Cassian and keep running from the destruction. But they were talking, and the pilot – Bodhi, his name is Bodhi – knew her father, and she couldn’t break down yet. They need to know, there was something they needed to know –

“My father’s message,” she suddenly spoke up determinedly. “I’ve seen it. They call it the Death Star. But they have no idea there’s a way to defeat it.”

She spoke to Cassian across the shuttle cabin, but something in his expression changed at her words. Did he … he doubted her? After everything they had been through, she was certain that that was the expression on his face. He doubted what she was saying.

“Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong,” she suddenly thundered. “You think my father’s still working for the Empire.”

“He did build it,” Cassian must have caught her look. “Jyn, I – I’m not saying I don’t believe you, I trust you, but–”

“But what?” she bit out.

He didn’t answer that. Maybe their audience was the reason. “I believe you may have seen a message … but I also think you need to think critically about what you saw.”

He thought her father was trying to fool them all. Rationally, Jyn knew it was realistic of him to think so, but it still made her skin burn. “My father built it,” she snarled. “because he knew they’d do it without him. My father made a choice. He sacrificed himself for the rebellion! He’s rigged a trap inside it, inside the Death Star. That’s why he sent you–” She gestured to Bodhi, who suddenly looked very much like he’d rather be left out of this conversation.

“Where is it?” Cassian asked her. “Where’s the message?”

Jyn knew how it would sound. “It was a hologram,” she said, shortly.

“You have that message, right?”

“What do you think?” Jyn could slap him. Of course she didn’t have the message! She was still barely processing it when he had pulled her away from the crumbling chambers. She kept arguing, she kept fighting for what her father had said and eventually, it was decided they would go to Eadu and find him. She tried to speak with conviction – insist that this plan would work, that they would find him, they would all see – but the events of the day had taken a lot out of her and Cassian stood there saying nothing. She needed to get away, and she broke away from the group, almost slamming past Bodhi and disappearing down the hatch further into the shuttle towards the cabins.

“Jyn!” Cassian yelled after her. “We need to – JYN!”

She could hear him following her. She heard Bodhi tentatively ask,

“Does anyone know what their deal is?”

“I believe Cassian is concerned because Jyn is in a certain amount of distress,” K-2SO answered. “They have known each other for some time now, and I believe they care deeply for each other. I warned him not to, but Cassian never listens to me …”

He eventually caught up with her as she hid in one of the ship’s cabins. Much like the last rebel shuttle she and Cassian had inhabited, there was one small fold-down bed and not much else. She tried to not remember the last time they shared one. She yanked it down with some force and sat on the edge as Cassian silently edged into the cabin. He watched her from the other side of the room.

“I don’t know why you’re here,” There was a pressure building behind her eyes.

“I’m sorry–”

She laughed. “Don’t say you’re fucking sorry, Cassian. You don’t believe me. It’s fine, I get it, who would believe that the man who built the Death Star actually didn’t mean it the entire time?”

“I believe you.”

“You’ve got a damn funny way of showing it,” she snarled. “Where’s the message, Jyn?”

He winced.

Her head hurt as exhaustion washed over her. Time zones from leaping in and out of hyperspace were no doubt catching up on top of everything else and how could this man say he believed her, only moments before he had chewed her out in front of everyone else? Did he only believe her when it was convenient or when it wasn’t an embarrassment to? Funny he would say it now when they were alone and no one else could hear, and she didn’t know whether that was actually her talking, or the shell of herself that was left after Wobani.

“We’re supposed to trust each other,” was all she could say.

“I trust you,” Frustration edged his tone. “I just …”

“Don’t trust who I am or where I come from.”

“Jyn–”

“After everything …” The cave that had once protected her mind was utterly gone now. It had been slowly broken open since the moment they had first met. “Cassian, I can’t do this anymore.”

Her entire life had been exposed and put on display today. She was tired, she was barely holding off tears (over what, she wasn’t quite sure – a mixture of everything?) and she was done arguing. The last time they had truly been alone they had stripped away all their layers and lost themselves in each other. She missed him. Sure, there had still been things they hadn’t known about each other then, but it had been ok. They’d kissed each other hoping that there would be time for that later.

He might know everything now, yet it somehow felt like there was a chasm between them. If she took one step toward him, would she fall into the abyss?

It was in that moment she finally broke. The day caught up and she couldn’t stop the tears from wrenching out of her. She didn’t often allow herself to cry. Even if she was alone, she usually couldn’t risk anyone else hearing her. It was easier to remain apathetic, to keep them inside, but Saw was dead, Jedha was gone, her father wasn’t a traitor and she surely hadn’t slept in 24 hours. She pressed her forearm to her eyes, trying to choke them back, but apparently Cassian had leapt the chasm as she felt his arms suddenly pulling her in tight.

“No, no–” she sobbed.

“Shut up, Jyn,” Cassian murmured into her hair.

So they stayed there.

Apparently, Cassian was willing to hold her as long as she needed. Once the tears cried themselves out, he just lay back on the thin mattress, tugging her down with him. Their legs entwined themselves and his hand stroked the length of her back. She pressed her nose into his neck and wasn’t certain if he was going to say anything else. She hovered on the edge of consciousness, her brain unwilling to shut down without assurance that she was safe.

“I know this hasn’t exactly turned out the way we might have hoped,” she heard his accented voice rumble in her chest. “but I’m still … I’m glad we’re here, Jyn.”

Her brain was assured. She let sleep take her.

#rebelcaptain #rebelcaptain fanfic #ro fanfic #rogue one fanfic #rogue one #sw fanfic #my fanfiction #THIS CHAPTER PROBABLY SUCKS BUT HEEEEYYYYYYYYOOOOO <3 #take me out tonight

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