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yandere-wishes · 3 years

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MONSTERS

👹 Yandere Ryomen Sukuna x Reader

👹Summary: Monsters aren’t born they're made, but Sukuna stumbles across the rare exception...

👹Warning: dehumanization, mention of gore, blood, slight dub-con mentioned in passing, death, past trauma, and abuse

👹 Edited: By the lovely @tealyjade-libran !

👹 Wordcount: 2,480

👹Alternative Tittle : If Roxanne ( from the Police song) lived in ancient Japan.

👹First Jujutsu kaisen fic! I hope you guys like it, please let me know your thoughts! Likes and reblogs appreciated!

Monsters were made.

Slowly created as once blazing ideals, withered and died under harsh strokes of reality. Stitched together with broken promises and the ashes of rotting memories.

Monsters were made

whisked into a role they once dreaded, once feared. Beaten into the role of the villain, the reprobate, the sinner.

If anyone ever asked Sukuna when was the exact moment he turned his back on the laws of "good" and "evil", shedding his human skin to regrow a pelt of hate and destruction,

He would simply answer, "Never".

Because skin is skin no matter how much it decays. Even if the epidermis turns into a rotting orange shade, littered with eyeballs and teeth that shouldn't grow there.Even if the blood from all those he's slain has finally stained his dermis, tainting it in a permanent crimson that all the waters of Lake Biwa could never wash off. Even if his hypodermis is no longer made of fatty tissue but rather spiritual energy sucked from the atmosphere. It's still skin, the same old skin he was born with.

Sukuna had never shed his skin, he'd only perfected it, enhanced it, molded it into its perfect form, until he was no longer held back by foolish human limitations.

He'd never been "reborn" only recreated; only perfected.

Spike, talon and teeth covered arms sprouting from oozing, bleeding scars, charred over by begriming infections that burned worse than the strikes he'd endured as a child. Knuckles and bones cracking over and over and over again until they grew as solid as the rocks that were thrown at him when he was all too little to understand the malice behind the insults and threats. Breaking until they could break no more, until they'd become strong enough to split a boulder with a mere flick.

There had come a time when he'd given up licking his wounds, leaving them to be kissed by the mold-covered worms who left an urticating sensation he'd soon come to associate with victory. Rotting flesh growing covered in thick layers of black tar tattoos that hid every cut he'd endured when he'd once been too weak.

Monsters were created from quarter truths buried neck-deep in fables that snipped like red-eyed scorpions.

Until the blood dancing through their veins was as black as the void they now called home.

Sukuna knew the exact moment he realized he was a monster. The day he realized he liked the crunch of skulls beneath his feet, the pitiful spark in mortified eyes staring at the heavens for a scrap of mercy. Mangled mouths barely held together by fractured jaw bones, uttering prayers and pleas that died in the scorching air.

Sukuna knew he was an abnormality, patched together by broken heirlooms and shattered family traditions. Sitting on a throne made from skulls of those who thought they could ever kill him.

You can't kill a monster, for you can not kill that which was never born.

You can't slay something made from good intentions with malevolent methods, something so vile that it might actually be pure. At the end of the day, no monster really admits that it is a monster, a nightmare that should have never existed.

Yet...

Tattered hearts and cruel orbs are never quite enough. No monster is complete until they dive off that last edge, plummet into the sea of nothingness, and finally, finally break their souls on the spiked soil. Monsters, spirits, curses any malicious being that had been mended together like a half-done ragdoll was not complete until they truly let go. Until they erased all the former humanity that they had been born with. Until their eyes reflected nothing, no emotions, no malice, no want, no need. Just the absolute emptiness.

The void in all its glory.

that was the symbol, the true markings of a real monstrosity. The void that took over their existence, that had replaced every inch of their former self. Only then could it be said that you were above all other beings, the true perfection of this world.

There are worse things created than monsters, things that are made from nothing and everything. Things above "Yin" and "Yang". Things that have no scrap of humanity, monstrosity, or anything in them.

Things that are just empty.

So maybe -just maybe- that's why when Sukuna's rotting orange eyes landed on the epitome of emptiness, a...girl, whose face was sculpted to disreflect emotions and intents. Someone who was the void of darkness itself. The true personification of nothingness.

His heart -for the first time in countless centuries- began to throb.

a truly dead face swarmed by a sea of buzzing ants, chasing their routine happiness. Smiles of delight and carelessness carved on their aging faces with sunlight knives and the melody of golden coins. The lust for life leaking from every pore of their bodies.

With every face being a carbon copy of each other it was no wonder yours stood out.

There was a silver chain of attraction, dragging Sukuna towards the village girl. Not love, never love, the king of curses was beyond certain, that neither you nor he could feel such a honey-laced sensation. It was more like....something. Something paranormal, inexpiable. Some magnetic force outside of everything's control.

It was easy enough to explain why he liked you. Why you stood out from the other insects of this middle-of-nowhere-village.

You had dark matter for blood and dead seas for brains.

Your eyes radiated an endless abyss. Making others shy away from your lifeless gaze. Scared to look into the void in fear that it may respond.

You were a thrown away doll,

A living dead,

A dying star,

You were the daughter of the number zero,

The monster that had no maker nor mother.

Something not born nor created.

Just an entity that roamed the earth, with no desire nor hope, no wish nor dream. Not leaving, not dying, just existing in the space between today and tomorrow.

There'd been no need for pleasantries, for hiding behind ghostly tree branches and frozen windows. There'd been no need to kill or ravage for you. No competition to eliminate, because no one ever came near you. Humans don't like what they can't explain, Sukuna knew that all too well.

Sukuna watched from a close enough distance to almost touch. Lingering around like a phantom begging to be noticed. Orbs trailing over you, but never approaching. Until one day he'd just stood still. Waited for you to turn your head just a fraction to the left, just to see him in all his menacing terror. To finally notice the clawing, crawling sensation that had been creeping up your spine like a hoard of spiders.

And when your dead eyes did finally land on him. Sukuna could swear that his breath hitched in his throat for the first time in his seemingly endless life.

You weren't human. Humans didn't have hollow faces or marbles for lips.

You weren't a curse. Curses didn't lack venom dripping from their souls.

You were something better than a monster. You were the divinity of monstrosity, the void itself. Black holes for eyes, answerless paradoxes for hands, and an endless maze where your torso should have been.

Exploding suns danced around you, burning, burning, till they died out, leaving behind no trace that they once lit up the universe.

The space after the end, that's what you were.

Perfect, to Sukuna you were perfect.

You hadn't run, hadn't screamed, hadn't even bothered to talk. You didn't care about him, couldn't care about him. That's what made him want you, made his mouth salivate with the thought of your flesh between his teeth.

That night the world stood still, as Sukuna's claws penetrated your flesh like twirling needles. You were as light as a feather. You weighed nothing, were nothing. All so easy to pluck and throw about. You never made a noise when your body collided with the bamboo walls, just letting gravity and Sukuna play a twisted ball game with your lump of a body.

You hadn't protested when he violated you. As his lips bit every inch of your body raw. For some unearthly reason that even the gods couldn't understand, would never want to understand, you had found the Curse's violent actions rather...adoring. Taking every slap and slash with the earnest pride of a small child getting praised for a day of relentless chores. letting the dawn-tinted-haired monster adorn your body in blue and purple jewels. It felt right, in a pathetically, nauseating, twisted way...it just felt right.

It was disastrous, sure, but it was right. Like two universes crashing. Destroying each other with every kiss and every bruise.

But...

For the first time in your meaningless life, you had truly understood what "happiness" felt like.

For the first time in his endless life, Sukuna had truly understood what "intimacy" felt like.

///

Was it wrong to kiss you? For a fraction of a second Sukuna hesitated, blood tinged lips hovering millimeters away from your own stone-set ones. The moon's cursed rays acting like an unnoticed barrier, keeping two things out of each other's grasp. His lips curled back revealing two rows of knife-like teeth. The last resort, a final hope that you'd run away, that you'd act somewhat normal. The king of curses, the evil among men, didn't mind your lack of regularity. He didn't mind how you leaned into every bitter strike, every painful display of fading affection . He adored how you merely giggled as he slashed open your uncharged skin, creating slits for your blood to spill through, onto his waiting tongue. He admired your lifelessness, the way you radiated death.

Oh, how you filled him with a startling aftershock every time he touched you. Every time his tongue lapped at your bleeding skin he'd feel the sort of electric shocks that came after the storms had passed. Your body had no shape, it molded to his touch, turning his favorite shades of red, with just a little pressure.

But sometimes, in fleeting, endless seconds. He wished he had a name for what you two were. You weren't his per se, you could never be his. Being his would indicate that he cared about you, or heck even loved you and that could never be true. The king of curses did not love, nor care. He merely tolerated you; you fascinated him, that's all.

It had been many moons since he first found you in that no-name village. Months upon months since you'd been by his side. You'd watched as he'd destroyed cities, helped him even. Eyes never shedding a single tear. Mouth never uttering a single protest.

The two of you had become the best, the King of curses and the Queen of nothingness. With the dying speed of laboring bees, Sukuna had carved himself inside of you. Twisted emptiness into flower-covered destruction. Into molten gold lava.

Leaving you with wounds that were stuck in a cycle of healing and opening. Until they began to harden like his. Until the need for spilled blood lingered on your tongue like the burn of boiled tea. Until under your nails were coated in a decaying crust of dried blood. Sukuna hadn't turned you into a monster, he'd simply showed you the powers that came with your apathy. With a heart as torn and cold as yours, it was a shame to let it go to waste.

"You're not half bad," his tone is never approving. It's always laced with a strictness that keeps you nailed into place. His words are oxymorons sounding like praise, but once you peel back the lather layers they're just taunts in disguise.

You don't answer, words die on your tongue as quickly as they are born. Sukuna can't even remember what your voice sounds like outside of small whispers in heat filled nights.

However, to the two of you, things like that didn't matter. Your lack of being even semi-alive and Sukuna's endless abuse had become a norm for the two of you. Where else were a two-faced monster and a lifeless girl going to find love anyway?

Sukuna was all you had, all you ever had. You'd die for him, kill for him, turn into anything for him. Because he gave you life.

A purpose to life, made out of raging fires and endless screams. A life fabricated from the pain and suffering of others. That was what the king of curses had given you, all wrapped in a human skin parchment. Maybe that's why all logic withered away the first night he kissed you, maybe from the first second that you sensed his presence you had finally gained a reason to be alive.

///

Whoever said the end of the world was beautiful? Whoever said the final days would be bright and glowing and pure?

It's just a blaze of stray flames and red crystal droplets that may or may not be your blood. Funny, Sukuna had always thought that your blood would be as black as the moonless sky, not a mundane red like everyone else's. He'd expected a grander death from you. Some sort of black hole opening to swallow the world whole. Not just another corpse motionless in a pool of their own blood.

Although he's not one to talk. His own 'death' is lingering on the horizon. Sukuna's head tilts back looking for the flashing jujutsu sorcerers.

"S-sukun-a..."

He smirks, fangs sticking out at odd angles. Your voice is sweet, for the first time in forever he'd even dare say it held some semblance of emotion.

What that emotion is, he doubts he knows or even really cares. He'd long since stopped trying to identify all those "feelings" and their associated names.

His orange eyes lock with your fading orbs, one last time. No, not the last time, just the final time in this lifetime. He's sure he's going to see you again. In any other life, Sukuna knows he'll be able to recognize you despite whatever flesh suit you'd be wearing.

"Shh little one," he's halfway gone before he finishes his sentence, leaving you to relish in his memory in your final moments. "We'll see each other once more, someday in another life..."

His four eyes lock on the approaching sorcerers. He finds it humorous how desperate they look. How alive and ready they seem, such a stark contrast to your ever lifeless face and dead eyes, it repulses him.

"Or maybe in one of the circles of hell."

The flames encircling his fingers remind him of the heat your body radiated in the dead of night. The crack from bones hum as they meet his knuckles, flash memories of your days wasted together doing nothing and everything.

The two of you will meet once more, he's sure of it. After all...

Monsters never die.

How could something that was never even born in the first place, ever die?

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talonwings · 3 years

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to feed a kingdom- Empires SMP Writing

in which fWhip and his subjects make questionable choices for noble reasons.

(can you tell yet that i am a c!fWhip apologist lololololol--)

It would have been easy to miss the small silhouette of the man against the giant shadows looming over the landscape.

The inky sky seemed to cling low over the Grimlands, as it had ever since the Dragon fell; the stars shone more dimly, those that still shone at all. Clouds scudded frantically across the faint crescent of the moon, pushed along by a harrying wind. The crickets all had fallen silent--indeed, all the animals had gone, hidden away in burrows and holes to shelter themselves from the threat of the corruption. No sound disturbed the stillness of the night, but for the harsh gasps of the lone figure as he raised the scythe and swung it again, and again, and again.

fWhip’s fingers had long since blistered, burst, and blistered again. He had stopped even glancing down to check his hands--the sight of the blood seeping through the fabric of his gloves had averted his gaze some time ago. The pain was a constant companion, enough so that he had become used to it, could ignore it if he gritted his teeth and focused on the rhythmic rise and fall of the tool in his grasp.

He was inelegant with the scythe. It would have been obvious to anyone observing, if there had been anyone around to observe at this ungodly hour; as it was, his lack of skill was evident enough in the ache it left behind in his forearms and shoulders, the torque that yanked at his spine every time he twisted to put his weight behind the swings. He had never been a large man, but he felt his smallness down to his bones here beneath the tower of corruption that still rose into the air above him.

Give up, the rot-red tendril seemed to hiss at him. Its veiny surface pulsated eerily, hinting at something living just beneath the fleshy exterior.

“I’ll die first,” fWhip rasped at it. “Watch me.”

He swung the scythe again. The blade was weathered steel, pocked and beaten from many years of use, but still dangerously sharp. It bit deep into the corrupted tendril, and fWhip was gratified when he swore he could hear a faint scream.

Plash was worried about the Count.

It wasn’t that her lord was acting strange, exactly. Strange, to Plash, was a relative term--she had been called ‘strange’ for most of her childhood due to her fondness for laboratory tools over the company of other children. It was a relief to finally be accepted into the service of the Grimlands’ ruler, who, by Plash’s measure, was a kindred spirit in strangeness. Many people raised their eyebrows at the Count’s eccentricities, but accepted them simply because he was the Count, and who were they to question the man who kept food on their tables and money in their coffers?

No, Plash was concerned because fWhip was acting strange, even for him. He was energetic and filled to the brim with ideas, as a rule--it was what made the Grimlands, under his rule, surge to the forefront of scientific research and discovery. Plash would have never described him as kind, necessarily, or even pleasant, but he was confident and sure and bold.

Until the Dragon fell, and everything changed.

She did not know how to make the dullness go out of his eyes, or the slant from his shoulders, or the heavy, bowing weight from his head, and it frightened her--an uncomfortable experience in itself, for someone as rarely frightened as Plash. In the hours immediately after the Dragon’s end, she had watched her beloved ruler become a person she did not recognize; and that, even before the corruption had arrived.

Plash scowled out the window of the manor at the scarlet tendril hanging ominously in the sky beyond the pane. The damn things had erupted from the ground barely a week after the Dragon’s death, while the Grimlands were still reeling from the arrival of what seemed like half of Mythland’s population. They had barely had enough time to count them all, much less figure out how they were going to feed them. Tents lined every road in Eastvale, and most of the roads immediately outside the town’s wall.

Normally, the Count would guide us, Plash thought glumly. But now…

She didn’t allow herself to finish the thought, close enough to treason as it was. Instead, she made herself continue her trek through the long, high-ceilinged halls toward the Count’s personal study, acutely feeling the weight of the smooth little scroll clutched in her hand, burning a hole through her glove.

She arrived at the tall, paneled oak door, staring for a long moment at the polished bronze knocker before summoning her strength and rapping it twice.

“Enter,” the weary voice called from within.

Plash did so, but stopped just inside the door, barely remembering to close it behind her as she gaped at her leader and mentor. He looked terrible. His eyes were ringed by bruise-purple circles, his cheeks hollow with exhaustion; more bruises were visible on the exposed skin of his wrists where his jacket sleeves rode up, and Plash swore she could see blood staining his gloves.

“Are you just going to stare?” the Count asked. The question was blunt, but his voice was weak and lacked its usual intensity.

“I…” Plash couldn’t find any words, so instead she held up the scroll. “This just arrived.”

“And they sent you instead of a raven?” fWhip gave a dry laugh. “I wasn’t aware that you were doing the job of birds now, Plash Ajax.”

Most people would have been embarrassed by the quip, but Plash shrugged. “A raven brought it, but the raven-mistress said it was too important not to be hand-delivered.”

“Mm.” fWhip eyed her for a moment before he, too, shrugged. “Bring it here.”

She obeyed, crossing the room and depositing the scroll on his desk. Up close he looked even worse than at first glance; his face and every centimeter of exposed flesh were riddled with tiny scratches, like he had been on the losing end of an encounter with a thorn bush. His clothes were wrinkled and disheveled, his gingery hair utterly unkempt. Plash said nothing, only waiting in silence for him to inspect the scroll.

He took it in his hands and unrolled it, eyes scanning it for a second before he let it fall from his grip. It hit the desk with a clack, but Plash barely noticed, fixated as she was on the single tear that trailed down the Count’s cheek before being lost in the tangle of his beard.

“Um…” She chewed her lip for a moment, internally caught between wanting to comfort him and wanting to turn tail and run. She settled for asking, somewhat awkwardly, “Shall I, um...shall I leave?”

“Do what you like,” he replied in a tone thick with exhaustion. One gloved hand came up for a noncommittal wave, the fingers indeed stained scarlet with blood.

Plash stood frozen for what felt like an eternity, although it was probably no more than a minute, trying to decide what to do. Finally, she decided to be as blunt as the man she looked up to. “You look awful. Did someone break in here for a fight last night?”

She thought she had made an awful mistake when fWhip’s eyes locked onto her, his mouth agape; relief washed over her when he started to laugh, the sound hoarse and beaten, but familiar.

“So you can tell,” he said when he finally stopped laughing. “Well, I suppose I did nothing to try to clean up.”

“Wait, so there was a fight?” Plash asked in confusion.

“Of a kind,” the Count replied wryly.

“...I’m confused,” the young scientist admitted.

“Ah, I know how you hate that.” fWhip’s mouth quirked in a half-smile. “All of you young researchers do, though I try my best to beat it out of you.” He stood, shaking his head and then wincing visibly at the movement. “Ack. That’s unpleasant.”

“Can I, er, help in any way?” Plash asked.

“Follow me,” the Count said, beckoning with a gesture toward the door. “I will answer your question, though you must promise to share this with no one.”

Plash followed silently, thoughts spinning through her head as they descended the several floors of the manor and exited into the gardens beyond. From down here, she had a full view of the corruption towering over the skyline of Eastvale, tendrils encircling the town as if to latch on and pull it into the earth, although for now, they remained still. It was toward one of the massive growths that fWhip led her, and as they neared, Plash could see a curious wound in the side of the tentacle. It leaked and bled crimson ooze from the gash, and its flesh seemed to have withered around the site, blackened and decaying.

“What caused this?” Plash wondered aloud. “More corruption? Some new blight?”

“I did,” the Count answered.

“You--?” Plash stared at him, aghast, her eyes dropping slowly to the scarlet-stained scythe that lay abandoned on the ground below the tendril. She hadn’t noticed it until he nudged it with his boot, but now she saw the corrupted ichor dripping from the blade, the red vines hacked to pieces and lying dead beside the tool.

“Did you know I wanted to be a farmer once?”

She was caught entirely off-guard by the question, still enthralled as she was by the sight of the scythe, so it took her a moment to fully process it. “Wh--wait, a farmer? As in…?” She mimed what she thought scything wheat might look like.

fWhip nodded tiredly. “When I was very young, I once had to accompany my parents, the old Count and Countess, on a trip to a Wither Rose Alliance summit in Mythland. They were, of course, ensconced in meetings all day, so I wandered the kingdom with my…” Here he trailed off, a flash of some unreadable feeling crossing his face for a moment before he went on. “With an old friend. We got into plenty of mischief, and one of the pranks we decided on was to unlatch the gate to a field full of cows. Luckily, the farmer caught us before we were trampled to death by the beasts, and although we were royal, he decided to teach us a lesson, and made us help him sow carrot seeds for two hours.”

Plash made a face. “That sounds horrid.”

The Count chuckled softly. “My friend thought so, but for me, there was something very rewarding in digging up the earth, placing the seeds, covering them, and knowing that they would someday become food for the citizens of Mythland.”

“...Sort of like finishing a machine that you know will be used to make life easier for people,” Plash said after a moment’s reflection. She knew the feeling--hands oil-stained, face soot-smeared, hair wild, sleep-deprived and exhausted, but overwhelmed with warmth when she gazed at the thing she had created. There was nothing like it.

fWhip nodded. “Yes. And so I told my parents when I was returned to them later that I wanted to become a farmer and grow carrots for all the people of the Grimlands. They laughed, of course, and said that a Count’s son could do more than become a simple farmer, and as it turned out, they were right. But for a long time, I had a secret dream to fill the whole world with fields, to build one every day, as far as the eye could see.”

Plash gazed at him silently for a long time. Finally, she said, “So this is your chance to use the scythe to help the Grimlands?”

His face became hard, almost unrecognizably so. “If I have to tear down every one of these damn things, I will.”

There was silence between them again, the awful, still silence that had hung over the Grimlands in all the hours that had passed since the Ender Dragon’s demise. Plash watched as the Count breathed raggedly, his fists clenched and trembling, the entire weight of their kingdom resting on his shoulders.

“I’ll help,” she said.

He blinked--it was clearly not the response he had been expecting. “What?”

“I said, I’ll help,” Plash repeated. Her resolve was growing now, ideas taking root--like seeds, like kernels that, properly watered, would grow into something that could help them all. “I’m terrible with a scythe, but I know machines and chemicals. If you give me a sample, I can turn it into something that will help us feed the Mythlanders.”

The Count’s eyebrows rose almost to his hairline. “Feed--with the corruption?”

Plash scowled at him. “Did you recruit me from university because I had boring ideas?”

He looked astonished for a moment, but only for a moment, and then his mouth formed the devious smile that she hadn’t seen in nearly eight days.

“No,” he agreed. “I did not. Very well, Plash Ajax. You will turn Xornoth’s corruption into food for the people of Mythland. But you know, I have high expectations now that you’ve even suggested such a thing.”

Plash grinned right back, cracking her knuckles, her mind already working. “I know. So do I.”

#also featuring a sneaky reference to fwhip's hardcore series!!#see if you can spot it #empires smp #mcyt #writing #fwhip #the grimlands #empiresona #empires oc #plash ajax #xornoth #rcu #technically rcu!fwhip

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jengajives · 3 years

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Needed some emotionals so I rewrote Beleg’s death scene

A gathering thunderstorm was perfect weather for a rescue. Nice and dark, with the distant rumble in the sky drowning out any less-than-stealthy noises. Gwindor was very much less-than-stealthy, but Beleg couldn’t really blame him, and a well-trained elf’s poor stealth was still much quieter than anything a Man could manage- or, Valar forbid, a dwarf.

And it wasn’t Gwindor’s fault he walked with a very loud limp, and no one was near enough to hear them anyway.

The orc-camp was still, with the sentinels dead and all the soldiers passed out in varying states of inebriation.

The two elves crept to the far side of camp uninterrupted, and at last Beleg got to look on Túrin’s face again.

The Man’s face was stark and hollow, his skin clammy as he lay there limp against the withered tree trunk he’d been chained to with black iron. He still wore the simple clothing he’d had on that night so long ago on Amon Rûdh. It felt as though a lifetime had passed since then, all of searching, desperate and nearly hopeless, and yet here Beleg knelt, with Túrin alive and whole before him.

“Túrin,” he said softly, reaching up a hand to brush the tangles of dark hair from his motionless face. “Melethen. Can you hear me?”

He tried not to look at the blades stuck into the cracked wood around where Túrin slumped, or the bruises and blood smeared across the Man’s face, or the grey at the sides of his unkempt beard. He didn’t want to imagine how Túrin had suffered alone.

Beleg tried again. Túrin’s face was feverishly hot when he took it into his hands and raised it.

“Melethen, wake up.”

Just behind him, Gwindor cowered at a sudden crack of thunder. His dark eyes darted, terrified, back to the pile of snoozing orcs not too far away.

“Cúthalion,” he whimpered. “They won’t stay asleep forever...”

“He’s sick.” Beleg pressed a hand to Túrin’s forehead and muttered some simple mantra he’d heard Luthien using once. The only reaction was a slight stirring beneath the eyelids, but that was all. Túrin remained limp and unresponsive, and his breathing came slow but steady. Beleg turned his attention to the chains.

“You’ll have to help me carry him,” he said softly, drawing Anglachel from its sheath as quietly as he could. The black blade seemed to flash in the night darkness, stars wheeling upon its blade. No doubt it would be sharp enough to cut through.

The wind lifted, washing the scent of rain over the camp. As Beleg pried at the chain wrapped around the tree trunk, and slowly the metal began to bend.

Gwindor looked up again, panicked, when one of the guards snorted. His icy fingers gripped Beleg’s sleeve.

“We need to go now.”

“We aren’t leaving without him.”

Finally the first chain snapped and rattled lifelessly to the ground, but there was still the matter of the cords around Túrin’s wrists and ankles. Beleg was stooping to begin cutting these when at last, the long-threatened rain began to fall.

Gwindor let out a sound like a punctured bellows and gripped tighter.

“Cúthalion...”

Beleg didn’t provide a direct answer, because he was too busy getting his arms around Túrin’s torso to try and lift him.

“Get his legs.”

Despite the way he was trembling, Gwindor did so, and together the two of them hefted the unconscious man and started the short trek out of camp. The hills were not so steep here, but still it was difficult to get far in the slick of rain, carrying such a burden; despite his captivity thinning him considerably, Túrin was still quite dense and very heavy. They couldn’t have carried him long even in the best conditions.

Still, Gwindor gave a terrified hiss when Beleg stopped at the top of the nearest foothill and lowered Túrin gently to the ground.

“This isn’t far enough! They’ll find us, and they’ll take us back to Him-“

“Gwindor,” Beleg said in his warmest, calmest voice. He met Gwindor’s wavering brown eyes with a simple confidence. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

For a moment in the rain there was stillness, and Gwindor’s face slowly softened as the warmth of those eyes filled him.

Then, on the ground at their feet, Túrin made a sound like a light moan of agony, and Beleg’s calming gaze immediately snapped downward.

“We cannot bear him further,” he mumbled, distracted now, as, he dropped to his knees and, again, tried his hardest to rouse the Man. “If I can wake him, he might have the strength to follow us beyond the foothills. That’s our best hope.”

“Hurry,” Gwindor said, glancing over his shoulder again. Beleg didn’t respond. He pressed a hand to Túrin’s cheek, a horrible mix of relief and fear twisting gleefully in his stomach. Túrin was alive and safe, but if he didn’t wake up, Beleg might not be able to keep him that way, and the three of them could all very well be dragged to Angband and broken. What was Beleg supposed to do then? If he led these two poor souls back to torment, he wouldn’t ever forgive himself.

Again, Beleg reached up and grasped Anglachel’s hilt, drawing the sword carefully from his back. He lifted Túrin’s bound wrists and very cautiously began to slide the blade through the thick cords holding him, cursing himself now for want of a dagger.

As soon as his wrists were free, Beleg moved down and put a hand on his calf, holding it gently in place as he brought his sword around, a nervousness settling into his belly, because the idea that Túrin wouldn’t wake up at all had just crossed his mind.

He wiped the rainwater from his eyes and mumbled, more to reassure himself than Túrin.

“Don’t worry, melethen. I’ll take care of you... You’re going to be fine.”

Thunder rumbled across the sky like the toll of an awful bell. Gwindor covered his ears and threw himself to the ground as the deafening crackle broke over their heads.

Beleg’s hand slipped, just a bit, as Anglachel came through the cords, so it caught skin on the way out.

A little gash on Túrin’s ankle, already beginning to drip a watery pink.

The blade seemed to flash with some unseen light as Beleg cursed softly, pushing the cut bonds aside so he could get a better look at what he’d done, but before he got too far, he felt a distinctive shift beneath his hand.

Túrin was moving.

A delight flooded Beleg’s mind so quickly it made him dizzy.

The images of the two of them going south again, finding safe and familiar woods, played eagerly before his eyes. Beleg tending to his sweetheart until Túrin’s strength returned and his torment was forgotten. Returning to Menegroth together, and Túrin reclaiming what he’d abandoned, and becoming an honored and beloved prince again. Beleg properly asking Thingol for his foster son’s hand.

The two of them living the life they were meant to live, defying the shadow.

There was a giddy smile on his face when he turned towards Túrin. It was easy for him to see through the gloom, but his companion might not be able to, so Beleg reached down to touch Túrin’s face and reassure him with a familiar touch.

Only, the expression he saw through the darkness was a mask of terror and rage, and before his smile even had time to soften, Túrin had grabbed him, same remarkable strength in his hands even after all this time, and pushed him into the muddy ground, holding him there as fingers grasped madly for the sword in Beleg’s hand.

He could not recognize Túrin’s face.

The sword was wrenched from him, but he followed and caught wrist, and a weird sort of panic set in when he saw the mania in those black eyes. The rage of someone who thought he was defending his life against some awful foe.

The panic and the pity swirled around together in his head. Imagining the pain Túrin must have endured to look as feral as he did now, thoughtless to anything but his own defense. It was only surprise in his voice though, when he finally got a word from his faltering throat.

“Túri-“

Abruptly then, there was no more space for air in his lungs, and his brain alerted lazily to a pain in his chest that it didn’t seem too keen on processing.

The panicked, frenzied breathing overhead did not slow, but Beleg heard a rather strange gurgle from his own throat, and then the pain twisted inside him, and the ability to make any sound at all left him.

Túrin knelt over him, heaving with the effort of breath, clutching Anglachel’s hilt. The blade passed directly through Beleg’s heart, with the tip buried six inches into the mud beneath his back.

Such madness in those familiar eyes. A snarl where a loving smile ought to be.

Beleg’s chest made an odd crackling when he tried to breathe, and when he tried to raise a hand to Túrin’s face, it only made his fingers twitch weirdly.

He realized he was dying only when he found he could no longer close his eyes.

He could not recognize Túrin’s face.

But he saw the terror squirming in his eyes like rot, and he understood, before the end, and he forgave.

When the flash of lightning came at last, Gwindor already knew Beleg was dead, because he’d heard the last breath leave through mangled lungs, and nothing else return.

He didn’t want to see what the body actually looked like because he didn’t think he’d be able to look death in the eyes again, and he also did not want the Man to see and kill him too.

But when the white light came, Gwindor did carefully raise his head, though when he saw the expression on Túrin’s face, he wished he hadn’t.

Beleg had said quite a lot about Húrin’s son since he first found Gwindor and roused him from his despair. He’d heard of the courageous and hardy companion-in-arms, and the careful strategist, and the lover, kind and gentle as could be.

But in that moment Gwindor saw only an animal wounded and afraid, and a Man who had committed the unspeakable.

The gaunt, horrified look on his face was probably the most horrible thing Gwindor had ever seen outside of Angband. The slow dread of looking down at Beleg’s face and realizing he had done this and there was no going back, no changing it, and the horror of that realization would not leave his eyes, nor would the rage with himself, with his imagined foes, or the terror planted there in the root of him as the orcs howled far below, but no expression could make more headway than that of pure despair.

It was so awful than Gwindor lowered his head again and tucked his arms over it to try and block out whatever he could.

He didn’t know where to go without Beleg. What to do. There wasn’t a chance for them alone with all those orcs searching- soon enough they’d both end up dead, and all of Gwindor’s suffering would be for naught.

He waited until his heartbeat was somewhat steady, then he slowly lifted his head just enough to see if Túrin had run off in his madness yet.

He hadn’t. In fact, he hadn’t moved at all. His face had barely shifted.

“Túrin,” Gwindor breathed, cautiously reaching out a trembling hand until a lightning strike made him hastily pull it back.

The hills lit up stark white. Far below, orcs were swarming about themselves like terrified insects. The sight made his stomach crawl.

“Túrin, we need to move,” he whimpered, and this time he did properly reach out and touch the Man’s shoulder as gently as he could manage. “They’ll find us here...”

There was no reaction. Túrin hadn’t turned from Beleg. When Gwindor chanced a glance down at the body, he saw a bloody hand resting against Beleg’s cheek, and the thumb slowly stroking back and forth, methodical. The soft green eyes were wide open and stared up at the thunderclouds darkening the sky.

When he looked very closely, Gwindor could see Túrin’s eyes darting to and from different parts of the dead elf’s face, searching desperately for something he wouldn’t find.

Gwindor tightened his grip and gave the shoulder a pull.

“We need to go!”

Still Túrin didn’t stir. He hadn’t even acknowledged yet that Gwindor was there.

For a brief moment, Gwindor considered fleeing up into the highlands alone, but the idea disintegrated when he looked down again at Beleg.

The first face to show him kindness in who-knew-how many years- kindness he didn’t even deserve. The hands that had carefully lifted the net of despair from his mind and returned him to hope- hope for this Man, who Cúthalion had treasured above all else.

Gwindor couldn’t leave him here like this. He couldn’t leave Beleg, nor could he leave Túrin, for Beleg’s sake.

The last thing Cúthalion wanted to do was keep Túrin safe, so Gwindor would be the one to do it.

If he could never really feel clean touching the hands that took Beleg Cúthalion from this world, then so be it.

Slowly he got to his feet and limped to the edge of the dell so he could keep a better eye on the orcs down below.

Behind him, Beleg and Túrin were still as two statues in the downpour.

#jenga makes junk #fic #not extraordinarily happy with this one but so be it #beleg’s last word is his name sry can’t change my mind #most likeable boys #turin #turin turambar #beleg #turin x beleg #gwindor #tw blood #tw character death

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publiclyabsent-moved · 3 years

Text

she never meant for the brief walk home to last so long. after all, how many times has she walked from home to library and back again? how many places had she committed to memory on the path, knowing when the shadows aren’t quite right? not that she did anything about it. not that she could have ever guessed what that meant.

the house had never been there, and annette knew it. she didn’t realize she’d been walking in its lawn until the gate to the yard slammed and locked behind her. i must be dreaming, she thought. every living thing in the front yard was dead and decayed, crunching under her worn sneakers. she turned to the road, watching as cars passed by. no one seemed too concerned about the suddenly derelict house in a previously empty lot. perhaps she shouldn’t have been, either. maybe her memory was failing her, even though she would remember this. facing the house again, its dusty windowpane eyes stared her down. it was time to go back, the icy pull in her ribcage insisted. go back home, stay away, take detours. but the rest of her body pulled itself forward, toward the door. a dark wood, clean as new, with a silvery knocker, too ornate for this side of town. she stares at the door. without a thought, thin fingers wrap around the knocker, intending to knock three times. after the first, the door swings open, and she feels herself ushered inside, the icy feeling in her lungs getting colder.

the interior looked untouched by the time that had beaten the outside - the cozy grandeur elicited a gasp from the small brunette girl, which was greeted with an eerily warm female voice. “it really is beautiful, isn’t it?”

annette turned, hazel eyes landing on a tall blonde woman standing in a hall. this was wrong. this woman wasn’t alive; she was too sweet to someone just walking into her house. the surprise on annette’s face must have been clear, as the blonde offered a warmer laugh. “don’t worry, dear. i had the same reaction when i first saw it, i’ll admit. the woodwork, the walls … it always feels like home. even to strangers.” her teacup, decorated with little violets, clattered against its matching saucer as she approached, causing annette to take steps back toward the door. “oh, don’t go - here, allow me to introduce myself. i’m cassandra, cassandra james. my friends call me cassie. the tea is still warm, would you like some?” annette didn’t mean to offend by shaking her head, but that was the apparent result. “no? hm. that’s all right, no harm done. after all, that means more for me, doesn’t it?” somehow, at the blonde’s gesture, they both began walking, annette warily behind cassie, who seemed something akin to a magnet.

they arrived in the kitchen, and somehow annette found herself seated across from the woman, a matching teacup in front of her. she never agreed to tea. it didn’t smell right, and annette kept her hands clasped tightly in her lap. the kitchen looked slightly more as it ought to, though the table was clean. the walls seemed cracked and the floors were dusty, the floorboards creaky. cassie’s smile remained closed, though she was doing her best to make the younger feel welcomed in this impossible house. “those are some terribly large glasses, hm, dear? a little dusty, too - here.” she removed the glasses in one swift movement, causing annette’s hazel eyes to go wide. of course nothing was clear any more, but typically glasses did not brighten. everything was darker now, and the warmth that radiated from the house faded. it was all cold. annette could feel the icy feeling in her chest creep up the back of her neck. “perhaps this will be better, annette.” colder.

“i-i-i n-nev-ver -- i-i nev-ver t-t-tol-ld y-you m-m-my n-name.”

that causes cassie’s smile to widen, exposing stony teeth and a broken wire -- the kind used to wire a corpse’s jaw shut. the rest of her became older, more pointed, even greyer. she grew darker and colder just like the house, and annette was frozen in her seat. “oh, honey, didn’t you? i thought you had - ah, silly cassie. either way, drink your tea. please.” the teacup had become dirty and cracked, a too-dark liquid in it. annette’s breath grew shallow and quickened, but she wished she wasn’t so quick to panic. if she had kept calm, she could have just gone home. “i’ll be quite hurt if you don’t, annette.” it sounded like her mother’s words in another’s mouth. her own name felt like ice water, the consonants crisp and nearly pointed. cassie’s hollow, smokey eyes searched her guest’s face coldly, the icy smile unwavering. “well, you’ll have time. come then, i’d like to show you the house.” the voice had started ringing in annette’s head -- house, house, house, house.

annette began shaking her head, frozen in place. “n-no, m-m-miss, i-i sh-should b-be g-g-going, i --” her stammered protests were interrupted by cassie pulling her up with a sharp vice-grip around her upper arm, nails digging into flesh, before the hold adjusted to the uncertain arm-in-arm that gave only the illusion of the freedom to leave. before the ghost began walking, her other hand replaced the talons in annette’s arm. she was led out of the kitchen, back into the entrance. the warmth of before was gone, the sunlight that was barely peeking through dusty glass and warped wood even being iced down. the front door was barred from the inside, and had been that way for some time, the wood rotted and growing fungus. the temperature dropped further, inciting shivers in the medium. cassie continued to guide her along, into a darker hallway full of closed doors. annette’s voice was thin, near tears, “m-m-miss-s, p-p-pleas-se --”

cassie’s grip tightened angrily, turning annette flat against the wall with a strength it didn’t seem like she would be allowed to have. hazel eyes close, praying this is some horrible nightmare that she will wake up from. the tarnished silver on the walls clattered with the impact of her body; the doors sounded in accord with a motionless slam. annette felt herself shrinking beneath the blonde woman, who was growing taller and paler and colder by the second. “i said i would like to show you the house. though i imagine --” her long black fingernails dug harshly into the skin around annette’s jaw, almost surely drawing blood. with a gasp, annette’s eyes open. she is awake. pointed, stony smile widens -- “you’ll be well acquainted with it soon enough.” annette felt herself sink into the wall, her breathing becoming even more panicked. this only dug the fingernails deeper, encouraged by an almost helpless squeak. annette reached her feet down, trying to find the ground, feet no longer feeling the floor so soundly. “oh, no. no, no, no -- this won’t do, will it?” cassie’s grip never wavered or loosened, though her furious expression softened into something similar to sympathy. closer to bemused pity. the ice never melted. in fact, the grip tightened on her face, causing annette’s eyes to water.

“oh, poor dear. you are so small, aren’t you? why, i could just …”

cassie’s free hand wrapped the whole way around annette’s wrist, smokey eyes turning their focus there. her grasp tightened, squeezing the joint harshly, before yanking annette’s arm (and thus, annette) away from the wall, ignoring the living girl tumbling over her own feet, only having three limbs with which to catch herself. “now, dear, do get up. there is so much of the house to see!” upon being forceded back onto her feet, annette couldn’t help using her available hand to grasp at her neck, trying to breathe, the panic welling up like fingerprints.

time wasn’t right. it never is in these sorts of things, of course, but it was particularly not right in that house. being dragged down the hall took hours, though it should only have been moments. sounds swirled in her hair, in her head, all over, echoes of memories that were not her own, that rattled her skull, and cassie very well may have been harming her further. annette’s mind was far from present, the truths of this place careening her through each floorboard. cassie killed her husband. cassie killed her children. cassie killed every other person who hid in their bedrooms in the house. she confessed as much. after all, the house hadn’t really been there in fifty years, and hadn’t been occupied in fifty before that. what was the harm? the harm, it seemed, had pent up and was soaking into the one living thing on the property. the house’s walls blurred, past and present leaking together into annette’s eyes and ears, the solid world nearly vanishing.

moments of clarity were few and far between - only when cassie hit or swiped at her, a sharp and too-gravelly “are you listening, girl? or are you trying to die, just like everyone else?” ringing clearly through the warped wooden frame of the house. it caused all her senses to snap vividly into reality, and that very reality sent her flying into misty memories again. the blood drawn from her cheeks and mouth was dried and likely stained on the sweater she’d worn, she’d never wear again, and the dust and grime of age and death had coated half of it; the smell will never come out. afterward, annette would only recall the hands of the other spirits furiously grabbing at her in her nightmares. all the hands were rough, some small and some withering, some sharp and some too tough for benevolence, they pulled her back to reality more than once. why? why would the hands of these fellow victims want her dead? why won’t they help? each hand drew a panicked scream from her, till one covered her mouth, or accidentally half-gouged her gums, or otherwise kept her quiet.

the last time -- she would recall this one clearly as the last, though she never knew just how long she had been there. she would always remember it. she would wake up in a blind panic for years, her mind pulling her back into the rotted wood and dusty furniture. cassie flew into a final fit of rage at annette, who managed out one pitiful “please,” digging nails into her shoulders and swiping once at her face, screaming furiously about disrespect and no longer permitting this insolence. none of the other screaming was coherent, though she continued to shriek as she took annette by her ankles and dragged her halfway up a flight of stairs, planning to travel the other half. the plan was clear: she was going to throw the medium down the stairs. she was going to add someone to the collection. annette tried frantically to use her thin, shaking fingers to hold onto something, only receiving splinters and ripped fingertips. the dust that she kept inhaling in shallow gasps tore at her lungs, which still felt frozen solid. her throat was too raw to scream, but the unfeeling hands of her fellow victims heard her anyhow. countless hands, stronger than ever before, finally understanding enough, took hold of her (likely sprained) wrists and arms, grabbed her middle just a little too tight, and then took hold of cassie’s ankles and pulled her down, causing her to scream anew, kicking and stomping at the hands. “enough! enough! i am the woman of the house, i demand you all let me go!” the sharp eagle’s grip on annette’s ankle disappeared, her shoe colliding with the floor with a dull thud. cassie’s screaming melted away, though she isn’t sure if that was really happening or if she simply started fading again.

facedown into the old and moth-eaten carpet, the medium cried silently, afraid to move. she was hyper-aware of the spectral hands letting go, leaving finger-shaped bruises in their place. the stairs flattened into solid earth, into grass. it smelled like dirt. her mouth tasted like blood. the tears on her face stung each crescent shaped gash on her face. she could still feel every cut, every bruise, and the sharp, thudding pulse in her wrists. the sun was warm again, but different. it was not afraid to touch her, like it had been. the grass she was laying in was wet -- it hadn’t rained, had it? she couldn’t move. she was afraid to look and see this as another illusion, another mental escape. everything hurt, so sharply - her breath remained shallow, but the freezing in her chest thawed. slowly, her shredded fingers began to feel the grass. it was damp, sharp in the dull way that grass is sharp. she felt clover. annette wasn’t sure it was real, but the sun was so warm. slowly, painfully, but surely, she rolled herself over, the sunlight shining in her tears. she closed her eyes again, breath deepening as much as it could. that was the sun, all right. she could hear the cars, passing by without a second thought, just like always. the house was never there, except that it was. she had its wood lodged into her hands. the sore cuts in her mouth, on her face, every injury confirmed it had been. but could she get herself home? her breath was still hollow, releasing more than it took. she knew the route. but could she trust it? she could walk through her door and enter that other house again. she could still be there.

she must have been laying there for some time. time was moving normally again, minutes were minutes and seconds were seconds, but her head still swam in that house. no more, she thought. i have to go home. slowly, and with no shortage of painful gasps, she used her elbows to push herself to a seated position. her vision went spotty, cassie’s graveyard teeth and the funeral home wire floating in front of her once more. it cleared. another slow and painful lift, and she was on her feet. there was no gate in front of the lot. there never had been, the fence was barely holding itself together. she had been in trouble the moment she found herself on the other side of the fence. each step was staggering, and she limped her way back home, jumping and wincing at every passing car.

she needed to know how long she had vanished for. it could have been hours; it could have been months. time is the hardest part with all of this, she knew that. time will take you and spin you and set you down just off from where you started, but have aged you by years.

she noted the easter-themed flag across the way. april. it had been too long; she’d missed all of march. probably her mother’s birthday. standing on her own doorstep, she winced as she reached for the spare key. she unlocked the door and stepped inside, half-expecting either the rotted house or her mother’s stern shouts. it was clean. it was neither warm nor cold. her mother was not home. though she knew she would catch the devil later, she could only carry herself to the couch before collapsing on it, swiftly falling asleep.

she would clean the couch later. she would tend her wounds later. a dreamless sleep was not too much of a luxury, was it? surely the james family would let her alone just long enough. surely, they were still dealing with the matriarch. she knew that upon waking, she would have to deal with hers. the very normal, very human dread of an angry mother was the last thing to cross her before she fell asleep, marking the couch with a dirt and blood impression of herself.

such a shame, that it would be the last dreamless sleep for some time to come.

#ᴀ. facts.#hey so this was a thing tht happened to her mmmmm last spring but i finally tweaked the writing to where i like it #its important bc this is . smthn she is still struggling w #ask to tag /#its all under a read more n its v long but

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sasorikigai · 3 years

Note

❛ what can i say to make it better ? ❜ (for Kuai, either verse)

𝑸𝑼𝑬𝑺𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑴𝑰𝑵𝑫𝑺 . || @sonxflight || accepting

📝 || His weight disburses into the couch, the dissipation of his physical exertion also sinking in its place with such irresistible gravity. Taut tension of his muscles and his exhaustion of before melts away with the familiar comfort of Ryou Sakai’s pillar-like presence. The nerve-grating shake of the earth and walls are gradually diminishing beneath the perturbed psyche as Kuai Liang quickly realizes that all of his being seems intact, lest the scurrying tumble had painted in grimes and squelches of numerous cuts and bruises, although nothing constitutes anything too serious. Despite harboring the stagnant motionless of winter’s eternal stillness, Kuai Liang’s hear throbs and fibrillates with deep-permeated pain and agony, breathing iron and ferrous rust beneath the long-withered and wilted strength.

If it weren’t for Ryou’s anchoring grasp of his lean shoulders, offering tranquil calm and peace of mind, he would have long been drifted away; floating, slipping, faded away beneath the thickened obfuscated clouds as he would tumble and shatter, with no one to save the day. How the fathomless depths of his hollow gaze remains darkly succulent, desperate and yearning in wanton affection. The tighter the wire of his constricting world becomes, as it twists and turns, he would sink deeper and further into the abysmal hollow as he would withdraw and become reticent.

The walls of his compact office begins to thrum, and he wants all the barrage of emotions gnawing his chest to discharge, lest he continues to bleed. In seeking justice for all the injustice and wrong criminality in the world, the Special Crime Investigator had lost the semblance of his own being, his own existence. With his head far gone into the realms of supernaturality, where wicked evil lay in the forms of mangled corpses with the stages of decay and rot perpetuating all his five senses, he had lost more than a fragment of his proverbial self.

Perhaps that was what he was destined to become; the intangibility of ripped colors and shapes, as the virulent toxicity of his subconscious would metastasize in the pit of his stomach and lungs, as copious slick of his seat glues his flesh to his tattered shit and ripped trousers. It is another one of his private carnage exercised in the throes of deep slumber, and Kuai Liang knows, as he adheres to his beloved’s all-encompassing embrace that even this tranquil comforting solace is a fleeting sensation, one of the only tangible manifestations he could grasp onto as a reality, against the paramount nonexistence that plucks him away from what is all too tangible and magnetic.

“I just want to sleep through it all. Drown the sensation that I feel in these moments of unconsciousness is the closest thing to peace I have felt in all these months.” The spiraling darkness always have prevented him from resting his mind until he no longer cares, until he feels his body is no longer a part of this world. As his nose presses against the junction of Ryou Sakai’s chest, then the triad of his bewildered heart, the angry mind, and anguish-breathing lungs of his could finally let go of the ultimate duress that is his suffering. Lest he be pierced with anguish, would Kuai Liang seek to speak love, to let it be carved into his life and his dearly beloved’s life in the forms of tenderness, and still that ancient necessary pain preserve. “Would you join me, and be in the company of my repose? There is nothing else I desire, but a ubiquity of normalcy in my life.” 📝 ||

#✗ bone-deep chill of despair (sub-zero)#✗ monster encroaching on my heels (modern au)#(northern lights)#(relationships; samurai jack)#(I wrote this in the airplane so this may be a bit rusty BUT)#(have this poor boi)#sonxflight

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the-magnus-backlogs · 3 years

Text

Statement of Suzanna Harkness regarding a manuscript she reviewed for publishing.

Statement taken direct from subject, 27th December 1993.

You wind up stumbling down a lot of weird rabbit holes when you work for a small press long enough. Niche genres you’d really rather remain oblivious to, arts majors trying to break the mould by submitting something they swear up and down you’ll have ‘never seen before’. Never mind if it’s actually legible, but that’s…that’s another matter, I guess. I’m not here to talk about the subpar sci-fi erotica or whatever, I’m here because I found something weird.

I’d like to say right off the bat that I’ve got a strong stomach. Wouldn’t have lasted this long in the company if I didn’t. We only publish a couple hundred books a year, but we take in all sorts around here. Sometimes it feels like our only real submission requirements are ‘unmarketable to the general public’, and it seems like anybody with a half-baked idea is willing to try their luck at tossing their unedited manuscript into the ring.

That’s where I come in. Wading through the mountains of unusable garbage, hunting for hidden gems. I’ve even found a couple, but mostly it’s just about finding something readable. Or something we can pass off as being readable for those rare readers capable of ‘comprehending the author’s artistic vision’. Yeah, the marketing team winds up throwing phrases like that around a lot.

Maybe I’m being unfair. I was a lot more patient about that sort of thing when I started. So preoccupied with not coming across as judgemental, but I’ve worked in publishing over ten years now.

It used to be more common for us to get manuscripts sent in through the post, back then. Nowadays it’s pretty much all done online. A couple we get from literary agents, but most are just emailed in by aspiring writers who stumbled across our site, usually after receiving their rejection letters from the two dozen publishing houses that show up above us on pretty much any search engine.

Every once in a blue moon, though, a manilla envelope will find its way onto my desk. Some bright spark who thinks they’re above using a laptop decides to send their manuscript in the old fashioned way. Sometimes it’s just a precaution in case we somehow miss the half dozen emails they’ve already sent out to every listed staff member on the site. Hell, sometimes it’s written by typewriter.

You know typewriters require special paper to print? Special ink, too. They probably spend more writing the damn thing than they’ll ever see in royalties, but to each their own, I guess. I even got one handwritten, once. The idiot sent a follow-up a month later anxiously asking if he could have it back if we weren’t going to consider it because it was his only copy. Can you imagine? Mailing off the only copy of your handwritten manuscript to some backroom small press without any insurance.

By comparison, this manuscript was relatively normal. It had been typed, I think. The paper was…I guess it was sort of crumpled, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. The postal service isn’t always the most careful about this sort of thing, and it wasn’t really packaged properly. Just shoved loose in a box and shipped out.

It was pre-bound. Just a bundle of papers held together with a few strands of red string. A little unusual, but not exactly throwing up any red flags. Even when I started reading it, I didn’t know. How the hell could I have?

It was good, though. Maybe that should have been my first clue. The prose dragged on a bit, but hey. There are plenty of successful writers out there who probably could have benefited from a harsher editor. They made up for it, in my opinion. Even just skimming those first few pages, I was hooked. Didn’t even really realise it when I was due my lunch break. I was so focused on that damn book.

The visuals were the thing. Plenty of writers can pour out half decent prose, but something about this writer…they had a way of making it feel real, you know? All the little touches, the scenes they crafted from the ground up. It felt…it felt like I couldn’t stop reading. Even if I’d wanted to, and trust me, back then I didn’t.

I didn’t leave my office that day. Barely noticed it when the phone rang, ignored all my emails. I really, really thought we’d accidentally stumbled on a gold mind. Not just a passable debut novel, but an honest to god genuine talent.

The funny thing is, I can’t even really remember what it was that drew me in. Couldn’t tell you what genre it fell under. The plot itself was practically non-existent. A girl who dreamed of being a dancer and crept out of her house to practice under the moonlight in a clearing in the forest behind her house.

Then, one blissful night, illuminated by the full moon, the forest provided her with a partner. The partner.

Nothing too out there, right? Your basic fantasy-romance type stuff. Pretty tame compared to a lot of what we publish, but I was enthralled from the first description of their first dance. Barefoot and so light on her feet her toes barely skimmed the dew-slick grass. They loved each other, and in that moment, I think I understood that. Really knew what it was to love someone so much you’d offer them your still beating heart if it would mean holding onto them for just a second longer.

Except it wasn’t love. Not really. It was an obsession.

I couldn’t stop devouring page after page as their budding romance grew and spiralled, twisting into something unrecognisable. Those whispered words of I can’t live without you became their mantra as they clung to one another so tightly they left bruises on one another’s skin. Soft kisses turned sharp as they came to understand what it was to need to consume and be consumed. They needed one another in a way neither could truly provide. Not really.

In their despair, they begged the forest to offer them a solution, and it gave them one. A way to lie in the sweet summer meadow forever, and in their glee they didn’t think to ask what it would cost.

Not until they began to rot, anyway.

My memories around here get a little hazy, or maybe the words were just less clear. The writing seemed…hurried towards the end, but the couple didn’t seem to mind much when the insects began to burrow through their skin and make their homes inside. They had so much love to give, literally brimming with it. As sickening as it was, it sounded almost…fond. Like the writer truly wanted to give them the happy ending they deserved, but somehow couldn’t think of anything more befitting than allowing their decaying corpses to be infested with creepy crawlies.

It was sick. The concept was sick. Everything about it was sick, but even now I can’t truly convey how vividly they described it. The picture they painted was so clear. Even the affection the insects lavished upon them as they crawled and burrowed through their decaying flesh. It was…God, it used to make me sick just thinking about it, you know that?

Because it wasn’t enough that I had to read it. That I physically couldn’t tear my eyes away. I had to see it. The idea of it…It got its hooks in deep.

By the time I got to the end, I was at a loss for what to do with the manuscript. On the one hand it was probably one of the best written pieces we’d ever received, and there are plenty of twisted readers out there looking for something to churn their stomach.

Somehow it didn’t feel right to publish it, though. I’ve read body horror before, but this…It wasn’t right. I couldn’t…I couldn’t just inflict that on people. How do you make someone understand, truly understand, when they’re signing up to read something that won’t ever let them go? How do you make them understand that the words they’re paying you to read will imprint themselves against the backs of their eyelids? That they’ll grow and spread and fester.

I dream about that dancer in the moonlit meadow. The descriptions of her actual appearance were relatively scarce, but I can still see her face when I close my eyes. I see her intertwined with her dance partner, caked in a mossy fungus that failed to disguise the living hive crawling beneath their skin. I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins, anymore. Not even sure if I could tell them apart looking at them, what with their withered skin being so covered in filth and grime.

That damned book made it sound like something beautiful, but their beauty decayed with their childish notions of romance. They chose to become hollow husks of themselves to make room for the love they could no longer contain, but that’s…that’s not love. It can’t be…right?

So why can’t I stop thinking about the way their fingers intertwined before rigor mortis set in and cemented their bond forever?

I can’t concentrate on anything else anymore. At first it was just a niggling seed of doubt at the back of my mind, but it’s grown so much since then. That image burrowed so deep inside my mind turned its hungry mouth towards the parts of me which were most vulnerable, eating and eating and eating and eating until I could think of nothing else.

I don’t know why I never thought to burn it. Maybe I was worried it would make it worse. Maybe it felt too much like sacrilege. I never read it again after that first time, though I considered it often. It sat on my desk while my other assignments lay scattered around it, disregarded without a second thought. After all, there was no room left in my mind for anything else anymore. Every other passage I tried to read just seemed so…dry. So false. I used to get so invested in the lives of paper people, but now I know what true love is, how could the half-baked notions of romance ever compare? I tried at first, but by the end I just…stared at it. Waiting.

Maybe if I’d tried to destroy it…Too late now, I suppose. I never let it see the printing presses, but I did let it go in the end. Some old man came in asking for it specifically. Something about it being a collectable.

I don’t know how an unpublished manuscript could be considered a collector’s item, and frankly I didn’t ask. I’m not sure if I even really cared about what he’d do with it by that point. Did it bother me that I might be condemning him to share my fate? It doesn’t now, I know that much.

It’s…I was hoping this might help me clear things up, but I just couldn’t see any of it straight. I can’t see anything, anymore. Not really. It may have started in my dreams, but once I let her in…They’re everywhere, now. I saw him in the faces of my colleagues before the press finally let me go… I don’t remember how long ago now. I think the power company cut the power at some point. It doesn’t matter now.

The funny thing is, I really thought they cared about me. They did, at first. I think. It all sort of blurs together, but I remember how they used to talk about me when they thought I couldn’t hear. The nervous looks they’d send me when I zoned out at my desks. Then they staged their first intervention, and I saw it. I saw her. It was the man I saw painted across the features of everyone I knew, in the arches of eyebrows and slants of cheekbones, but it was her I saw reflected in their eyes.

It was her I saw in the mirror, before they ran out of space inside my skull, and the maggots took my eyes…or maybe I imagined that part too.

I’m pretty sure it’s too late for me now, but when I heard about you guys I figured it was worth a shot. I’m full of it. Whatever that feverish contagion that claimed the couple was. That sickly, rotting thing they mistook for love. I can feel it now. I can understand it now and it’s so much. Already I’m on the brink of bursting with it, I think.

I just can’t wait to share.

#submission #the magnus archives #corruption #cw #body horror #insects #obsession #death

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dailydianakko · 4 years

Text

Withered Flowers

Okay, I personally really hate this one. I feel like its not that cohesive. I wish I could write this a little better, but alas I have NO time to do anything anymore. Since I won’t be participating in Diakko week, please take this humble offering instead. Check out my AO3 here.

Chains scraped the rock with Akko’s every movement, however small. The shackles on her wrists pinched and tugged at her skin as she slowly etched another line into the stone. The overhang was littered with the numerous white gashes. Each one had been carefully carved with her claws. She pulled her hand back and blew the dust away, not even bothering to flinch at the grating sound of iron on stone. She had become all too used to the noise over the years. After all, today marked the hundredth year of her imprisonment.

Akko turned away from the rock and listlessly looked out at the forest around her. Dead trees littered a barren landscape. Grey stone on rotting wood as far as her eyes could see. The only sign of life that could be seen was a single flower, peeking from the cracks in the rock by her feet. She leaned back and closed her eyes. Akko could remember when the forest had been full of life. Birds had filled the treetops with song during the day and the raucous calls of foxes had filled the night. Since her imprisonment, the forest had waned drastically.

Shifting slightly, Akko flexed her toes in a futile attempt to ward off the weariness in her limbs. The unpleasant tingle was always present. A side effect from her years trapped in this rocky hollow. In an effort to stave off the numbness that was creeping up her legs, Akko turned her thoughts inward. It had been long enough. Had they written legends about her? Had stories of a sealed Oni of destruction begun to be woven beside the hearth fires at night? Did tales of a monster who lived by absorbing the life force of others creep into children’s nightmares? Would mothers warn their children not to come into the cursed forest, lest the meat fall from their bones, and they rot away?

She snorted to herself quietly. Akko only lived as others did, consuming life to nourish her own. The only difference is that her method was more direct. And more chaotic, a bitter voice in the back of her mind whispered. Bile rose in her throat as she remembered the day that she had been sealed here. Akko had been so small, so young. The red headed wandering hero Akok had admired did not hesitate to trick Akko into her manacles. Akko had been told it was for her own safety; that left unchecked she would destroy the world. Akko would have rather her hero killed her.

She had been told that “death was a part of living, and you have just as much right to life as the rest of us.” The words hadn’t been for Akko;that she knew now. It had been said merely to ease the conscience of her captor. Her hero had lied and betrayed her. Left Akko to rot for all time, while she enjoyed wandering the world. Akko let out a bitter laugh. Human lifespans were short, and Akko had obviously been forgotten. Left to gaze out at the ruined forest. There would be no hero to save her, the villain in this tale.

“Why are you laughing?” Akko froze at the sound of someone else speaking. She whipped around to identify the speaker and flinched, startled from the deafening clatter of the chains striking the ground. A human woman stood before her. Her blonde hair had green highlights; almost as if it were stained with chlorophyll, and her beautiful blue eyes sparkled with merriment. Her clothes were like nothing Akko had seen before, pale blue robes that folded over in on itself. She looked like she was wearing a flower. So caught up in her thoughts, Akko failed to respond to the stranger.

“Well? Can you speak?” The stranger cocked her head and placed her hands on her hips. A small tapping noise filled the hollow as she tapped her foot in impatience. “It is rude to keep someone waiting.”

“I can speak.” Akko’s voice sounded harsh with disuse. “Who are you?” She glared distrustfully at the woman. The last contact she had with a human ended in her bound in chains. If her luck ran the same way with this one, she would probably end up with a knife in her back. Death, while an escape from her prison, was something Akko would rather confront on her own terms. After all, she still wanted what had been denied to her all these years. To travel the world herself and see what it had to offer.

“I am a traveler, you may call me Diana.” Diana said with a curtsey. “May I have the pleasure of knowing your name?” Diana straightened up and smiled expectantly at Akko.

“I’m Akko, the Oni who was sealed here one hundred years ago.” Akko said while she scrubbed at her eyes with her hand. She couldn’t believe a human had wondered their way into this forest. Had she been forgotten after all these years?

“Oh I know,” Diana responded, rocking on her heels. “I came to bring you stories.”

“Stories?” Akko said with a huff. She’d rather have her freedom and learn of the world herself, firsthand. Besides, why would humanity offer her news now? It had been a hundred years since anyone last visited her prison. Akko felt her claws click against her chains absentmindedly. Perhaps this human could offer information, as well as a way to free Akko from her chains. “I would like to hear them.”

Diana let out a bright laugh. It was full of life and joy, and Akko was enchanted. “Very well. What would you like to hear first?”

“Tell me of the ocean” Akko demanded. News of the cities could wait, after all had never seen the ocean before. All she knew from tales told to her as a child was that it was water that stretched onwards without end. She felt a spark of excitement light in her chest. It had been ages since she felt like this. Caught up in the moment, Akko scooted forwards until her chains gently tugged her back in recoil. She quickly settled herself down and looked at Diana expectantly.

“Well,” Diana began, sitting gently down on the ground and crossing her legs. “The ocean stretches far beyond the horizon. The shore is awash in treasures, and the water tastes sweet. Every night it spits out the moon and swallows the sun.”

“Does it? Does it really?” Akko’s hand closed tight around her shackles, and her knuckles went white from the pressure. She felt a gnawing urge to see the ocean and to taste the sweet water. She only knew the taste of the bitter rainwater that collected into the pools around her prison, and a faded memory of the clear taste of the water from the village well.

“Yes. The ocean is gentle and is as placid as could be. The fish have scales of gold and silver. All I speak is the truth.” Diana said as she made grand sweeping gestures with her hand. She paused and met Akko’s eyes. The Oni couldn’t sense any deceit in her words. Akko felt her heart beat faster in desire. She too wanted to see the fish flicker in the calm water, and to pick up rare treasure off the shoreline. She listened to Diana speak more about the sea and what it had to offer. As Diana spoke, the shadows slowly grew longer. Night was falling.

When Diana slowly moved to get up, Akko let out a cry of despair. “Will you come again tomorrow?” The brunette’s eyes flickered anxiously. She couldn’t let Diana leave. She needed to know more. She hungered to know about the world she had been denied.

“Of course, I will be here awhile yet. When I visit again tomorrow, I shall tell you of life in the capitol.” Diana said with a small wave. Akko closed her eyes and heaved a sigh of relief. The human would come back. When she opened them, Diana had already left the area. With a sigh, the Oni settled down for a restless night, thoughts of the ocean and capitol flitting through her mind.

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When Akko woke up from her restless sleep, Diana was already there. Her clothes looked a little duller than they had the day before, but it was probably due to the weak morning sun peeking up over the horizon. Akko stretched and settled back down. Her legs trembled in impatience. “Tell me of the capitol, please.” She said with her eyes trained on Diana.

Akko stiffened with anticipation when Diana gave her an impish grin. “Well, the streets are paved with marble.” Diana began as she gestured low. Akko closed her eyes and tried to imagine it. “Fountains inlaid with gold line the square, and the water is clean and cool. Along the streets there are many vendors, each one with more beautiful wares than the last.”

“I can see it.” Akko murmured. In her mind’s eye she could practically hear the bustle of people and the smell of food carts. She saw golden trinkets and rolls of silk. She could feel the spray of marble fountains beveled with gold and see the reflection of the shining water on the street.

“The palace is made of carved gemstones, and the floors are polished pearl. At the front gate are statues of the grand witch Chariot. They stand tall and people offer sacrifices of wheat and wine to honor her, and pray to her spirit for protection.”

Akko held her tongue at the mention of her once-revered hero. Of course they would honour the hero who saved them from calamity. The brave traveler who chained her to this desolate rock. She clenched her teeth in rage. She had to know what the people were saying about her. If the stories told of Chariot’s true feat of chaining a mere child to a rock and leaving her to rot.

“Tell me, Diana. Do they tell stories about me?” Akko looked down at the stone. She had memorized the surface long ago. She had watched the wind wear the once sharp nicks in the stone smooth over time. One hundred years was enough to change the surface of rock. It surely was enough time for people to change a shameful story into one of glory.

“They do.”Diana said, her voice dropping low. “The legends tell of a terrible monster. An ugly ogre who roamed the land and vowed to destroy all life. It is said that Chariot sealed it away out of pity instead of giving it the judgment it deserved.”

“Do you think I’m terrible?” Akko asked. Her eyes reluctantly met Diana’s. She was afraid of what she would see. Would there be dark and deep loathing that directed at Akko for being a frightening monster? Would watery pity be reflected back? What about shame, for the sin that a fellow human inflicted on Akko.

“No.” Diana spoke slowly. Her eyes looked into Akko’s. A calm blue gazing into a tumultuous red. “I think you’re quite strange.”

“Strange?” Akko’s head cocked to the side, her anger replaced with confusion.

“Would you say I’m beautiful?” Diana asked as she gently ran her finger through the dirt.

“...Yes.” Akko answered reluctantly. Her cheeks tinged with red. An uncomfortable warm feeling had risen in her chest, and she quickly shook her head in an effort to disperse the feeling.

“What makes you say that?”

Akko couldn’t answer. Obviously Diana was beautiful, she was bright and colorful. She was just like a flower in full bloom. But what makes a flower beautiful? Is it the color, the scent? Is it the silky feel of the petals? Akko’s mouth dropped open as the answer struck her. A flower is only beautiful because others think it to be. Anything has the ability to be beautiful, since beauty was something assigned by others. Akko wondered if she too could be considered beautiful.

“Well,” Diana said looking up at the sky. “It appears you have your answer. I’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll tell you whatever you wish.” With that, Diana walked off into the morning mist.

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The next day it was raining. The cold water poured from the sky and dripped through the cracks in the stone. The hollows in the rock had filled with water, almost to the point of overflowing.

Akko sat huddled in a corner completely drenched. She had curled in on herself in an attempt to keep warm. Unfortunately, the cold metal manacles on her wrists and ankles sapped away at the warmth in her body. At least she wouldn’t be thirsty for quite some time. She would be able to drink from the puddles for quite some time.

When Diana appeared before her out of the rainy mist, Akko gave a startled jump. The sound of the water must have disguised Diana’s footsteps. The weather must have been affecting Diana as well. She looked a little faded, and there were brown streaks along the hem of her clothes. A result of the mud, no doubt. Akko watched as Diana sat on the sodden earth without a care.

“What would you like to hear about today, Akko?” Diana asked, as if completely unbothered by the rain.

“Aren’t you cold?” Akko said with a sniffle. Humans were much more delicate than Oni. Akko couldn’t believe Diana was even out in this weather. She wasn’t even shivering.

“I quite like the rain,” Diana said with a smile as she tilted her palms to the sky. “It makes the earth smell fresh.”

“I guess.” Akko grumbled. She tucked her arms around her waist a little tighter, staving off a shiver. She blinked as a drop of water fell onto her nose. Akko couldn’t fathom why Diana would rather sit completely unprotected outside of the overhang. She could only reach halfway across, so Diana couldn’t be scared of being attacked. “Why don’t you come inside at least? I don’t want you getting sick.”

Diana’s gentle smile turned a little strained at Akko’s question. “I would, but I have been forbidden from doing so. Shall I tell you about the great forest?”

Akko nodded. It obviously looked like it was something Diana didn’t want to do. The cold feeling that came with the thought of possibly losing Diana was unpleasant. Akko didn’t want to chase her one friend off by prying too deeply. There would be time. After all, Akko wasn’t going anywhere. Unless she was freed, she would be here for the rest of eternity. Akko gave a shiver and focused her attention once more on Diana. She wanted to hear about the Forest of Ancients.

With a small smile she listened as Diana wove a tale about trees as tall as giants. As she closed her eyes, images of a forest filled with flowers made of colored glass and clear streams began to fill her mind. The rain was slowly drowned out by the sound of trees whispering to her tales from before the days of mankind. She could smell the loamy soil and see strange woodland creatures. Deer made from living wood, tigers the size of elephants with sharpened tusks, and frogs that sang intricate melodies. As Diana finished her story, she paused for a moment.

“Akko,” Diana said as Akko slowly fell out of the daydream. “If I were to die, would you be sad?”

Akko didn’t quite know how to respond. “I’d miss your stories,” She said after a moment. “I’d miss learning about the world.” It was the truth. Diana was useful to Akko. She was a source of stories and a buffer against loneliness.

“But would you miss me?” Diana asked again insistently.

Akko said nothing, still deep in thought. She was thinking about Diana and the light that she had brought to her prison.

Diana looked up at the sky. “I’d like it if you were to miss me. But don’t forget me. Think about me sometimes, and the time we spent together. After all, I was born for this kind of purpose.”

“You won’t die.” Akko said, suddenly feeling anxiety claw at her heart. “You never stay long enough for my power to affect you. You’ll be here for a while yet.” She reached out desperately at Diana. Akko could taste the bile on her tongue and hear her heartbeat. She couldn’t lose Diana, or her stories.

“I wonder.” Diana said with a gentle smile. It didn’t quite reach her eyes, and looked more sad than happy. Akko watched as Diana sifted the wet dirt through her fingers for a brief moment. She had to bite her tongue when the rain stopped and Diana finally stood up to go. Without the rain interfering with her sight, Akko could see Diana fully.

The ends of her cloak looked frayed, and her eyes were tired. Diana still had that same smile on her face, but it looked more strained. “Will you be back?” Akko said. Her voice was barely a whisper, and she turned her eyes to the stone. She didn’t want to see Diana look like that. Like she was sickly and worn.

“Maybe.” Akko heard Diana say. When she looked up to gaze one last time at Diana, she was gone. Akko grit her teeth and held her chains tightly in her hands. Diana would be back. She had no reason to leave. She would be fine and she’d visit Akko again, and tell her more stories about the world around her.

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When morning rose once more, Akko waited for Diana to come back. She sat straining her ears to hear footsteps or the brush of cloth on stone. She waited until the shadows grew long and covered the hollow she was imprisoned in. Finally wreathed in darkness, Akko sobbed. When the sun pierced the shadows in the morning, Akko looked about once more with tear stained eyes. Diana was nowhere in sight. There was no bright blue among the dead trees. No sight of her strange streaked hair among the gray stone.There was nothing in Akko’s hollow indicating Diana had been there. The only thing that remained in Akko’s prison were her chains and a small withered flower.

#lwa #little witch academia #akko kagari #diana cavendish #diakko #dianakko #lwa au #my writing #daily speaks #sorry for this hot shit

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benjamin-idkk · 4 years

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Aries — tell me, how does it feel to live with your fists curled, always seeking something to fight? how does it feel to be so rabid, so vicious, so hellbent on making a ruin out of yourself? how does it feel to be the knife between your own ribs? darling, you are the war and the battlefield and there is no victory or glory in bringing yourself to your knees. they have sung of your rage, see; and none of them have known that most of it is aimed at yourself. it will always feel hollow, somewhere, somehow, like you’re full of holes; it will always feel like you’re inadequate. you must learn to live with it, one way or the other, before you fill the grave you’ve dug. (you’re choking on the thoughts, half too cowardly and far too proud to end what you began; but it’s so late, by god, too late – you’re halfway to hell, the flames licking the soles of your feet. it’s fine, you think. you didn’t know what you wanted when you picked up the axe, anyway.)

Taurus — breathing decay is surprisingly productive; flowers are still flowers, even if it’s just rot blooming on the walls. it feels good to birth something for a change, when all you’ve ever done was turn everything to dust as you brushed your hands over it, tracing the contours, memorizing the shape; a part of you hates it, this gift for bringing disaster – but hey, we can’t all be the cure, can we? some have to be the poison, and being a cancer comes in handy in a world that’s only constant in its’ tendency to go to hell and fall around you. and it’s not that you need salvation; god knows you’re beyond it, anyway, and heroes are never fun the way the villain is, but god, it gets so lonely, living in this castle of dust clouds, watching the world move on. (and the truth is, sometimes you wish you were Midas instead; statues are better than wind, and although cold, gold is something you can wrap your arms around, and in the right light the shadows it casts start to dance. the truth is, you wish you could understand what makes them run away; is it the catastrophes, or are you lacking elsewhere?)

Gemini — there’s ghosts in the attic and you can’t quite remember how to open the bone, can’t quite remember how it feels to live with just one voice, one single throat screaming itself raw inside your mind, making the blood sing, here, cold at the elbow, frozen in the wrists. no; you don’t remember the before, don’t remember what it was like to take a stance without having to fight yourself over the name of your truth. you’ve been praying for ages and the doors are still closed, the windows still shut; and the sun doesn’t shine, not here, no, and god, good god, it’s so damn cold inside. you used to be a forest fire, you used to burn, but now you’re all ashes and for the life of you you can’t remember how to put yourself back together. (the sun will still be aflame when the world will go to hell; but before that, hell is here, in the now, in you, planted right between the lungs, polluting with greedy mouths all that it can reach, staining you white, straining the breath thin until there isn’t any left in you. hurry; put it out and clean the walls, or there’ll be nothing left, come spring.)

Cancer — it’s a vicious cycle, not too different from tongues lapping hungry at the time on the face of a clock or the way the ocean embraces the shore at high tide, whispering its’ love into the sand with the fervent ardor only something without an omnivore’s instincts is capable of nurturing in its’ chest; it’s you on your knees with flowers spilling out of your throat and wondering why does it always go wrong even if you know the answer: it’s because love’s a dance and you can’t keep spinning forever, it’s because there is no equality in passion and you are always the one who invests more, hands trembling, breaking, giving piece after piece until you’re almost entirely hollow, because god, good god, it’s beautiful, so beautiful – the feeling, the moment. (you’ve sold yourself so many times for the same ephemeral jewel; and that’s exactly why you want it, isn’t it? love is such a beautiful thing, like peace and kissing heaven square on the mouth even if you know it can’t last, because beautiful things never do – and does it matter, really, what dies first when we all meet in the grave?)

Leo — it will always taste like grief, like iron on the tongue, like tears knotting under your chin; it will always feel like being ripped open, like being split square down the middle and having your guts put on display – it will always feel like a thousand deaths and rebirths undergone in the span of a second. you cannot escape contempt; you will always tell yourself it was your fault, that you were left to rot because you were mismatched, somehow incomplete, not whole, not good enough, god, never good enough; and it will always feel like gale coming from an open door, licking the skin of your bare back, suckling the tears off of your jaw. it will always feel like kissing a corpse, because that’s what saying goodbye to someone who walked away is all about, isn’t it? pain – and all of it yours. (you will always tremble at the sight of someone you love; not from the flood of the feeling as much as from the lingering fear that they too will one day leave you, and all you’ll have will be another open door, another kiss not cold enough to soothe the way you hurt, the way your heart is screaming, the way it mourns itself.)

Virgo — there is something terribly self-righteous about the way you loathe yourself; an almost sacred lining to the vindictive hands that cut out the heart so that it may wither, if only so the hurt ceases, if only so the bleeding dries at the source. you weren’t taught kindness; a butcher’s knife is the only mercy you’ve known, and I can’t help but wonder why – it’d be fine if hate was the only thing to it, but there is indifference, too. there is something clinical, impersonal, almost, to the way you tear into yourself. some set themselves on fire for a good cause; others, just because they can. your arson is done from reflex, almost as if you believe that by burning you can cleanse yourself of sin, that the fire can wash away the things gone wrong. (but your eyes are tightly shut and you’ve covered the mirrors, so you can’t see the mistakes – you can’t see what this compulsive sacrifice has made, can’t see the price you’ve paid for naught. you’ve turned yourself into a smoking ruin, and SACRILEGE is spelled in blood across the burning. there is no greater sin than forsaking yourself; remember that.)

Libra — and the irony is, your sin is also the greatest of your virtues; all your life you’ve clutched hands, desperate and lonely, terrified of solitude and the silence that it brings. and so you ran: you ran from stillness, ran from the clear night skies; ran as fast as your feet would take you, ran and willingly got lost at the heart of the crowd, wrapping yourself in the false safety of the many. but crowds disperse, you see; to hold them close you have to give them something, and all you had was blood and bone and the kindness pumping in the heart within. and so you poured the sweetest wine: yourself, and let them have their fill. alas, you cannot run forever, and it wasn’t long until the moon caught up with you. (mirages fall together with the sun; lies turn to gold and fade, and all are bare beneath the weeping maiden. stop trying to keep malice under lock and key; we’ve all got demons, a seed of darkness spilling shadow from the ribs. you cannot outrun yourself. there is solace to be found in midnights; learn to love the way your ears echo, empty.)

Scorpio — when is a monster not a monster? when it’s past four and you stare at the ceiling, hands reaching, touching the soft flesh underneath your eyes and tracing the lines that despair engraved there, a wretched memento from a nightmare whose lover you’ve unwillingly been for so long, by god, too long, and you’re alone with just your thoughts. it’s all soft, then; like velvet, like the smooth skin of your thighs, like the sun bleeding itself into being; soft, so soft, and tender, like all the things you don’t know and like all the secrets you want hidden but don’t have the heart to crush and empty out between your teeth. yes – a monster ceases being a monster when you look in the mirror and realize the eyes that stare back at you are so painfully human. (I could learn to love them, you think; not could – I will. and you do, and all that was terrible is suddenly beautiful; enamored with the beast, you have become alienated, but god, good god, you love yourself, even when you want to set yourself on fire. it is a dangerous kind of love, but it is still the lesser among evils, so long as you do not betray yourself.)

Sagittarius — iridescent; that is the word that defines you. like water springing from a fountain, catching the light because it has no color of its’ own. you can try and paint yourself, but paint is paint and masks are masks, and when the lights go down you aren’t too sure of what you are, except for something terrible. you’re made from fear and dreams and a fierce sort of sickness, the one that makes you think your bones were meant to be a crutch for someone else. you are not a ghost; stop treating yourself as if you were. the road ahead is yours and yours alone, and, like it or not, you’ll walk it alone – and when you’ll reach the ocean at the end of the lane, all that’ll be left of the illusions will be dust, a golden pile of nothing crowning your feet. (armageddon is coming, see; and at the end of all things, there is no meaning in virtue, no love for martyrdom. stop making yourself a bridge over peril for others to use when you can’t even tell where to begin with saving yourself. there’s no honor in being a pillar, just radio silence and a bad weather forecast.)

Capricorn — the hurt clings to you like a mother’s embrace; no matter how much cold water you let pour over the slumped archway of your shoulders, it will never be enough to wash the past away – you dug the graves too shallow when you tried to bury what you wanted forgotten, and so it was only a matter of time ‘til it rose from the ground and came to haunt you. tell me; when was the last time you got a good night’s sleep? when was the last time you snuffed the lights without being afraid of the faces you’d see crowding in the shadows around your bed? when was the last time the word “home” didn’t feel foreign on your tongue? (how you wish you knew how to be happy. how you wish there had been someone to teach you, to show you the ropes; but mother was a wisp in the wind, her presence a faint shape next to the towering shadow of your father – and oh, how beautiful she was, and he what a monster. the only thing they had to teach was love with fists, blood in the mouth.)

Aquarius — the warrior, marching through the trenches under a flag with a hole burnt through at the middle, his armor smeared with blood, engraved with scars his chest was meant to bear, eyes weeping with smoke, bile at the back of his throat. the mother, hands soothing, knotting themselves in the hair of her children, a smile on her lips and stories on her tongue, her kindness a lullaby that you remember vividly when it’s your turn to pay tribute to Hades. the child, breathing life into the monsters hid by darkness in every crevice, learning to make friends with the things that can kill you: beasts, gods, great apes standing on the edge between them, learning the names of heartbreak. the soul, despairing, an abyss that doesn’t know what to do with itself, where to put its’ mouth to stop the bleeding. (you, a combination of them, standing on the white precipice of an ending that seems so very final; it’s all in tatters, hope and reason both gone under, and the things you tried to bind have disentangled and god, they’re famished, out for blood. calm doesn’t keep storms at bay; it just makes them that much more destructive. you should’ve known.)

Pisces — dear god, how terrible this is; how great the horror, and greater still the beauty. it is people like you who reach for heaven and try to drag god down by the feet, to bind him and drown him in the ocean below, let him taste the sorrow, let him be baptized in salt among the rocks, screaming, because he’s all a wound just the way we are. it is people like you who swallow the sun, who wear the moon on their crown of thorns as the centerpiece jewel. it is people like you who have glimpsed the Other, people like you who have tasted all that is holy, all that is cursed – people like you, breathing cataclysms that do not know how to stop themselves from happening, how to tie the leash of fate lest they spill themselves empty on the pavement. (you do not know the meaning of “no”. for you, interdictions are challenges, walls to jump over or burn down. no one taught you how to bottle your soul, and, heavens mine, the catastrophe you’ve inside is enough to kill us all. and yet you won’t let any wear you as sin, will you? no; you’ll take your own head, spare us of the sight.)

- Sam (CharminglyAntiquated)

#poetry #zodiac #capricorn

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chunhua-s · 4 years

Text

APPLE SEED ➽ ATTACK ON TITAN

genre: angst, fantasy

warnings: canon-typical gore and violence, hella long text

Chapter 1: In A World Where Little Girls Dream

Li Meixiang's laugh rang out like a chiming melody as she ran away from her older sister, her little toddler feet making heavy pitter-patter noises across the paved walkway. Not too far behind her was one Li Yiran, her dark eyes alight with mirth and childish glee as she pretended to growl with her hands stretched out in front of her in grabbing motions. "I'm coming to eat you, Meixiang!" Threatening in a noise caught between a snarl and cheerful laughter, she bared her teeth and made long, exaggerated footfalls that were meant to mimic how she thought a titan would move. Though she wasn't sure if she was doing it justice since she'd never seen one, it seemed to do the job perfectly, because her little sister squealed even louder and ran as fast as her tiny legs could carry her.

"Giant! Giant!" Meixiang, between giggles and laughter, cried out in tones and syllables of a language uncommon within Shiganshina as she hurriedly tried to escape the approaching 'monster.' However, in her excitement, the little girl stumbled over a pebble stone, and her squeals of joy turned to a single exclamation of shock and fright as she fell down on all fours, skin cutting against jagged rocks and drawing red lines across pale skin. Immediate in her reaction, Yiran rushed to pick her little sister up from her fall, stretched her hands out to lift her off the ground with a grunt just in time for her to start crying loudly. The older girl, with practiced expertise, used a hand to wipe the coming tears, body bouncing with Meixiang resting in her other arm.

"Where does it hurt?" She cooed lightly, couldn't help the grimace that formed on her lips as she glanced down at scraped knees. Scabs would form within the next few days, she bemused, though brushed an open palm comfortingly against her sister's chubby cheeks and pressed a soft kiss to one. "Let's go home and clean this up, hm?" she suggested, switching to the same Shuiguolian language that Meixiang had been crying out in so excitedly, if only for the benefit that she would at least feel comforted by the familiarity of tonal words spoken within their family. A pout formed on the younger girl's face, though she wasn't crying anymore, and simply nodded her head as Yiran turned around to begin the journey back to their home.

A sort of peacefulness hung over Shiganshina district on that warm, Spring afternoon, light breezes fluttering her skirt as she passed through gathering crowds, women with baskets full of fresh produce and men with watered down beer on their breaths. Little children younger than Yiran herself ran after one another, calling out carefree 'you're it—'s and 'the last one to get to the spot's gonna have to stick their shoe in cow poop—'s that had their friends hurrying to catch up. The marketplace, as was typical for a Saturday afternoon, bustled and overflowed with life, and while voices rang high in chatter and laughter, the world was made to appear as if all were right in it; as if there was no looming threat, no dark shadow that could ever threaten to pull the people from peace.

And yet, the entire market held its breath at the toll of the bell. All sounds of cheeky flirtations and passing gossip drew to a halt, and soon enough, the sounds of wagons and horse hooves could be heard against the rock pavement. Something heavy and suffocating replaced the cheer of mingling wives and gambling husbands, tinging the air with a sourness and disparity that clung to the green cloaks of bleeding men. The gate shuttered closed, a loud and ringing noise that drove through the hearts of every man, woman and child as the crowd parted down the middle, people moving to the side as the horses dragged in the men who danced so carelessly with death.

Here was the Scout Regimen, smelling of blood and rot, with hollowed eyes on haunted faces.

By now, Meixiang had stopped crying entirely and stayed docile in Yiran's hold, allowing the older girl to find a place close to the front where she could see the returning squadron. Around her, everything seemed to have gone silent so that the click-clack of the horses, the squeaking of the wagons would be the only thing heard among them. Every breath was drawn, every smile wiped clean, and even Meixiang didn't dare make a noise; the men and women who returned seemed to bring along with them the death that asphyxiated the world outside Wall Maria, left nothing in its wake save for the giant devils who were said took man's face. Yiran watched, with guarded yet curious eyes, the faces of the people who came back, saw the handful that were missing arms and legs; an eye, an ear; the carts filled so high that the white sheets blotched with old blood seemed about ready to flutter away with the next coming wind, to reveal just how large the piles of bodies that they were hiding were. Of those that had, not a single person raised their eyes, kept them glued to their feet or to the backs of their horses; even then, the glaring abyss that swallowed their gazes was not something lost on the girl of ten. Gaping pits of a cold, destitute something that was not quite emptiness, a void overflowing with a darkness that followed death, it stared back at her, reaching black tendrils out to wrap around her neck and pull her within its depths. What, she wondered somewhere inside that dark fog, through the haze of despair that took her breath away, was so worth throwing oneself into the jaws of hell; to gaze into eternal damnation, that these men and women rode on the backs of their horses, wings fluttering on an invisible wind and throats torn raw from their shouts for freedom.

She drew the breath that she'd neglected to take, as if she was suddenly pulled out from that cold, cold place and up to the surface when a woman pushed through the crowd from the other side, a frail old lady with greying hair who called out a name. "Moses, Moses!" She looked all over, quivering eyes trailing over defeated faces, and with each one she passed over, Yiran could see her becoming more desperate. "Where's my Moses? My son?" The woman pleaded with a wavering tone, lips drawn back in what was a hopeful smile that quickly withered away with every unfamiliar face she passed over. "He should be with you all, he—" Yiran swallowed hard, the reaction unbridled as she anxiously bit the inside of her cheek, "He said he was coming back to me?"

The commander was a tall man, brooding and like a tower, but his presence before the old woman seemed so shrunken, as if he would sink into himself and crumble at any given moment. Golden eyes were dim in the sunlight, lacking the lustre and vigour with which they had departed only three days ago. Before them was not the man who cried out "For Humanity—" at Maria's gate, but the shadow of one who had lost hope for a better future, one that considered that, maybe, there was nothing beyond the Walls but despair and desolation.

His cries, just like they had been on the day of departure, were thunderous, rang through the otherwise quiet marketplace, thrummed in her chest like a second heartbeat. Here, under the burning sun and the disdainful eyes, his own voice rang high with the woman's scream, both of them collapsed to their knees as Moses' purple arm hung clutched tightly in her grip, her shoulders held so that she could look into this shameful commander's face. "It's my fault he's dead—" came from his lips in hoarse shouts, his voice cracking in places where the guilt wrapped its hand around his heart and squeezed tight enough to stop his breath. "I lead them to their deaths and we have nothing to show for it!"

In that moment, it was as if the world herself stopped spinning, observed with odium as this reproachful servant pleaded with her for forgiveness. 'Forgive me for all those lives I ended,' he would beg, neck wound tight in the hands of the dead men who walked in his shadow, squeezing and clawing until the phantom sensation would leave him gasping for air. 'Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me—' but he knew that there would be no mercy to be found for a devil like him, that he would never be able to atone for the deaths of his soldiers. Since the day he took the position of commander, he had already claimed for himself a special place in hell, and he was too far gone to ever have a chance at redemption.

There is no rest for the wicked, he learned that lesson quickly.

It was only after the last of the green cloaks disappeared well behind the crowd when Yiran finally let her breath go, a heavy exhale that staggered from her lips as her heart began beating again. She blinked her eyes rapidly, shook her head to clear out the fog that had begun to settle in her mind, to break away from the trance she seemed to fall into. As she did, the rest of the people began to move as well, though in place of the amiable smiles and laughter that rang through the market before, there were frowns and murmurs from the tax-paying public, shared dissatisfaction against the band of fools who insisted on searching for what lay beyond the Walls. "Always good to see what my money's being wasted on," one man grumbled to another, contempt lacing his words as he ran a hand through brown hair. His companion agreed, though Yiran didn't hang around to hear their response as she worked her way through the dispersing groups. The heavy atmosphere surrounding her was beginning to make her head feel clogged, oppressive in a way that made her feel as if she had her head under water the longer she stayed.

An unintelligible gurgle from Meixiang did well to quell the emotions rising up in Yiran's chest as she found herself within the more residential parts of the outlier district, the noise sounding close to her ear while her younger sister busied herself with gently pulling at strands of black hair. A smile found its way to her lips, a familiar feeling of fondness replacing what ugly sentiments settled on her tongue as she hoisted the two-year-old toddler from one hip to the other. Absentmindedly, she mused at just how much the little child who she used to lift up with ease, had grown; it felt as if she had suddenly gone through a growth spurt over the past year, leaving behind the tiny baby in place for a rapidly growing girl. The thought of it made her feel nostalgic. "You must be ready for lunch now, huh?" She mused, meeting Meixiang's gaze, laughed when she nodded eagerly. "I'll look after something for you when we get inside."

No sooner than she said so had their house finally come into view, not dissimilar to the ones surrounding it and identifiable by the weathered dreamcatcher that hung on their front door. Blue feathers were faded to an almost white, and the silver coating had lost its shine, to a dull rust, deep red against an earthen brown. The door swung open under her palm, the ornament chiming softly as Yiran let herself in. Small dust particles fluttered about in a familiar dance, the sun's rays lighting up the small dining room for them as they moved around, carefree and elegant in their performance. The house smelt strongly of soup broth, the aroma floating softly on its way to the doorway. Ah, that's odd, Yiran contemplated, brows drawn together as a puzzled frown pulled at her lips. She hadn't cooked before she took out with Meixiang, and even if she had, she didn't remember having any of the mushrooms she would have needed for the broth.

It took her by surprise when Meixiang hopped out of her hold, inspiring a quick second of fear in poor Yiran as she worried that she would hurt herself yet again. Despite her worries, the child stomped on with loud footsteps, wooden floors creaking under her little toddler feet as she giggled and squealed happily.

"Mama! Mama!"

There was a responding laugh from around the corner as Meixiang disappeared behind it. No sooner had she gone, Yiran heard her cry out again as a woman's cheerful voice sounded out in Shuiguolian tongue.

"My baby girl!" Mirth and joy sounded true in Li Tao's voice as she held her younger daughter to her chest, took delight in the cheerful bubbles of laughter that rose from the tiny body. Yiran felt her own lips stretching with a smile at the sight of her mother standing in their kitchen, though she held off on throwing herself at the woman who was still dressed in her khaki pants and dress shirt. Instead, she pulled her hands together behind her back and allowed her fingers to find purchase in the folds of her red skirt. She took to rocking back and forth on the heels of her feet to keep herself from pouncing.

"When did you get back?"

With her ever present smile and endearing expression, Tao looked to her older daughter. "About an hour ago," she answered as she let Meixiang down from her arms to set her on top of the wooden table, checking the wounds on her knees when the child poutingly pointed at them. "Oddly enough, we haven't been seeing too much traffic in the forests these past few weeks, so the big shots decided to cut back on our hours until activity picks up again."

That puzzled Yiran: the Forest of Giant Trees was always most popular in the spring time, flourishing with wildlife and nature as the winter passed away and animals began to venture out from their hiding places. The forest was Shiganshina's main tourist attraction, a blessing that it grew close enough to the district for the officers to take advantage of their impossible heights and advertise them as a popular tour hut. Her mother worked as a tour guide there, often left early in the mornings and returned well into the evenings. It was worse during the spring and autumn seasons when the forest began changing itself to face the oncoming weather: as life returned to the branches in the warmer months before their leaves would scatter across the forest floor in picturesque shades of browns and oranges. During those days, Tao would be gone for days at a time, leaving Yiran to take care of her younger sister by herself. This spring, it seemed, would be different.

The woman was lean and of average height, her hair pulled behind her neck in a low ponytail and a fringe that hung across her brow, cut sharply to frame a youthful face. Obsidian eyes shined deeply in the dining room's light as she turned to meet Yiran's gaze to just her thumb out to somewhere behind her. "Could you go get the ointment from the bedroom and put some on Mei's cut, please dear?" She asked sweetly, a grunt coming from her lips as she straightened her back. Briefly, her lips pursed and brows furrowed, making a muted show of the exhaustion that must have been pressing down on her body. "After that, come help me in the kitchen — I picked up some stuff for chicken mushroom soup."

At that, Yiran's face lit up, a grin threatening to spread across her lips as she mock saluted — "On it, Ma'am—" before she hurried past the table and to the bedroom. Upon crossing the threshold, she made a beeline for the dresser, spent a few seconds glancing between different bottles of cream before she finally found the little brown jar, the words "cut ointment" written on top of the cover in the common tongue. As she reached out for it, her eyes trailed to their shared bed where a little grey blanket lay strewn atop the thin spread. Meixiang's favourite blanket was time worn and dirty, brown spots were obvious even from this distance. Yiran grumbled to herself, the expression without malice as she wondered just when the sneaking little girl found time to dig her most prized possession up from the pile of dirty linen and laundry. With a huff, she retrieved the blanket and turned to the hamper in the corner of the room, took great care in hiding the tiny thing beneath the pile of sheets that needed to be washed soon. Very soon, Yiran bemused, because it was only a matter of time before Meixiang would be looking to recover her blanket once more.

She made quick time on dressing her little sister's scratches, planting a healing kiss on each of her cheeks before she washed her hands off and stationed herself by her mother's side. Immediately, she was made busy with slicing up the ingredients that Tao hadn't yet done, hands moving just a bit slower than she would have liked them to as she tossed what was finished into the broth. Her mother, between their hustling, recounted stories about the tourists and her colleagues from work, laughed at silly Sheenian travellers who came dressed in oversized coats and gasped in horror for the poor boy who somehow got stuck way up on one of the highest branches— "We had to wait for one of the Garrisons to come take him down with his ODM gear!" Tao chuckled, hands busy with chopping pieces of the chicken to fry before they would join the broth. Somewhere behind them, Meixiang was making herself busy with running around the dining table; no matter that she had only just had her knees dressed up, she was back to whisper-shouting "Giants, giants—" in her inside voice.

"The commissioner's thinking of having employees train to use ODM after that incident," Tao heaved a sigh, gaze thoughtful as she lifted her attention away from her task to look out at something outside their window. Yiran winced at the idea, pulled her lower lip between her teeth as she said,

"But isn't training for that supposed to be dangerous?"

The woman glanced towards her daughter, and it was now that Yiran could see the lines beginning to form on Tao's face, noticed how her body leaned ever so slightly against the countertop. She hummed in affirmation as she returned her attention to the poultry on the cutting board, "It is, but I think they're worried that the next time something like this happens, we might not be lucky enough to wait for help to arrive."

It wasn't a baseless concern, Yiran noted, ignoring the question of how the child would have gotten up one of those trees in the first place. Still, she didn't feel easy about the training that her mother would have to undergo. She'd heard more than enough horror stories of soldiers in training who lost their lives, due to some malfunction with their gear or from falling to their deaths. "Of course it's just a precautionary measure," Tao added belatedly, as if she could hear her daughter's thoughts, "so I imagine it'll only be a handful of us that will actually need to do it."

Yiran didn't add anything to that, didn't speak out on the relief that Tao's words brought her and instead kept her hands busy with chopping vegetables to add to the broth and allowing a not quite silence settle over them that was only disturbed by their work in the kitchen and Meixiang's playing. Softly, she began to hum the tune of a lullaby that Tao had taught her, the melody of it soothing and familiar in its sad tale as she went through the motions of bringing her knife down on the cutting board.

"Shan gui," Tao's voice was warm and wistful as she recalled the melody's name, a sigh falling between her words and her smile curled into a melancholic expression. Her gaze found that of her older daughter's, and, for the second time that day, Yiran could see clearly the weariness that sapped the woman of her youthfulness. It was during those moments when it would seem as if the woman bore the weight of the entire world on her shoulders, as if she was fighting against an invisible force that no one else could see; it dragged her down and chipped away at her spirit, and she would always be left looking a bit smaller than she really was.

The girl took a breath, hesitant in her next words as they fell from her lips in a whisper:

"Do you... miss home?"

Onyx eyes wavered for a split second, exposing the lake of raw feelings that hid behind their dark colour before Tao shook her head once to recover. "A little," was her truthful answer as she finally cut the last piece of the chicken. The resounding sound of the knife chopping down against the wooden cutting board was nearly deafening. With pursed lips, she reached beneath one of the counters, coming back with a frying pot and a bottle of olive oil, one that thankfully lasted them for a long time since she bought it over half a year ago. ("It's too expensive to waste it all," she had said with a firm tone. Yiran didn't disagree.) "I don't regret leaving though."

Meixiang's incoherent gurgles seemed so loud within those next few seconds, ringing out like church bells in an empty courtyard that served to drive Tao's resolve home. The woman turned her eyes upon her little girl and Yiran followed after a moment's grace, having watched her expression simmer out of the stress lines and markings. No longer was her smile bitter and hurting, but instead became brilliant with something so overwhelming that it felt as if it would fill Yiran's chest up and spill over. It was the same one that she had worn on her face, two years ago, when they ran away from that little village by the lake. Hopeful and promising, telling of a young woman's deepest prayers.

"That night when I took you and Meixiang," Tao was almost whispering, as if she feared that an eavesdropping wall would capture her words and scatter them to the winds, "I was so scared that I wouldn't make it far with you two... I was scared that they would catch us and bring you right back to your father—" The words caught in her throat, threatened to choke her; she took a deep, gasping breath, "But when I thought of you, of how you'd have to grow up only to bear someone's children before you were ready— I didn't want that life for you... I didn't want you to have to turn into a slave for your husband and his family—"

"I know, mama," Yiran said, her voice just as hushed as she reached out her hand to hold her mother's, "I know." When the woman's eyes met hers, she smiled softly, hoping that it would show everything her heart felt. Although she had only been eight years old at the time, Yiran was old enough to remember what life had been like in their lake village. The life they left behind, one where little girls and women were hardly any more than servants and child-bearers; where they were sold off at a young age to be an older man's wife; where they would have no value unless they gave their husbands a son, and would be cast aside in favour of a second wife or a concubine if they remained unsuccessful... Yiran had grown seeing the way that her mother was treated in the village, shunned and disgraced especially after Meixiang was born. Women who had their little boys suckling on milk, others who were big enough to be running around freely, they all turned her into an outcast, scorned her as if she was cursed; and truly, they must have believed it. After all, how could any woman be so unlucky to give birth to two daughters and not a single boy?

She believed that the tipping point must have been the day when Yiran first flowered and her grandparents began to talk about finding her a husband. It hadn't even been more than a day before they started planning, readying themselves to find a rich man who was looking for a wife; she remembered feeling terrified, on the verge of tears as her mother held her tightly and talks of her marriage spread about in a horrid kind of excitement. A week later, they ran away in the dead of the night; Tao pulled both of her daughters on a wagon, didn't stop until she reached the outlier district of Shiganshina two days later.

Here in their kitchen, Yiran no longer needed to marry a man who would treat her as nothing more than a slave. Here in Shiganshina, her mother didn't need to suffer because of her failure to have a son. They could choose their future, wouldn't need to abide by cruel customs and live only to serve their husbands and their would-be families.

Here, they had the chance to be free.

Tao was on the verge of tears as she hastily wrapped her hands around her older daughter's body, her grip full and encompassing despite how awkwardly she held her with her messy hands. "I love the both of you," she said. Her voice broke off in places, overflowed with so much emotion that it could have choked her. "So, so much... I only want the best for the both of you, you know that right?"

It was all Yiran could do to nod, fighting back her own tears as she brought her hands around the woman's figure. "I know."

There was the sound of padding feet before they both felt Meixiang throwing herself at their legs, a delightful giggle sounded from her as she looked up at them with the biggest smile. "Jiejie, mama! I love you!" She squealed as Yiran bent to lift her up, wasted no time in slapping two chubby hands across her older sister's cheeks with innocent laughter tumbling out of her tiny self and straight into Yiran's swelling heart.

"Oh!" Tao cried after a moment had passed, lifting a finger as if she had a lightbulb moment. With a widening smile, she turned to give Yiran her side, tutted her hip out in an awkward-looking gesture. "Reach into my back pocket — I brought something for you!"

Curious, Yiran lowered her sister to wash her hands in the sink, then once her hands were dry, did as Tao had told her. When she pulled back her palms, she held in them three silver coins. Yiran's eyes widened as she looked back up at Tao's smiling face. "Mama, isn't this too much??"

The woman made a 'psh!' noise, using a hand to fan away the girl's concern. "We're not supposed to take tips, but a nice old tourist gave me this before she left," she nodded to the coins in Yiran's hands. "Go out into town for a bit, I'll handle the rest of the food."

As if sensing her growing uncertainty and reluctance, Tao's smile turned gentle, eyes warm with reassurance as she said, "Seriously, don't worry about it so much. Think of it as a small allowance?"

Yiran sighed, relenting under her mother's insistence and knowing that she wouldn't be able to return the money without a fight. "Thanks mama," she chuckled wearily and retired from a fruitless battle, at which Tao's face immediately lit up in youthful triumph.

"Leave Meixiang here," she said before Yiran could turn to get her sister. When she began to ask if she was certain, the woman eagerly nodded, making 'shoo' motions with her hands as if to hurry the girl out of the house. "Yeah, yeah it's fine! Go enjoy some time alone for a bit!"

Sighing once more at the woman's insistence (truly, sighing was all she seemed to be able to do these days), Yiran only had a few seconds to give Meixiang a parting kiss on her forehead before Tao began to shoo her out of the house again. "I'll try to bring something back for you two!" She promised once she stood outside the door, laughing lightly at her mother's responding "Forget that, just spend it on yourself!"

The sun had already begun to fall behind the horizon when she returned to the market, the dying light scattering across the sky in bright oranges and deep purples in the picture of an ancient oil painting. Whatever dark sentiments that had settled over the district's people earlier in the day seemed to have been swept up by the season's wind, and what was left behind was a day's-hard-work type of exhaustion as people packed up their stalls and waved away at the last of their customers. Yiran, bemoaning the fact that Tao had made her go out at such an odd time when most stall owners would be returning to their homes, walked aimlessly by the different vendors, eyes quickly scanning over the few who remained and the items they sold. For Heaven's sake, she sighed through her nose, she didn't even know what to buy. How was she meant to spend three entire silver coins? More importantly, what kind of tourist walked around with that kind of money, only to turn around and give it as a generous tip to their tour guide? A cross between astonished and incredibly amused, Yiran could only imagine just how rich a person would have to be to not worry about the kind of money they handed out so carelessly.

Grumbling, she messed around with the coins in one palm, slowed her pace until she came to a complete stop in the almost deserted marketplace. Sounds of easy laughter and satisfied exhales fell around her in ambience, painting Shiganshina district as a peaceful picture under the darkening sky. In a couple more hours, after the pleasant cheers and smiles have been shared over a nice, warm dinner, patrons and soldiers would gather in crowds by taverns and alcohol houses to laugh with each other in careless spirit, flirt freely with the serving women and complain about their troubles. It was the easy, familiar pattern that let the people breath so calmly, that allowed them to kick their legs back and bask in the serenity of mundane life.

"Ay, young lass!"

There was a voice that called out somewhere behind her, deep and a bit throaty that had her turning to look in the direction it came from. What she found was a slightly overweight man who grinned behind a large beard, the smile broadening when her eyes met his. Eagerly, he beckoned her over with a meaty hand, and when Yiran finally came to stand before his stall, she was able to see the items he had scattered across the blue tarpaulin sheet. Fine jewellery and stones of different colours; ruby reds and deep lake blues, silver rings and more ornaments than she could ever imagine being in one place. "Yah looking to buy somethin' nice?" The vendor proposed with his wide smile, didn't even give the girl a chance to respond as he held his hand out to his collection, "Yah ain't gonna find any lower prices 'roun here for these fine things, I tell yah! A real easy deal I'll make with yah so long as yeh got the money on yeh!"

Giving the man a polite smile whilst trying her best not to be overwhelmed by his enthusiasm, Yiran took some time to consider the array of glittering rocks and jewels out on display. The colour variation was almost dizzying, even under the dimming light of sundown, and the girl felt her head swirl a bit from all the different shades of greens and yellows. It was a near relief when her eyes fell over to one silver necklace, the thin chain looped through a small, silver band. Compared to everything else the man was selling, it was almost so ridiculously plain that Yiran wasn't sure how she didn't spot it sooner. "How much is this one?" Fighting back a wince at her accent, she pointed out the silver necklace, followed the man's hazel gaze as he found the jewel in question.

"Ah, that one's got a twin," he hummed, thoughtful before he turned around to a wooden crate behind him to rummage around in for a few seconds, during which Yiran respectfully looked away from his glaring bald spot. When he turned around, there was another silver necklace hanging from between his fingers, similar to the first with a slender, silver ring on its chain. "How much do yah have?" He asked instead of naming a price, at which Yiran took a moment of pause before reaching into her skirt's pocket to pull one single coin. Hoping (and further doubting) that the man would ask for more, she maintained a façade of innocence when the man's eyes widened and his mouth fell slack.

"Is this enough?" Heavens, she really needed to improve her use of the common tongue; she inwardly bemoaned the fact that, although not as thick as it had been two years ago, her accent still persisted in the way that the words fell from her lips. Certain combinations felt uncomfortable, entirely wrong in their pronunciation as her lips curled around new vowels and syllables. No doubt she would need a longer time to feel even the slightest bit confident in her speech.

"Blimey, where'd yeh get that kind of money from, lass?" The vendor appraised, taking the lone silver coin from her fingers and turning it over a few times in his own hand, "'s not often yah come cross one o' these here in the district." Once he was satisfied that it wasn't some type of counterfeit, he pocketed the money before happily handing over the pair of necklaces. Yiran thanked him politely as she searched for and located the clasps on each, lifted her hands to close them around her neck. A wince slipped from her as the second one snagged painfully on her hair, pulling taught at a single strand. Ah, she pondered within herself, it had been a while since she last cut it. Now, black strands had grown well past her shoulder blades, edging a little too close to her mid-back for her liking. She would ask Tao to trim it back to just below her shoulders when she returned, later when Meixiang would be sleeping so that she wouldn't cry. The little girl, for a reason that was lost on her, always preferred that Yiran grew her hair long for her to play with, and would always make a fuss if she ever caught sight of a blade close to her older sister's person. Yiran couldn't help but smile fondly at memories of the girl pouting, arms folded over her tiny chest with such thick accusation in her face that she could only lift her up and smother her with raspberries until she would laugh again. Then Meixiang would move on from the betrayal, content with making do with the shorter strands until they would grow back in the following months; admittedly, she was the reason that Yiran didn't cut it all the way to above shoulder length in the first place.

"A gift for someone?" The vendor asked harmlessly, at which Yiran returned his smile as her hands felt for the little rings. They were cooling against her warm fingertips.

"For my little sister," she nodded her confirmation, watched as the man's expression eased into something warmer, gentle and full of endearment as he put a hand on his beard.

"Y'know, I've got two kids m'self," the man told her with a bit of boastfulness, that and the sound of fondness ever-growing in his tone and eyes lighting up with the same sentiment. "One of em's gone off to become a soldier, the other one's about yer age." A sigh falls from his lips as his gaze falls somewhere beside him, distant and reminiscent in memories that Yiran wouldn't see. "Close as thieves, them two," he chuckled, "The lil' one's hell bent on goin' off to train just like his big brother."

That drew the smile on the girl's face into something friendlier, her guard coming down as the man told her about his sons. "Real troublemakers, I tell yah," his laughter rumbled through his chest and into the emptied market, echoing with his strength and vigour, "Coulda neva kept themselves quiet without causing a ruckus somewhere... They'll do well to learn some discipline up with them soldiers. Speaking of, what'cha planning to do when yer big, girlie?"

The question pulled some sense of gravity over Yiran as she met his gaze with a sheepish grin. "Well," she muttered, averted her gaze to the cobble stones beneath, "I want to become a scholar..." It had been her ambition ever since she'd learned about the idea back in her village, having easily become enamoured with glorified promises of more knowledge and understanding than could be contained by one person alone. But, as was the case for every endeavour that didn't tell of raising sons and marrying young, women and girls wouldn't even dare to dream to rise to such power. As far as their customs dictated, they would have no need to learn themselves in matters outside of childbearing and servitude, weren't even taught to read in their own language. Her mother warned her to lock her dream away when she'd first told her in the middle of a hot summer's day, while her stomach was swollen with her second child and other wives gossiped about the chance of it being another girl. "Don't let anyone hear you say something like that," she said, voice hushed yet frantic, desperate, beseeching. "I mean it, Yiran — don't mention it ever again!"

Another exuberant laugh from the man shocked her out of her thoughts, returned her to the present where the vendor held a hand over his large stomach. "Ambitious, aren't yah?" His grin lacked the doubtful, judging edge that she expected, instead only bearing with it the same friendliness and light-heartedness that he boasted during their talk. "I'll say, that's a mighty pricey dream you have there, lassey," he said, and Heavens, Yiran didn't need to be reminded, had heard enough stories of young, dreamy eyed men and women who set their sights on the innermost wall, only to find themselves with a mountain of debt for their pursuit of knowledge. "Although, you'll have plenty o' time to rack up yer funds if you start saving now." His eyes closed with his gentle expression as he gave her a thumbs up, his next words ringing loudly enough that it filled up the entire street.

"Ain't no dream too big, kid — do what yah feel is right for you."

Something swelled up in her chest with his encouragement, big and all encompassing and she smiled brightly up at this vendor. So many things were different here, she couldn't help the thought that intruded her mind; so many opportunities and chances had all opened up to her when she fled with her mother and stepped behind Maria's inner gates. It was such a heavy contrast to the world she grew up in, and even now she finds herself breathless at the vastness of it all — a life where little girls could dream, could rise above themselves and hold their own futures.

This, she considers as she stands in the empty market, smiling with an old man who didn't ridicule her for her aspirations, must be the most beautiful moment in life.

Before she could utter words of gratitude to the vendor, something lit up the evening sky, struck straight through the purple and orange with a vibrant, dangerous yellow that was just too out of place, too sharp and piercing against gentle strokes of sunset. A loud, ringing explosion shook the jewellery stand with incredible force, threatened to turn Yiran from off her feet so that she had to grasp the edge of the wooden frame to keep her balance. A glance with the old man revealed him to be just as disoriented, just as confused by the sudden tremor, a "what in the world—" tumbling from his lips in a shaky breath before he made haste to the edge of the district. Confused and worried, Yiran followed him in short, shaky strides to where a crowd had already gathered in front of the wall, where the world still seemed to tremble in the aftershock of the explosion. A quick survey of their faces left the girl with a sinking pit in her stomach; lips drawn over their teeth in the beginnings of a scream, eyes blown wide enough that they could pop out of their skulls. A few had even begun crying, falling to their knees in something so akin to helplessness and despair that it had Yiran's gaze following to where they were looking.

What she saw immediately sent her into the same crippling terror.

Standing over the wall was a behemoth, a monster whose face bore nothing over its muscles, the red so horrifyingly stark against the backdrop of sunset clouds and fading light. Steam rolled from its body in waves, hailing in flickers of smoke and embers that seemed to roll over the entire town, suffocated the inhabitants with a profound, absolute relentlessness. Yiran felt as if her body had been doused straight into a pit of hot water when its eyes found her own, couldn't dare to bring herself to look away if even for the slightest moment. No thought could formulate over the pure, undiluted fear that locked her in place, no words would dare fight past the talons that gripped at her throat and crushed her very breath from her soul.

For the second time that day, the world stopped spinning, turned her eyes to gaze upon the cattle in condemnation and scorn as the Devil reared its great head, her smile wicked just as it is punishing. For the first time in her short, ten years of life, Yiran knew a kind of horror that surpassed even the helpless fear that she felt in her little lake village, one that easily outclassed the nightmares that chased away her dreams and ambitions.

This kind of fear... it was enough to cut her throat a hundred times over, rip her to shreds until she was nothing but a screaming, shivering mess.

A loud rumble, another tremor; the first chunk of rock that was set flying, it fell on the kind vendor, squished his large body so seamlessly, splattered his insides across her face, her clothes, her hair. The first scream tore from her own lips as Shiganshina's blanket of peace quickly dissolved into the oppressive waves of a waking nightmare.

#attack on titan #shingeki no kyoujin #oc #original character #oc fanfiction #unedited #shiganshina #small canon divergence

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sierracolorstheworldofwords · 4 years

Text

A Christmas fic sequel that doesn’t end in angst

An: This is a sequel to a Xmas gift I wrote for @stuff-from-the-void-matron it’s also a part of an art trade we did! So yee! I hope you like it! :3

Grey covered the sky like a dark wash of watery ink, and from the clouds, soft snowflakes fell, covering the graveyard in white. A gathering of people stood, some dressed in black, and a few dressed in light grey, but one dressed in pink.

Wilford clasped his hands in front of him, bouncing on the tips of his toes, wondering what he was doing here— you couldn’t be gone! You simply couldn’t! You were just on vacation, is all, just like Dark said.

So why did he get this feeling in his chest? Like.. like he was one of those games people hit at the carnival? He felt like.. there was just this big mallet, hitting at his heart, breaking the delicate sugar coating that always surrounded it. If he kept thinking about you, that delicate coating would break, and all of his insides, like expired strawberry syrup would leak out of his chest.

You couldn’t be gone, you couldn’t.

Nobody went away forever!

They always came back, always.

Even though.. even though he hadn’t seen.. Damien and Celine in ages, he knew one day they’d come back, and you would be in tow too! Laughing and giggling. He already decided to forgive you! It was just a stupid grudge anyway! He shouldn’t have been so stubborn!

He watched as they lowered a dark wooden box into the ground, covering it with flowers, a bright burst of color against the cold white. Oh, why was everyone just wasting time standing around here? And oh, why were they crying? Why was someone burying all those pretty flowers? Coating dirt all over the delicate petals! It was such a waste! An utter, utter waste!

Wilford looked up at Bing, who stood across from him, on the other side of the square hole. What was wrong with his baby? Why did he look so sad? So alone?

Bing looked back, surrounded by other people he didn’t know, wearing a black suit and an orange tie, his eyes watering. Rage coursed through him like a trail of gasoline on fire, sadness followed like a sadistic kid, fueling it.

He couldn’t help but look away, back to your casket, knowing this would be the last time he’d.. he’d be here. He couldn’t.. he didn’t.. know what to do. He kept hoping this was a bad dream, that he’d wake up and it would be Christmas morning, and he’d find your car, but you’d be alive, barely frozen, and he’d bring you inside the mansion, wrapping you in blankets, turning on his heaters full blast, and holding you close. He’d warm you, he’d bring you hot cocoa, he’d.. he’d get you anything you wanted for Christmas. Anything.

He wished this was a bad dream.

Just a bad dream.

But he knew it wasn't.

Because everytime he went to sleep to recharge, he’d see your body, covered in blue frost and curled tight. Then, you would see him, sitting up and turning to him, eyes hollow and lifeless, and ask him as snowflakes fell from your eyes— why Bing? Why couldn’t you let me in?

He’d hear ice cracking as you uncurled a frozen hand, reaching towards him.. and then he’d wake up.

But this felt worse than the nightmare.

He could still see the image of your body in a black body bag as people started to walk away, leaving your parents by his side. He didn’t give a shit about them. Let them rot. Let him join too. Let him rot in hell too.

He wished he was in that casket instead, wished he was dead, cold under the ground. He didn’t wish this. Didn’t want this anymore.

He could’ve said something. Could’ve done something. Anything. Anything. Even if he stayed out in the cold with you and risk freezing to keep you warm.

He could’ve done so, so much. But he didn’t. And now you were gone.

The android said nothing as the gravediggers continued. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked behind him, finding Doc standing there, whispering that it was time to go. All he could do was nod and let himself be led away.

In the car, he sat in the back, listening to Wilford ramble about what a “strange party that was” he couldn’t say the truth, because that would risk everything. So many people would get hurt— Eric, Yan, Doc, Ed, others he couldn’t even think of. He leaned his head against the window, watching the world become hushed with white silence. Watching the place where you lay fade away from his view, until there was nothing left but the white snow.

When he got home, all he could do was say he was tired and go into his room, closing the door. Laying on his bed, he closed his eyes, ignoring the small alert in his head that his battery was low.

He had a dream.

You were there. Smiling. Giggling.

In the sunshine, you and him, by the pool, legs dipped into the cool refreshing water.

Then, the cold, slowly coming in, ice crystals forming in the blue, growing like dangerous white ferns across its surface, the sun freezing too. He panicked and— and you froze, hollow eyes staring at him and a hand, with black, withered fingers reaching towards him. You asked him in a soft voice, Bing.. why didn’t you try? Why didn’t you care? I cared for you Bing.. and now.. now I’m gone..

Cold tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, before sliding down in rivers of ice.

Your face cracked and ice crystals fell as your eyebrows furrowed in anger, screaming at him— WHY WHY DIDN’T YOU HELP ME, BING?! WHY DIDN’T YOU HELP ME?! WHY?!

All he could do was sit there, legs trapped in the frozen water. He felt his motors shutting down, gears becoming twisted and frozen with ice, his legs becoming covered in frost. He watched it all happen as you yelled at him over and over again, turning a darker shade of blue as you shrieked, saying it was his fault. All his fault. All his fault and that he should pay—

He woke up to someone shaking him.

Prime leaned over him. He heard an alarm in the distance, a soft beeping noise.

“God damn it Bing! God damn it!”

It was so, so nice.. it was almost soothing

“OLIVER GO GET THE DAMN EMERGENCY CORD, NOW!”

What if he just faded too?

He closed his eyes, fading.

Then he woke up again.

Prime had him hooked up to the wall, sat up on a few pillows, and the robot glared at him. Before raising a hand and slapping him straight across the face.

“Don’t you ever do that again.”

Bing looked at him, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He was always such a burden.. he always bothered everyone— he should’ve been more careful.

“You’re lucky I got here on time.”

The older android got up, pushing the other Googles out of the way as he exited the room. They looked back at him for a moment, before Oliver closed the door, giving him one last sad glance before leaving. He sat in the room, alone, and felt the cord plugged into his neck, quickly, he unplugged it, knowing he didn’t deserve it. Now for what he did.

For the next few months, Bing kept doing this. Barely charging himself to fifty percent, and going to sleep, until he got woken up by a nightmare. He stayed in his room, alone, in his bed, nobody could get him out, nobody.

Sometimes, he’d lay in bed, wondering if it was better if he was dead— if maybe, just maybe, he killed himself and.. and everything would be better.

Everything would be better.

Nobody would be sad, if he was gone.

Six months after your death, he couldn’t fight the thought anymore. If he just.. was gone, then.. then everything would be better.

Everything would be okay.

He stared up at the ceiling, unplugging himself as he heard laughter and music outside. Were they really having a party? Wilford probably planned it. Everyone.. didn’t care. Nobody really cared about him. Prime thought he was a burden, Wilford thought he was a dramatic crybaby. Dark just didn’t care at all.

The others— his brothers.. they were better off without him. Eric stopped asking him to come out of his room a month ago, finally gave up, the Jims used to knock on the door, Yan used to being him cookies or food..

He’d been such a burden to them, he still was. He used up electricity, took up space. Annoyed everyone. It would be better if he was gone. If he spent.. maybe if he spent one last time with them all, he wouldn’t feel so guilty about everything.

Sitting up, he struggled as his arms stiffened, the limbs not used to the weight. He let out a groan as he managed to lean against the headboard. Who was he kidding? Spending time with everyone? Like this? He’d be a burden, a nuisance. He was so stupid sometimes. So, so stupid.

He closed his eyes, feeling tired.

His eyes dropped as he listened to all the wonderful noise outside.. he wished he could be apart of it..

Then, he had a dream.

This time, you weren’t there, but a familiar face was. Mori.

Hello Bing.

He said nothing back.

I.. I have noticed you’ve had some rather dark thoughts lately.

Silence.

Especially concerning..death. And (Y/n).

He nodded, and Mori sighed, before swirling his hands, causing a white chair to appear in the even whiter room. He sat down, staring numbly ahead.

Would you really exchange their life for yours?

The android looked up, nodding.

Yeah.. he answered in a scraggly voice, I would. I know I’m not much.. compared to.. to them..but.. well, I’m practically worthless. Everyone thinks it. Everyone knows it. (Y/n) didn’t deserve to die. I did— I still do.

Mori said nothing, only blinking as a swirl appeared behind him.

You can’t know what everyone thinks, Bing. But.. you’ve had this thought for a while, haven’t you?

Yeah, I have.

I’ll give you ten days before you finally decide. Spend time with your family, with your friends, before you make your final decision.

Okay. I will.

Then, he woke up.

The next few days, everyone thought Bing was feeling better, finally accepting (Y/n)‘s death and moving on, but if someone had reached into his head, looked deep within his skull, they would’ve seen that wasn't the case. He started giving things away, cleaning his room, joking with everyone, cooking and cleaning with everyone.

“See Bing a ling! I told ya you were just being a crybaby!” Wilford said as soon as he came out, laughing and patting the android’s back as rage coursed through his wires. He said nothing. If he punched Wilford.. well, everyone would get hurt.

Each night, he had a dream. A dream that counted down the days. Until the last day passed and Mori appeared, asking him if he was ready. Trying to give him reasons to stay, yet always failing to do so.

As every day passed, he grew surer and surer.

He knew Prime would be better without him always around, talking the way he did, always messing up. He also knew that the other Googles wouldn’t have to worry about him either, they wouldn’t have to ask if he charged himself that day, or if he’d been outside to solar charge. That would be a load off their shoulders.

He knew Dark and Doc would be better without him around, they wouldn’t have to worry about the electricity costs as much anymore.

Yan, Eric and the Jims wouldn’t have to worry about their brother anymore, and wouldn’t have to wonder if he was going to isolate himself again. Host wouldn’t have to try and narrate him feeling better, or more confident. Wilford.. even Wilford wouldn’t have to worry about Bing.. or waste air calling him a crybaby or overdramatic.

Then, quicker than he could say “that’s bogus!” the tenth night came. Mori didn’t wait for him to go to sleep. Instead, he stood at the edge of his bed, saying nothing for a moment, before finally asking if Bing was ready.

“Of course I’m ready dude. It’s my time! Now, I won’t bother anyone anymore! And (Y/n) will be back— but can you like.. do me a favor?”

Mori looked at the much younger ego, and nodded, “Yes, what is it?”

“Make them all forget about me, okay? Or like.. get Host too..”

Mori’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, “What?”

“Please.. please make them forget.. all about me, if you can— I.. I don’t want them to remember me at all. I know they’d be happier without— heh.. without me,” Bing’s voice wavered, and the tears he’d buried deep inside the frozen snow of his chest emerged, “I just want them to be happy and.. and I know that.. s-since (Y/n) died.. nobody.. everything isn’t the same..! I was.. I was bothering everyone before and now.. well now.. I’m just bothering them more..”

Orange tears slid down his cheeks as he started to sob, whimpering as he collapsed, hating how his heart broke. Hating how he felt so helpless, like a weak puppy left outside in the middle of winter.

“Is that what you really want?” Asked Mori softly, kneeling next to Bing, “Because.. because (Y/n) wouldn’t want this.”

“How do you know? (Y/n) is dead! Gone! All because of me!”

Mori clenched his jaw, “You were protecting your family and friends from getting shot by Wilford. And nobody decided to punish him. Nobody. So you are trying to punish yourself. How can you do that? Say all those mean, hurtful things— that this was your fault; When I hear you say that— I— none, and I mean none of this was your fault. It was Wilford’s, it was the parents! That’s who is to blame!”

Bing’s face crumpled softly, and he leaned on Mori, feeling tears stain his suit as he held him tight, barely able to speak. His arms wrapped around him, clenching the white fabric, letting it all out— all those months alone. Wishing you were here, all those months laying in his bed, wishing he was dead. All those months.. all those months.. hearing his brothers knock on his door, hearing Wilford call him a crybaby, hearing Prime aggressively telling him to get over it, that he was overreacting, like usual.

Sniffing, he tucked his head into the older man’s neck, asking, “Why are you trying so hard for me?”

“Because you’re the only one who.. who.. who cares as much as I do. You want the same thing I want, I want her back. I was always too shy to talk to her, and now, I regret it deeply—“ he sighed, feeling warm tears brim at the corners of his eyes, “She was the only one who didn’t treat me like a freak.”

Bing pulled back, “I’m sorry dude.. that I.. I never really stuck up for you or talked to you when the others shunned you.. or.. wouldn’t talk to you as much.. I just— I just don’t want anyone to get hurt... I..”

“It’s alright, I understand.” He whispered, wiping his tears, “And I forgive you. But.. I also need to apologize as well.”

“You do?”

He nodded, “I’ve seen how.. Prime and his brothers treat you.. and what they've done to you.. and I’m sorry I didn’t say something.”

Bing smiled, “It’s alright— I understand. Thank you. I forgive you.” He reached in for a hug again, and smiled as he got one back.

“Also, I have something to show you. Come.”

He nodded, grabbing Bing’s hand, helping him up, before opening a black and white portal filled with swirls and leading him into it. They walked across a path of white and black cobblestones, before that faded to soft grass, revealing a field of gravestones, lit by the moonlight.

“What.. why are we—“

“Host owes me a favor.”

Bing burrowed his eyes in confusion, looking at him, “What do you mean?”

Mori only smiled, “Host, please come out.”

Host appeared out of nowhere. Practically fading into view.

“Hosts greets the two with a hello, smiling.”

“Host.. informed me of your thoughts, and.. well, it made me realize I wasn’t the only one who wanted her back so.. I decided to cash in a favor.”

“Host is glad you finally did, now he doesn’t have that having over his head anymore.”

The white suited man chuckled in response, before looking at Bing, “He’s going to revive (Y/n) Bing. Turn back the clock— only we will remember what happened. This is the last chance. If she dies—“

“I won’t let her! I’m ready I— please, I’ll do anything to bring her back…”

“The two men smile at Bing before explaining what needs to happen,” says Host, “Bing has to stop Wilford from hurting anyone. Especially (Y/n). Mori and Host will be too exhausted to do it themselves. Host will narrate the turning back of the clock, but Mori will revive (Y/n) as well. It’s a complicated process. Bing must make sure he does his part, is that understood?”

“Yes.”

“Host smiles, asking them to come to her tombstone, to begin the process. They follow. Each hopeful and excited to see their dear friend.”

After a few minutes of walking, they reached your tombstone, Host and Mori stand beside it, and Bing stands in front of it, a few tears dripping from his eyes as Host begins to narrate.

Bing felt his gears stop, and then twist backwards, currents of electricity went back into his heart, and the moon slowly moved from its position, as if pulled by an invisible string. He watched the grass slowly wave, and the noise of crickets and wind reverse into a strange melody. Even his heart, which usually pumped currents, seemed to beat in reverse. Then, everything happened faster.

Soon, it was day, and then night, and then day again, and people came and went passed your grave, passing all the graves, walking backwards to their cars and driving away.

Spring faded into frigid winter, and the flowers that once surrounded the graveyard closed, burrowing underground, as snow covered them. The snow piled up, and soon enough, your grave was open again, and he was moving backwards too, unable to control his legs as he witnessed your funeral again. But this time, all in a blur. All in a flash. He watched the days spin, his insides spinning with it like a broken clock. Everything spinning so fast yet so slow. Spinning and furling, curling— all those tears he cried when he found you—he thought he saw Mori flash by but wasn’t sure—, all the laughter he shared the night before and then— and then— He was there.

Standing in the middle of the party, Host and Mori sat on the couch, clearly exhausted.

Host waved at him, murmuring under his breath as usual, as Mori gave him a weak smile. Bing looked at them, before he heard a soft, gentle knock on the door.

Stepping forward and running past them, he opened it eagerly to see you shivering from the cold.

“Bingy— who’s at the door?”

Wilford walked towards him, but before he could push him out of the way, Bing turned around, punching him in the face. Then, he turned to you,

“Hey dude! Merry Christmas! Wanna come in?”

He could feel everyone staring as Wilford groaned, holding his nose, reaching for his gun. Bing kicked it out of his hand, before telling you to come in again.

“Don’t worry! Everything is gonna be okay my dude! Hold on a minute tho.”

Bing grabbed Wilford by the collar of his Christmas sweater, muttering angry words you couldn’t hear. You heard Wilford try to say something back, but the android wouldn’t hear it. He punched and then dropped Wilford before turning to you again.

“Hey, come in! You’re letting the heat out! And like, you look super cold! You want some hot cocoa?”

You nodded, stepping in and closing the door behind you. Bing smiled as you walked to him, he led you to the kitchen and grabbed Wilford’s gun on the way. Everyone stared in confusion, but gratitude too— they missed you so much! You were always so fun to hang around with but.. well, with Wilford holding his stupid grudge for so long that everyone practically forgot what the hell it was about!

Wilford got up with a groan, holding his bleeding nose, “Aw what the bloody hell—“

Dark rolled his eyes, strolling towards him and trying not to smirk, “You shouldn’t be mean on Christmas, Wilford, isn’t that what you always said?”

Wilford looked down at the much shorter man, before laughing himself, “Shut up you damn gremlin!” He laughed harder, “I can’t believe Bing punched me! And damn, look at my boy, he’s got a good punch!”

Everyone chuckled in response as Bing opened the back door.

You looked at Bing as milk boiled on the stove for your hot cocoa.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting rid of this stupid thing!” He made sure the safety was on before grabbing both ends and snapping it in half. Then, he threw the pieces out into the snow, looking at you with a smile, “The only guns we need are these!” He said, flexing his muscles as you giggled, grabbing the hot cocoa mix and pouring it into the milk. After mixing it around, you served two cups, handing him one.

The party continued after that, and a few people left after a few hours, mostly ones you didn’t know. Then, when everything died down, you turned to Bing (who sat next to you on the couch) and asked to stay the night, he smiled.

“Of course dude. You can stay as long as you want. I hope you don’t mind sharing a room with me though.”

Your lips quivered as you hugged him, practically sobbing in relief, “Of course I don’t mind! Thank you so much! I— my parents kicked me out and.. I was so worried and—“

“Don’t worry! I’ll make sure to take care of you, and maybe we could go get your stuff tomorrow and you can move in!”

You pulled away, smiling, “Thank you so, so much, Bing.”

He smiled at you, “You’re welcome, now let’s go to bed, okay?”

You nodded, following him into his room and falling asleep right next to him.

That night, you had a dream.

It wasn’t anything sad.. in fact, it was the happiest dream you had in a long time— it was you and Bing, laughing and giggling, smiling softly.

Then, you woke to a little chirp, wrapped up in covers right next to the android, who was perfectly warm and snuggling next you, plugged into the wall and fully charged. You leaned over and unplugged him, gently nudging him awake. He groaned, holding you closer before opening his eyes.

“Morning.” You said, smiling.

He smiled back, “Morning.”

Then, the both of you rushed into the living room, noticing you were the last ones awake. The both of you sat at the foot of the Christmas tree, and Bing passed you the few presents he bought you. He originally planned to go over to your house and give them to you but.. now, he could give them to you here!

You opened the gifts, getting a cute cup with a hot cocoa packet and candy canes, and also getting a few things you wanted all year! You hugged him, apologizing for not having any presents, but he just waved you off.

“You’re the only present I need this year my dude, you mean a lot to me.” He whispered, tears pricking in his eyes. “Ahh— I’m getting all sappy!”

You giggled, before hugging him again.

Then, after everyone opened their presents, you and Bing went to your house, your mother opened the door and before she could even say anything, Bing punched her in the face.

“Bing what the hell!”

“Sorry.” He whispered, remembering how your mother and fathers only concern after your death was the funeral costs and what the neighbors thought. They didn’t even think they were wrong about what they did.

Your father rushed over to the front door, helping your mother up, but then Bing punched him in the face too, knocking him out. With both of your parents.. on the floor and unable to get up, Bing went inside your house, and you followed. Feeling a little guilty.

The both of you went to your room, gathered everything you needed, and packed it all into two old backpacks you had, before dragging your parents to the couch and leaving.

After that, you had the best Christmas ever, all the egos (while you were gone) went and bought you presents, even Wilford, who, after he got some sense knocked into him by Bing, released how stupid he was being. You had to admit, that was an unexpected present, but.. the best present had to be Bing, who cared enough to stand up to him, and now you couldn’t be happier.

#bingiplier #bingiplier x reader #bing #wilford motherloving warfstache #markiplier wilford #wilford warfstache #xreader #reader insert #sierra’s writing

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ladywindrunner · 4 years

Note

try + deathwing :')

try + (character) // accepting ::

D E A T H W I N G

He, who was the greatest of calamities, a triumph in destruction – found himself destroyed before his symphony of ruin was complete. Merciful oblivion took him in the throes of deserved agony, and that devastating torture that wracked his body finally ceased.

He’d been nothing but a plague of misery and ash, a pestilence of consuming fire and malevolence. In the quiet now, without distractions he could consider his failure properly. His memories, twisted as they were, played out before him and he saw how his pathetic servants had fallen short of their duties.

How entirely vexing, the short comings of others.

For a briefest flash, free of the intrusive thoughts that he’d been unable to fight off, he thought he may deserve this fate. To be nothing save a foul memory. He can almost recall who’d he been before, almost grasp the concept of honour, duty, and valour. All things once attributed to him at his grandest—

NO.

Neltharion was dead. Destroyed beyond recognition, not even a corpse remained for those to mourn the fool who thought himself guardian. Imbecilic idealist who’d believed mortals even worth consideration. He was the champion of a rotting tomb, a hollow memory with a crumbling memorial somewhere on that pathetic world.

If even that.

Good. Let the world forget the Earth Warder. Let those who cling to his memory and beliefs suffer. Their weakness should be punished!

Within this sacred abyss was Deathwing. Greatest of all the dragons, he who could not be conquered without those fools mucking about with precious time. His laugh rung out to the nothingness about his incorporeal form. He laughed at his latent victory.

Who were they now to stand on mighty kingdoms of righteousness? For they had sinned as he had. They played with machinations said to be forbidden. But they did so with the naivety of children. They clung to their delusions of morality. Perhaps they’d struck him down, but their actions had unleashed unknowable catastrophes.

Fate would see them punished for their crimes, yet they would not possess the serenity of oblivion. They would fight, tooth and claw, to cling to that pathetic rock of a world. Their wars would simply draw more chaos, peace would never last.

What he pitied, was he would not be there to watch their misery. The Old Gods, whispering horrible truths, played their hand too early. Their patience was endless but limited. They were festering paradoxes, and in the silence death brought, it was a relief now that Deathwing did not have to endure their plots.

Such simple schemes they were, too. To rule a world empty of resistance, to corrupt it and twist all those on it to the void.

He barked out a bellowing laugh, for here he could mock them. Their deaths, without he as their dark vanguard, would be swift and well deserved.

Old Gods indeed, free of their madness, he could see just how archaic their designs were. They wrought ruin for ruin’s sake.

But was that not the simplicity sicknesses incurred? A disease has no drive beyond mutation and death.

If Deathwing felt shame, it was only because he’d permitted them to warp his own desires. They offered him power eons ago, but who truly had worked to obtain it?

He had. He’d done the work; and suffered for it. He’d walked amongst the mortals and manipulated them, he’d tricked the other Aspects. What had the Old Gods done but offer empty promises from their long lost prisons? He’d wanted freedom from a burden thrust on him undeservedly so, and why? Because beings claiming to be his betters wanted to witness what would occur. They who could not even bother to care for their own world, gave the responsibility to dragons undoubtedly out of sheer convenience.

The abyss contained within it, no semblance of time. Here, he sensed there was no beginning nor ending. This was existence at its worst. To be something almost tangible, with thoughts and goals, but without a means to properly act. The predicament was inconvenient. Infuriating that this was the end the Old Gods had brought him.

Where are your whispers now, you filth. I so wish to witness your demise. I know of many who you thought to rule who planned to betray you. Let them taste victory, if there is any semblance of justice within the cosmos, you will be nothing but the fleeting terror in the dreams of infants!

Resentment was a fine companion. One worthy of his hatred.

“And my father is dead, because of the Old Gods.”

Wrathion.

His son, a runt hardly worth a thought. Deathwing’s contempt for him is only matched by his amusement. The purge of his flight had failed then, though it was a shame that it was one so wretchedly weak that survived. Was he to believe that it was Wrathion who lead the struggle against the Old Gods?

There is a flicker of pride for the boy, though it is fleeting. How grand would it be if it should be his son to strike down the disease? It would not be so difficult to imagine; the Old Gods were arrogant things. They thought themselves untouchable because they were as real as nightmares.

Fools, as maddening as their designs were, they were fragile.

Falsehoods. Fakes. Lies. Mirages of the worst sort, but illusions all the same.

Prove yourself useful, whelp. Deathwing rumbled, the void about him shaking in resonance. Even here, in this nothingness, he possessed power. Surely you tire of being such a disappointment.

The silence around him is deafening. He waits to see if oblivion bestows him with another glimmer. He knows many of his former masters have perished. He delights in it. Somehow, in this vast emptiness, his knowledge has expanded. This abyss is as much their fate as it was his. Only they, without the fear of mortals to sustain them, are withering. Their greed and lust to be worshipped and dreaded is their downfall.

He was not so simple, and that was the only gift Neltharion bestowed upon him. His existence before corruption promised that Deathwing would not be so easily vanquished. No, he was to suffer. As if somehow, being free of the crushing weight of Azeroth, and the madness it seeded was a punishment.

Oh, how he laughed.

I am destruction. What this oblivion seeks to do, is my very being. I am imprisoned here, but with it comes immortality.

His voice rings out to the emptiness, his new seat of power. There is a flicker of something forming. A wisp, a mote of existence within nothing. Shadow and flame, an ember of defiant, vicious truth.

“In N’Zoth’s name, his wings will darken the sky once more!”

His fury is immediate. A thunderous roar threatens to send the abyss fleeing in terror as it rings out. How dare anyone proclaim it would be some disease that would see Deathwing rise! The insolence! He seethes with loathing, and his being violently lashes out at the nothingness.

This was the first time oblivion felt as though it were a prison. He could not reach out and snuff out the proclamation. He could imagine the Old Gods laughing, mocking him even as they become grains of sand to be blown away by history.

His connection to this one is different. She is not his child, but the daughter of Onyxia. Yet her spirit burned truer than his son’s. She did not wish to be weak as the other dragons were. She valued power, control, and knew that to obtain such things one could not be so limited by ethics.

He fought against the ignorance this place wished to bestow upon him. He would have her name.

Nalice.

That inkling of flame grew larger as he stretched forth his mind and found the boundaries of oblivion.

It was vast, but not limitless.

Another lie of the gods. Old, new, and those who were timeless. The darkness that awaited the unworthy and wicked was not endless. It had walls, a floor, a ceiling.

Or… had he given it such things?

This was his domain after all.

That spark of smoke and flame descended into the floor.

Deathwing reached out for the worthier of the two descendants. He touched her mind, graced her with dreams of N’Zoth’s destruction. That infestation’s inevitable demise. He, the Destroyer, severed the old god’s hold on his granddaughter. She dreamt of Azeroth aflame, and the skies blackened by a thousand shadows.

The Black Dragonflight reborn.

You, child. He spoke to her, his words near beyond comprehension. He shook her sanity with his rampant might. May yet prove worthy of my gaze.

Oblivion caught fire, and the ground heaved.

The floor split open, a vast river of lava given light to an empty realm. Tectonic plates, suddenly thrust into existence, slammed into one another, forging ugly, jaded mountains. Lakes of tar seeped up from hairline cracks, and the abyss now reeked of sulfur and brimstone. Vents of noxious gas sprouted like wildflowers, spewing toxins into the air.

Hellish light illuminated the corpses of the old gods. Fire consumed them until they were nothing.

The tallest of mountains erupted. Plumes of ash and choking smoke exploded into the sky as debris rained down onto the valleys of lava. Magma roared outwards next, running down the cliffs in thick, murderous streams.

This realm is mine. His voice sees the new forged ground quake. Great crevices sundered open, and out from them crawled twisted elementals. Abyssal creatures of fire and earth.

Out rose a form from the belly of the volcano, a marvel of darkness. A draconic monster wrapped in smoke, lava running off seething scales and oblivion plate. He arose as a black dragon of oblivion, and he permitted his terrible power to breathe out of him. His wings smoldered and spat fire, magma leaked from his maw in a horrific fashion.

Deathwing, Lord of Oblivion, Emperor of the Abyss.

Fiery gaze turned upward as he coiled his form around the peak of the sundering mountain.

Pitiful mortals. He snarls, lips curling back as he peers up at that infinite dark. Watch as your world comes to an end.

An earthquake shakes the continent of Kalimdor. The lava fields of Sulfuron Spire churn. Temperatures rise as an early summer sweeps across the land.

And rallying call reaches the mind of those he deems worthy.

All will burn beneath the shadow of my wings.

#deathwing #neltharion #// with cameos of wrathion #// and windrunnerrs' nalice #// x.x hope dis is okiii #✯:: I trust you will not waste my time ( memes )#terraforged

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victoodles · 5 years

Text

Cruel World I’m Gone (Chapter 5)

follow the series on AO3 and make sure you read part 1 / 2 / 3 / 4

The water’s crisp chill envelops you wholly; it feels good against your bare skin - invigorating. You’re weightless, swimming among the stray bluegills that happen your way. Worldly burdens don't follow you beyond the lake’s edge.

Like water off a duck’s back.

You reemerge to the surface, wet hair clinging to your back and you push the remaining strays off your forehead. The evening air nips at exposed skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

It doesn’t bother you none. It instead acts as a reminder that you’re still capable of feeling such sensations.

And helps to assuage the guilt.

It’s a crushing weight on your chest, one that seems to get heavier the more that time keeps slowly inching forward.

You’re still here.

And others aren’t.

You pray the mountain waters can cleanse you of a stain that has plagued you since the fall of Beaver Hollow.

No.

Even weeks before that. Since Blackwater, starting with a nameless girl on a boat and ending with Hellfire. Fate pushed one domino and the ensuing fall condemned the Van der Linde’s to a pattern of bloodshed, destruction, and death.

So much death.

You’re still here.

Why are you still here?

You shouldn’t be here.

You stifle a cry, biting your lip until it withers and dies in your throat. These types ideations are incessant, rapid thoughts that show you no mercy. And it doesn’t seem like that will change anytime soon. You float on your back and look at the stars above in an attempt to calm them.

The irony is almost as painful as the losses you’ve endured.

You’re a hunter, a survivor: self taught through books, trial and error, and pure tenacity. What once was worn as a badge of honor now casts an ugly scar across your heart.

Jenny, Davey, Sean, Kieran, Hosea, Lenny, Molly, Susan.

You lived.

And they died.

It seemed a higher power has deemed you worthier than other members of your family.

Was it really that simple?

Or could it be broken down to survival of the fittest? A complicated game of statistics and chances that predetermined everyone's worth.

What put you above others on this unknown hierarchy?

Failure.

Useless.

You couldn’t do anything to save them.

Just sit there and look pretty.

Tears silently roll down your cheeks and you ask aloud, why?

The moon has no answer. It just envelops you in its pearly glow as it continues to rock you against the gentle lake waves.

Arthur rouses with a drowsy call of your name, reaching over to find your side of the bed (unfortunately) empty. He calls for you again, a little more urgency in his voice as he wipes the sleep from his eyes.

Again he is met with silence and he promptly rises from bed to investigate. There’s no threat or sense of danger but he can’t quell the twenty years of fear that came with his old lifestyle.

His jacket is gone from its usual perch on a chair; he instead spies it from the front window, crumpled on the shore.

Worry fuels him as he hurriedly heads outside, clad in only his union suit. Stray rocks and twigs poke at the bottoms of his bare feet but he can’t bring himself to notice or care.

Arthur’s anxiety bleeds into confusion when he notices your chemise laying just beside his jacket. He finally finds you, laying still and on your back a few meters into the water.

Rationality blows away in the evening breeze and Arthur dashes into the water. He calls out to you as he struggles to cut through the waves as fast as possible. Despite his size and strength, Arthur is no match for the tides.

Arthur garners your attention, and you’re quite calm in contrast to how frantic he feels and looks. Strangely enough it puts him a little more at ease but does nothing to alleviate his concern. You’re standing when he finally reaches you, your nudity barely concealed by the water’s edge.

Despite years of intimacy between you, Arthur still finds himself averting his gaze with a dust of red gracing his cheeks. Your chivalrous cowboy would still never dare to look upon you in any state of undress unless he knew you wanted him to. A fond smile finds its way to your lips as you cup his cheek, turning his face back towards you.

The poor dear is soaked in his union suit, not sparing a second to remove it at the chance you could've been hurt. Distress is still heavily apparent in his eyes and you feel just dreadful for worrying him so.

I’m okay.

It’s a blur between truth and lie; it calms him to know there’s no harm caused. But he is still bewildered, brow furrowed as he continues to look you over.

Yes there’s nothing physically wrong, but he knows you so much better than that. Arthur has learned how to conquer the battles that don’t require punches to be thrown or guns to be shot.

“What’s goin’ on?” It’s poised so simply, but the question runs much deeper. His gaze is intense - he wants to know everything. There's no reasonable explanation for dashing off in the middle of the night for a midnight swim.

“I,” you start but any semblance of an explanation gets stuck painfully in your throat. How do you begin to tell him the surge of emotions that scourge you?

Such ugly things…

Arthur patiently awaits your response. He doesn’t push or pull, demand answers before you’re ready to give them. Tears cascade down your cheek and he’s there to sweep them away with a calloused thumb.

“I,” you try again. “I don’t understand.” You’re shivering but it isn’t from the cold. “I don’t understand, Arthur.”

Arthur cups your cheek with a reserved tenderness. “Understand what, darlin’?” He genuinely wants to comprehend your anguish, if you’ll let him.

“Why I’m here. Why I was deemed more deserving to draw another breath when,” the grief claws its way to the surface. “When others died.”

Say their names.

“Sean, Lenny, H-“ the one that hurts the most is the hardest to speak. “H-Hosea. They’re all gone and I couldn’t do anything to save them.”

Your tears are incessant, falling harder, faster, and Arthur’s hold on you shifts to your shoulders. It’s grounding, and you wish you could thank him for that right now.

“It wasn’t your fault, you couldn’t have-”

“Couldn’t have known?” You interject. “Of course I could’ve! Dutch was on a downward spiral, it was painfully apparent how flawed his supposed ‘plans’ were!” Tears burn in the corners of your eyes and your breathing becomes labored as your anguish wraps its gnarled hands around your throat.

“If I just spoke up, if I fought him even a little bit-“ Now it’s Arthur’s turn to interrupt as he takes your face carefully in his hands.

“Look at me,” he instructs and you hesitate to comply. He asks again, so sweetly this time it practically hurts to ignore. There’s nothing but adoration in his eyes, not an ounce of blame or scrutiny.

“There was nothing you could’ve done. Dutch,” Arthur’s own pain comes out at the mention of his ex mentor’s name but he is quick to compose himself. “Dutch had us all fooled. Pretty words and speeches that were nothin’ more than hot air.”

“All our losses, all our failures, that’s a burden for his shoulders,” Arthur leans in closer, the tip of his nose brushing against your own. “Not yours.”

You press your forehead to his and revel in the feeling of his fingers against your skin. Sobs transition into sighs when he begins to kiss the tears away from your cheeks reverently.

“I’m here because of you.” It’s a reminder that steals the breath from your lungs. Arthur is alive, here in this world to live another day by your side.

“You say you didn’t fight hard enough? If you had listened to me, I would be dead and rotting on Roanoke Ridge.” The mere thought is more excruciating than any bullet to the chest and you can’t contain the sob that wracks you. Arthur shushes you softly with another well placed kiss.

“You did everything you could, darlin’.” You’ve done so much, and the gratitude Arthur has for your efforts is insurmountable. The crosses you’re bearing aren’t meant to be carried by you.

Give him your pain.

Give him everything.

“What can I do?” Another question that goes beyond mere simplicity. His lips are a whisper away from your own, awaiting your answer. Arthur would likely never shake the habit of willingly following orders. But if you were the one making the demands, he would fall to his knees and obey time and time again.

“Arthur,” his name sounds honeyed sweet as it falls from your lips. He graces you with a small smile while you think. You take his hand in yours, tracing it down your body and stopping just above your breast. Another endearing blush is cast across his face.

“Help me forget,” and you finally close the gap between the two of you, kissing him feverishly. Arthur responds in kind; he will gladly be a vessel for your desires if that’s what you need.

The moon continues to shine above, and it will continue to do so. Many had come and gone but Arthur was still here.

You’re still here.

And that is enough for now.

#vic's fics!#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader

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