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shuuenmei · 4 years ago

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we were two- reflect

TWST OC Week Day 4: Mirror

BEFORE WE BEGIN:

This is connected to “We were two-Prelude”.

For a TLDR of “We were two-Prelude”, the canon MC existed together with Yuu (Rei) and their presence is connected to how Yuu (Rei) got to Twisted Wonderland.

A colored version of this piece will be posted on a later date.

Due to length, the piece is placed under the cut.

Here we go!

“You know, I’m rather jealous of you.”

The reflection in front of her spoke. The teenager with raven hair spoke.

Their meeting is only possible through this dimensional rift.

The teen’s circumstances are a separate matter from her own, her lone connection being that the teen’s soul imprinted on her while their actual body lies dormant, sleeping among the many coffins in the Hall of Mirrors.

“What brought this on?” She wondered.

“Honestly, I went through the same experience as you do, from the entrance ceremony, the overblots, the daily lives with my new friends… everything. And even then, I was too blind to notice what’s going on behind my back, too afraid and too weak to consider seeking answers for myself until it’s too late.”

Their lips curve to a mirthless smile. “I didn’t have the same willpower or bravery as you do to question what is happening around me until it’s too late. I didn’t have the courage or initiative to find a way to defend myself without depending on my friends either. I’m just… me. A regular teen who wound up in a whole other world and blindly followed what I’ve been told to, like a sheep in a herd.”

Pausing to take a breath, they soon continue. “My ignorance and blindness kept me from noticing that I should’ve tried to stop Grim from eating those black rocks that did him more harm than good, and it prevented me from realizing that the Headmaster had his own plans so I’m under his complete mercy when I finally realize what is going on. And my weakness and lack of initiative costs everybody, and even then, I had to sacrifice them for Grim.”

“...You know, I don’t care about Grim as much as you do.” She interjected.

“I have my own priorities, and I was far more interested in finding out about what role I had in the centerpiece of the scheme that the Headmaster is likely playing at when I noticed it, and just because we experience the same thing, doesn’t mean that we had the same backgrounds.”

“I know, and I was told of it.”

“...By the one that imprinted your soul on me?”

“The very same.” They nodded and continued, looking down to the ground (Or what constitutes as a ground in this dimensional rift). “A life where society always seems to put you down no matter what you do, your trust in people that should’ve helped you lost, your relationship with people who once supported you strained… That person also showed me that I had other counterparts, each with their own motivations that are different from mine… and it made me feel small in comparison since unlike all of you, I’m just… average. Just a regular kid thrown into another world without a clue to what’s going on.”

She stayed quiet, listening to them speak before she gave the teen her piece.

“Just because I did differently from you, doesn’t mean that the things you do are completely worthless or irrelevant.”

The teen looked up to her. She gave no heed as she continued.

“Just because you and I do different things doesn’t mean we’re any less irrelevant. We may have different relationships with those we met along the way, but it doesn’t turn or make it any less worthless. Grim and Tsunotaro still care about you, and so does Ace and Deuce back in your world.”

She stepped forward, closing in the distance and held the teen by their shoulder. “No matter what we do, the fact that we’ve become an irreplaceable presence to the people we met doesn’t change. Even if our relationships are different.”

“...But you’re still going to sacrifice Grim, right?”

She pursed her lips, slowly nodding.

“My relationship with Grim is different than the one with yours. I may accept him as someone under my care, but ultimately, I don’t depend on his company all the time, and he still needs more growing to do. And he wouldn’t be getting what he wanted out of me.”

She lifted her hands from them.

“Once upon a time, my mentor and uncle told me that it’s often a better choice to end them first than to take the slim chance of saving them, since saving them and granting them peace may prolong their suffering instead, so I believe that he’d be better off given a swift end.”

“...And I can’t accept that.” They confessed.

“...I know.”

She learned enough about how much the teen cherished Grim and how they are willing to sacrifice the people of Twisted Wonderland, their new friends in this strange world.

Because to them, Grim’s the only one who would care about them the most, because they’re partners, two in one.

The same can’t be said to herself, who sees Grim as his own individual, separate from herself.

And completely independent from needing him, with a life and groups of her own. Away from Grim.

Regardless, she still offered. “But we can make a compromise, if you’re willing to hear that.”

________________________________________________________________

“Morning Yuu-san! Ace-kun! Deuce-kun!”

Without turning back, she returned his greeting. “Morning Epel.”

Ace yawned as he said his greetings as Deuce smiled.

“Morning Epel.”

Epel noticed the drowsy white cat on her shoulder and greeted. “Morning Shiro-san.”

The cat familiar gave a drowsy purr in greeting.

“He’s a lot sleepier than usual today.” She told him.

Epel nodded.

As they walked together, a teen, accompanied by a familiar gray furred cat-monster with blue flames adorning his ears resting on their shoulder zoomed past the group.

“Fnaaahhh, we’re getting late!”

“I know Grim!”

‘Isn’t there still time for homeroom?’ She mused inwardly before she turned back to see the figure.

She saw Grim and the teen. The original Yuu who was meant to be here, now renaming themselves as “Ray”, running ahead with two unfamiliar students waiting for the duo.

“Come on Ray!” They beckoned the teen as they started running forward, their figures fade in the distance.

She stared at them for a moment.

“Yuu-san? What’s wrong?”

She turned, shaking her head at Epel. “Nothing.”

She looked ahead, joining her friends. Suggesting, “By the way, what do you think of a group cafe outing after school today? That new cafe that opened downtown was pretty good.”

“Sure Yuu-san! I should call Jack-Kun about it!”

“I’m gonna get our class E duo later.”

“That leaves me getting Kasper then.”

“So you guys are leaving Shiro and I to get Sebek?”

“Hey, you’re the only one who can convince him to join our hangouts easily and make him tolerate coffee some more.”

“Not funny Ace.”

She made her decision to choose her friends, and by extension, the people of Twisted Wonderland.

They chose to stay for Grim.

The friendships they made may have changed in some ways, but they made their choice.

Like a mirror, they are the same, but not.

#Shuu's fics #Shuu art #Twisted Wonderland #Twst OC Week #Shiina Yuu (black or white)#Of things to come #Yuu (Rei)#Ray (black or white)#twst mc #twst grim #black or white (fanfic)

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spookyspaghettisundae · 3 years ago

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Answers Found in Silence

Vincent licked his lips.

The blood tasted like iron, but the vision of the masterful painting before him absorbed his entire attention.

He loved paintings. He loved living vicariously through them. The rush it filled him with whenever his eyes followed every stroke of the brush, paint layered as passionate memories upon canvas, the sheer essence that the artist channeled into creating such masterpieces.

Seeing what they saw. Breathing what they breathed. Imagining what they must have heard at the time. Tasting what they sampled upon their tongues.

Absentmindedly, he licked his lips again, only now realizing how much blood must have sprayed his face upon bludgeoning a man to death. It took him out of his revelry. That taste of iron prevented him from embarking on another journey through the lens of the painting.

Vincent dabbed his lower lip, then inspected his fingertips, ensuring with a glance that it was indeed another man's blood.

He turned to the corpse splayed out on the marble floor behind him, in the middle of a pool of his own bodily fluids. Vincent scanned the dead body with silent contempt. His lip curled into a sneer. He shook his head in disbelief.

"Philistine," he muttered.

The knife that Sir Dorsey Dwyer had held now lay on the shiny floor beside him, underneath a reflective surface comprised of his own spilled lifeblood, pumped out to completion by his heart's merciless beating, throbbing until he had exhaled his last breath.

Dwyer had threatened to do harm with that knife. Not harm to Vincent—but to the painting. An act of aggression he could not tolerate. An act of spite which he would not suffer.

That they would not suffer.

"Yes," whispered his favorite voice. That sweetest voice. "You did well, my love. Revenge for a loved one he had lost, I can always fathom, but what he would have done to the painting never would have—"

"Brought him back," said Vincent, Lord of the Bailyview, seemingly to himself.

Nobody but him could hear the phantasmal companion whose sentence he had finished. He stood alone in that spacious hall, company only to his late colleague's corpse growing cold. Sparing little glance to the bent candelabra which had caved in Dwyer's skull, he turned to gaze at the painting again.

He said, "It is a bit of a bother though. I need to figure out how to get his sorry carcass out of here without getting caught red-handed, or our time together may just be spent in a cell in the Tower."

She stayed silent.

He rubbed thumb and bloodstained fingers together, marveling at the sensation of that warm slick fluid trapped between them. Though rare for him to take another person's life, he rarely felt anything even remotely related to remorse.

Like this painting.

A beautiful portrait of a quaintly handsome man. Staring off to the side through hazel eyes, head crowned by messy hair, garbed in a fancy dress likely donned just for the portrait's painter—or imagined, as it contrasted the rest of his appearance so.

The painter had clearly seen something in the motif of his masterpiece. Felt something for the man depicted on the canvas.

And the painter had been nobody less than the infamous Outer Wall Reaper. The murderer who had kept the city locked in a breathless fear, rendered masses afraid of the killer who stalked its streets by night, picking off people and making them disappear until only mangled bodies surfaced in the slums, organs missing.

And now, Vincent owned this painting, stolen from the Reaper's vandalized home by looters before an angry mob fully thrashed it. The piece of art had found its way into the private collection of this rich and handsome playboy.

"So fascinating," said she.

Orinrya.

"The painter? Or the subject?" he asked.

She rendered a whole aria, carried in the singsong of a single word as she replied, "Both."

He chuckled.

"So rare for us to glimpse what such a pure soul saw as attractive," she added.

"Pure soul?" scoffed Vincent. But he smiled.

"Yes. Just look at the way he painted every single hair on his head. What little attention he paid to the shirt's collar or the bow, while having slaved over the sheen he had seen on this man's skin. The hand that guided that brush also guided the needles and scalpels that took all those lives, in all those cold and dreary nights. The warmth of their blood, steaming in the snow—"

"You're right."

"Hm?"

"I see it," breathed Vincent.

He sighed. Shot another glance at the dead man on the floor, repeating his oath, "Philistine. To think—you almost robbed our world of this masterpiece. The single only painting the Reaper may have ever made."

Dwyer had been out of line; he had had no right to destroy it. Nobody did. The stupid fop had foolishly tried to put knife to the canvas, to slice it to ribbons in a fit of rage upon hearing who had painted the portrait. A petty act of revenge, as if it would have brought back his slain brother, the only wealthy victim whose life the Reaper claimed in his rampage through the slums. Caught with a night worker, no less, adding insult to injury.

And to imagine that a simple painting could have been the object of his impotent rage—no, they would never have suffered such petty revenge. After all, it was not the artwork that had taken his brother's life.

Snatching a gas lantern from the table, Vincent raised it in front of the painting and frowned. Though perfect for the simple sandalwood frame, this artificial light did not do the artwork itself any justice. The long, foggy night had swallowed the sun, and Vincent could not wait to behold the Reaper's artistry again in broad daylight.

In a way, the Outer Wall Reaper had just claimed another life. Even if only indirectly. Vincent smiled at that thought. That he had accidentally become the murderer's own instrument.

Almost as if on cue to disrupt his morbid amusement, someone knocked on the door.

Muffled through the entrance still closed, the butler spoke, "Milord, I heard—"

"It's fine, Perry. Brace yourself as you enter. Sir Dwyer had a," Vincent's words trailed off like these thoughts. He smiled again to himself before he finally finished the sentence. "He had an unfortunate accident."

He never turned around. The doors to the gallery opened and Perry entered. His shoes squeaked as he swiveled and froze in place, staring at the corpse.

"An accident with a candelabra, I see," said the butler with his usual measure of dripping sarcasm. "Looks like the poor chap fell backwards into it. Repeatedly."

Vincent chortled, still admiring the painting. He never understood how Perry found it in him to deliver such deadpan remarks without breaking out into laughter himself.

Their gazes met for a second, and as always, Vincent read no fear in Perry's eyes. They would never harm a hair on each other's heads, and knowing each other's dirty secrets assured mutual silence—or mutual destruction.

"What would you have me do about this mess, sir?"

Vincent clicked his tongue and shook his head.

"Pay no mind. Fetch me everything for some absinthe. I will take care of the late Sir Dwyer myself. And as you recall, he showed up here all drunk off his arse. I don't think anybody knows he even came here. And someone in the constabulary... still owes me a favor. I'll have it all sorted out soon, no worries."

"Despite the recent disaster at your party?"

"Oh, let them all talk. I love being the center of attention. Next thing you know, I'll be the headline of another lurid article," Vincent said, painting a picture in the air with a hand, fingers splayed as he envisioned the printed piece. "Painting me as the Outer Wall Reaper himself, while others rush to defend my name and trip over themselves in fabricating all the reasons why I would never harm a fly."

Vincent arched his brow as he flashed his loyal butler a twisted smile. The same involuntary expression to mark his face whenever he felt like he was winning a game. And he always won the games that people played in the rumor mill.

"I am less concerned about them, milord. And more about how difficult it will be to clean after the constabulary concludes their investigation." Perry raised his nose and stared down at it, gray cheeks reddening.

"Hm. I am terribly sorry about all that, Perry. You have my word; I'll hire someone to take care of it. Now—how about that absinthe?"

The butler emitted a grunt in recognition, bowed, and backed out of the gallery hall again, leaving Vincent alone with the corpse.

And Orinrya.

The door clicked as it shut completely.

"He's such a good friend of the family," she said. "Three generations, and now the old codger's stuck with handling your caprice."

She smiled through Vincent's own lips. He smiled to himself, as well.

"I'm sure he has his own share of amusements," he said. Focusing on the painting again, he asked, "Now, where do you think this one leads? It's just blank around the subject. Well, not entirely blank. There's some color, some suggestion of gloom. I'd wager he painted it just this same winter. But without background—no context. A blind journey. We've never done that before."

"And that's why we will, darling. You cannot resist."

He smiled even wider.

Orinrya was right. She knew his thoughts, reading them as clearly as if he had spoken them out loud, giving them air. She knew his capricious nature as well as he did, or perhaps even better. Knew he could not pass up on any opportunity to explore the unknown. He bored quickly of things familiar and always sought to visit a new horizon whenever it presented itself.

He flopped down onto the sofa with a heavy sigh, his velvety upholstered oasis in the middle of this opulent marble gallery. Surrounded by alabaster statues of ancient deities, and arrays of exquisite paintings that his family had amassed over all these years to plaster the high walls. The lights from gaslit lanterns cast pockets of eerie glow throughout the gigantic hall.

Vincent tapped his chiseled blood-splattered chin as he once more marveled at the craftsmanship that had gone into painting this portrait.

"What do think is his name? Or was?" he asked.

"Eric," she said. Giggled. "He looks like an Eric to me. And still alive, I feel."

Vincent chuckled.

"So, you're picking up on a name with an 'E'. Perhaps Egon? Egon. Hm. What a funny name," he mused.

"Edward. That must be it, for sure."

"How would you know?"

"Call it—intuition," she cooed.

"Or should I call it whispers? The things you hear from the beyond? You never answered, love. You never told me where you came from."

"And perhaps I never will," she breathed with melody, drawing out another smile from him.

The set of double doors opened into the gallery. The butler entered. Empty glasses and sugar cubes in a small metal cup tinkled and clattered until he arrived by the sofa's side. He set the contents of his tray down onto the table by the sofa, one by one, preparing everything for Vincent's ritual.

Before he could seize the bottle of green liquid to pour him a glass, Vincent raised a jewelry-clad hand to stop Perry.

"That'll be all. Thank you," he told him. "I'll take it from here."

Perry nodded, bowed again, and left the gallery, shedding not even a glance in the direction of Dwyer's corpse.

The doors clicked shut again.

"You know you don't need that, right?" asked Orinrya.

"Yes. But I just—I enjoy it too much. I like the taste. I associate it with our study of these pieces. With our journeys."

He chuckled again.

Perching a sugar cube atop the glass with the ornate spoon—and his family's crest of the eagle cut into the silver piece of specialized cutlery—he poured the sweet green spirit into his clear cup. The trickle of liquid tickled his senses.

And he lived for all manner of sensations.

"It is a lovely taste, I must concede," she said. "Particularly this bottle, this make. More than mere resemblance of licorice. Mint. Thyme? And a hint of other worlds. I do understand the appeal, don't get me wrong."

A delighted sigh escaped his throat as he cradled the glass between the fingers of one hand, swirling its contents like fine wine and sampling the drink's scent.

"Other worlds indeed," he said, the smile never fading from his face.

He sipped from the glass. Heat spread over his palate with a pleasant warmth, like a beautiful wildfire consuming the countryside, burning away every hint of iron and blood. He closed his eyes as he savored the aftertaste, and took another longing sip, kissing the glass like he would his many lovers, the men and women he consorted with behind closed doors at his many lavish parties.

"Drink, sweet prince," she said. "I long to see what lies beyond. I wish to meet this man for myself. To see what the Reaper saw."

"Taste what the Reaper tasted," breathed Vincent, licking his lips again, now only tasting the sweet sting of the green fairy, any tang of blood having been relegated into memory.

He focused on the painting. Drinking in the portrait's details. Warm tones made up the complexion of the artist's subject. Streaks and dabs of gray peppered dark hair despite the youthful and symmetrical face. A faint hint of stubble around the small and tender-looking lips and a soft chin.

And such kind eyes. So utterly kind.

What had the Reaper seen? Who was this mysterious subject?

"The killer became obsessed with him," Orinrya whispered. "Watched him from afar. But not like he watched the others."

Vincent sipped more from his cup; his sights fixed on the portrait. The spirit burned his throat on the way down and blood now rushed in his ears.

"Do you think he would have kept him for last? After torching down the entire world, would he have kept him around, do you think?"

"Not for long," she said. "Those kind eyes, he would not have been able to bear them for all eternity. Those eyes, painted thus, they knew not who watched him. What watched him. What monster—"

"Oh, my dear, let us not wield that word lightly," Vincent said.

His eyes fell shut as he drank more from the cup. The cool steel framing its glass made his silky palm tingle.

"Oh, but my dear, he is one of us," she sang.

"Was," said Vincent, breaking out into another chuckle.

Opening his eyes to continue gazing into the soft amber irises of the portrait's eyes, Vincent's vision blurred.

"Yes, was," she chimed in, joining him with melodious laughter in his mind.

"And this—Edward, you say—"

"Yes. Certainly Edward. I see a room. Orderly. Well-organized. Neatly arranged instruments. Cabinets filled with... medicine."

"A doctor?" asked Vincent with a lopsided smile, arching a brow.

"A doctor."

He drank more from the cup. Lost all sense of time as his senses dulled, losing track of how often he repeated the motion—the trickle of green spirit soaked up by the sugar cube, trailing down through the family crest into the cup, and burning in his throat as he sent it to cascade past his luscious lips and tongue.

"Here, in this very city, am I right?"

"Yes, dear. He is near. I feel it."

As his vision faded, his memory soon followed into the hazy mist.

Vincent cradled the bottle. Empty, save for a few droplets. They laughed as its glass shattered somewhere on the floor, no further mind paid to its breaking after jettisoning it away in a languid arc.

"I can almost taste it."

The lingering smell of the spirit occluded his senses further, but he began to smell another sharp substance.

Rubbing alcohol.

"We're getting closer, love," she whispered.

Every time he blinked, his eyelids grew heavier. His vision of the portrait turned into a blob of warm colors in dim light. The kind eyes of the mystery man in the painting—Edward—soon peeled away from that unseen something off to the right side of the image, and the doctor in the painting turned his head to look back at his spectators.

Then he looked out a window. His motions were slow, deliberate.

They felt that he felt watched.

"A busy street by day, just outside that window," Orinrya said.

"A foggy day," Vincent ventured. "A day not long ago."

"Only days around when the Reaper started his spree."

"Oh, how he cherished knowing how this beautiful man—this oblivious doctor—was unwittingly helping him."

"Did he provide the instruments?"

"Or drugs, perhaps?"

"No, just the thing to stab. A precise thing."

"A needle," they both said in unison, their voices blending until they matched. Orinrya spoke through his mouth. "A syringe."

Two voices. Not one.

The lantern's flame flickered but stayed alight. Turned bright blue. The world began to fade.

"Inspiration."

"He inspired him. Oh, he quaffed the nectar of this man's innocence—"

"Watched from afar, even before he started claiming lives—"

"Twisted it into something darker—"

"Something fierce—"

"Oh, the delicious transgression."

The lights throughout the gallery went out, one by one, until all but the lantern sitting on the floor between sofa and the lonesome painting remained lit. An orange-hued island in the middle of a sea of darkness. On one edge, the dapper lordling lounged, limbs drooping lazily off the sides. On the other, the painting.

The handsome man had disappeared from it.

Vincent brushed over his own lips and the numbness had set in. Unable to feel his own fingers, it felt like someone else caressed him, like she had planted there a gentle kiss.

They no longer saw a portrait, but another place. A window into that other location: a doctor's practice. Vacant of people, with shadows flitting about, hints of its owner leaping from one task to another chore, as day and night cycled rapidly, bouncing back and forth.

Meticulously washing his hands in the sink. Examining a sitting patient's eyes. Carefully bringing scalpel to an exposed arm. A laugh to defuse some fear. Blood, dabbed away with cloth in slender hands. A warm and kind smile to match the gaze from the painting, a patient calmed by his gentle disposition.

Oblivious of the darkness that watched him, reaching through past and present and now seeing that darkened room. A solid night, a roiling fog outside the windows. Like one monster once watched, spying from the outside, they now peered through painting, bridging time and space.

Vincent lurched up onto his feet and stumbled halfway on the infinitely long walk towards the painting. Glass shards crunched underneath his shoe, reminiscent of the blanket of snow outside, melting into the flurries of crystallized precipitation which he saw through the painting, falling softly to cobblestone-covered streets outside the practice's window.

Though numbed by stupor, the bumps and ridges of dried paint surfaced in a texture he traced with his fingertips, exploring the picture of the painting. No longer depicting the kind-faced doctor, but his practice, blanketed entirely by night.

"Push, my love. Let us explore."

And Vincent did. Pressed his palm against the painting, and ripples exploded outwards from it, as if he had disturbed the surface of a still pond. The image swallowed his hand and he pushed deeper, until he dove into that distorted image, neither place nor person, stepping entirely through.

As he stumbled again and blinked to orient himself, he stood inside that doctor's practice.

Rocked back and forth as the absinthe did its number on his coordination, barely able to read the handwriting on letters stacked on a desk.

Orinrya whispered through Vincent's lips, "Doctor Edward—"

"Carnaby," Vincent finished himself, slurring the surname in a drunken drawl, erupting into a stupid giggle.

He slapped the paper back down onto the desk and looked about, letting his eyes adjust.

"Do we truly travel to these places, love?"

"Or is it just a jaunt of the mind?" she countered.

"A little escape that leaves the flesh behind?"

He giggled another drunken giggle as he clumsily knocked over objects on the desk, causing them to clink and clatter and a small broken vial to gurgle out liquid. Something black, likely ink.

"Oh fairy, my green fairy," he murmured with the most melody that a positively drunken man could muster.

"This is all us, darling. No fairy needed. Just some added fun for your pleasure."

He pushed through a door, stumbling down dark corridors, and registering the softness of a carpet beneath his shoes.

"But it's so much fun, love—"

Vincent froze.

Bathed in a bright sliver of silver moonlight from a crack between the curtains, a woman lay in bed. A shapely face, heavily scarred, and peacefully resting, eyes closed.

"Oh, here we go again," mused Orinrya. "Be still, your beating heart."

Arms exposed above the sheets, wreathed in bandages, leaving just enough space for Vincent to take a seat at the sleeping woman's side. The mattress and bed creaked underneath his weight.

The scars on her cheek, as disfiguring they were, he saw past them and found a beauty he would have overlooked otherwise. But it was the scarring that captured his entire attention.

"Yet another fancy for you to entertain, love?"

He shushed Orinrya.

His fingers shook with the green fairy's tremors and an enamored fascination. He traced over the lines of those scars, an uneven drawing from a cut inflicted by a blade, that wandered over cheek to nose. Crisscrossing into another scar that ran across the nose, where ridge had broken once. Gingerly exploring the uneven surface of her warm skin where a hound's claw had raked her jaw. Her soft and shallow breath, he felt even with hands so numb.

So focused, so spellbound—

"Careful now," Orinrya whispered.

Vincent whispered back, "Sound asleep—"

"Look," she said. "Look away."

"No, I shall not."

"Look beside her, I say! Look. On the bedside table," Orinrya urged him. The singsong gone, her tone had fallen deathly serious.

That was when his blurry gaze finally came to rest upon it.

A leatherbound tome. Strange glyphs carved into its face.

Another gasp escaped Vincent's throat, all attention for the beautifully scarred woman now blown away.

An authentic tome of magick. He felt it. He felt its thrum. No ordinary book he had ever seen had ever looked like that. It had to be.

The prize he had sought for so long.

"Take me," Orinrya whispered.

No—the tome had whispered that. In his mind. Like her?

Right?

"Take it," she whispered in his mind. "Take it."

His hands trembled—hovered just above the cool leather surface of the book. How he yearned to rip it open and decipher its inscriptions. But his reverence weighed so heavily, the dread of what terrible secrets it may contain, it boggled his mind. His hesitation dragged on forever, mired in a swamp of lost time and a drunken haze.

"Take it," she hissed. Commanding.

His fingers trembled even more as they crept closer towards the edges of the book, keen on flipping the lid and perusing its mysterious pages.

He hesitated for too long.

"What are you doing in here?" a man blurted out behind them.

In the door to the room stood a dark silhouette. The squeak of metal and a clicking sound preceded a lantern going on.

The doctor. This Edward Carnaby. The kind face from the painting, kindness far from its current expression. Glaring at Vincent.

"Who in the blazes are you?" asked the doctor.

Brows furrowed; the moonlight twinkled with fear in the doctor's pupils.

Vincent rose to his feet and lurched towards him, tripping over a chair's leg. He caught himself against a dresser before he could fully plummet to the floor. Laughed, drunkenly.

"Should he see your face?" Orinrya asked. Another murmur in Vincent's thoughts. "Should he remember?"

"No. Yes!" Vincent said, followed by another clipped giggle.

Alibi, he thought. So convenient. If this was even real.

Doctor Carnaby cried, "Get out! Before I fetch a constable!"

The good doctor threatened, yet he took a timid step backwards, back into the hallway behind him. Frightened by the nightly invader in his home.

"Sorry good, sir," Vincent's words lurched as much as he did with his drunken gait. "I must have been confused. Long night—o-out drinking, you see."

"Get out!" repeated the doctor with more force. His voice trembled with terror.

Leaning against the dresser, sliding, and almost slipping as he propped himself up, Vincent eked out a theatrical gesture with his arm and bowed, nearly toppling over in the process. "I'm Lord Vincent Va—"

"I don't care who in the devil's name you are, you are bothering my patient, you drunken lout! Get! Out! " The doctor's fear audibly subsided. He cleared his throat and pointed a finger down the hallway, directing Vincent to leave that way.

He stepped aside demonstratively and waited for Vincent to follow his instructions.

"Yes, yes, yes. As I was saying, good sir, I must have taken the wrong turn—wrong door, you know, it happens," he said with a smile, growing aware of how much less charming he was whenever he was this heavily intoxicated. "Vincent Vance is the name, Lord of Bailyview. Terribly sorry if I broke anything on the way in—"

Doctor Carnaby's face fell through different stages. The dread dropped into fury, and the fury made way for confusion and mild annoyance, with a dash of pity.

"Just leave, please."

"Right," Vincent said, covering his mouth and feigning the urge to throw up, replete with a retching sound.

Carnaby waited patiently for him to step outside, and Vincent obliged. Stared over his shoulder as he turned into the hallway and stopped there—the scarred woman stirred, and more importantly, that leatherbound tome eyelessly stared back at him.

Beckoning him.

He wanted it so badly. Had to peel his gaze from the book. Had to tell himself he'd be back for it. Flashed a stupid grin at the doctor and stumbled forth.

The glow from the doctor's lantern made it easier to navigate the dark hallway, and in the blurry haze where time and space melted into one misty soup, he braced himself against a wall on the way until he pushed through a door that should have led outside. He slammed it shut behind him, more fiercely than he had intended.

But he did not find himself outside on the street, in the cold, where his breath condensed before his mouth, standing in the pale moonlight as it pierced a ring of clouds—but back in the gallery in front of the living painting of Doctor Edward Carnaby.

The doctor glared into the night outside his front door. Poked his head outside to see where his nightly intruder had staggered off to but paid it no more mind. Did not notice a lack of footprints in the thin layer of snow. He shut the door. The lock loudly fell into place.

Vincent leaned against the wall, watching through the painting.

The snowfall of flurries gently drifting down onto the cobblestone-covered streets made him sway again, made Vincent's legs buckle. Hypnotic as it was, it almost fully robbed him of his senses.

He crashed back down onto that comfortable sofa inside his opulent gallery.

"A fascinating jaunt, darling," said Orinrya.

"And a convenient alibi," he replied, shooting another glance at Sir Dwyer's body.

They laughed at the dead philistine.

The blur continued, as Vincent did not recall how he had gotten from the Reaper's painting of Doctor Carnaby in the main hall—to his private parlor.

Slumped into a different sofa, he peered up at the gigantic portrait of himself.

The renowned painter Léon Choffard had spent months completing this masterpiece. A stylized depiction of Vincent's likeness. Though already statuesque in the flesh, Choffard's artistry had lent the portrait a special something that portrayed Vincent as even more attractive than humanly possible—which Vincent regularly and smirkingly attributed to their brief and romantic tryst.

"It truly captures your pleasant face," Orinrya said.

"Thank you, dear."

Silence.

A large clock tick-tocked away from the edge of the room, with everything around him swamped in shadows, two lanterns shedding just enough light that he could study the rendition of his own portrait.

"I wonder," he suddenly said. "What would happen if we entered that picture? Where would it take us?"

Silence.

Orinrya stayed silent.

"Hm, I like that answer. It is intriguing, love. So mysterious. You say so much by saying nothing, you know that?"

She laughed inside his head. A sweet and seductive laugh. He smiled in response.

"Will you ever tell me what you are? Or is that destined to be our perpetual dance?"

She laughed more.

"In due time," she said.

"Like getting our hands on that book."

"Yes, in due time, darling."

"And the woman."

"The scarred one?"

"No. Yes. Her too," he said. He bit his lip, clamped his eyes shut and sighed. "I meant the lady from the new world, that witch-doctor. And all the others in her company. That bandaged inquisitor—oh, how I would like to peel his bandages away and hear all his stories. It's brilliant how all these fascinating people—and things—are all coming together here, all at once."

"Yes. You feel it," Orinrya said.

"Feel what?"

"The quickening."

"What do you mean?"

"Something new being born. Old dreams that are dying, and a new world being birthed before our eyes," she breathed.

Vincent shuddered with a chill running down his spine.

"And what is this new world you speak? You must know. You know so much. I know you know," Vincent whispered, erupting into a crazed cackle over how silly he found his own words.

She smiled. He felt it. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled as a soft breeze swept through his parlor like a ghostly presence. Like soft fingertips that brushed against his lips, not his own. Or perhaps his own, just numbed from the excess of strong spirits only slowly wearing off.

"The real question, darling—what will you do when you bear witness to the reckoning? Will you hold the reins? Or will you pass them off to see what spectacle others may unfold?" Orinrya asked.

The corners of his lips twitched. Both he and she, they smiled simultaneously.

Not gracing her questions with any straight answer, he only returned more questions.

"Are you angel? Or devil?"

Silence.

"Good answer."

He laughed a hollow laugh, eventually mounting into a long and wistful sigh.

Vincent drifted off into a dreamless sleep. And he never yearned for such, as he lived his dreams in every waking moment.

A lingering thought that swam atop the sea of oblivion.

Sputtering awake, the lanterns were no longer lit. Daylight flooded through open doors into the parlor. He still rested in the sofa, sprawled out across it like his own likeness in the gigantic portrait towering over him.

The air was cold and had left him with a painfully stiff neck.

As he shuffled lazily across shiny marble floors, he surveyed the damage he had wrought the night before. The glass shards scattered across the gallery, and the dead body of Sir Dwyer, still left in his own pool of blood.

Work to do. A body to be rid of. A chief to blackmail. A new slew of rumors to seed.

The rich lord took a deep breath and sighed again, rubbing the back of his neck.

He smiled.

"Oh, the woes of pleasure before business," he reckoned.

They both laughed at the thought.

"But that book—"

"Will be ours."

"Its magick—"

"We will wield it," they sang together, dulcet syllables spilling from Vincent's lips.

"Or will you be wielding it, while I soar to incredible heights on your back?" he asked.

And there was silence.

—Submitted by Wratts

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internalsealpanic · 3 years ago

Note

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

- 🔺:)

Since you put so many stars I'm gonna do a bunch of scenes from the fic

(for this ask game)

It was easiest to just tell Tim all the facts rather than rely on the goodwill you've built in 3 years to persuade him.

I was actually pretty stuck on how to write this fic. I knew I wanted to write Tim and Reader urban exploring for a really long time and this is actually the specific kind of fic I've been dying to write awhile now. Hilariously enough what jumpstarted the entire fic was your manipulation HCs. I freaking loved them and it made me want to write Reader trying to manipulate Tim. I like Reader characters with very gray moral lines or a very necessity based moral compass. I think this kind of reader really fits into the setting but they're slowly getting corrupted by Tim *cackles*

People say it was an abomination (An unidentifiable, Tim corrected but you still think abomination captured the appropriate dramatic for that.)

This part I actually kind of like because this series gives me so much opportunity to fuck around with diction and vernacular of people from not only different classes but also different geographical backgrounds. Tim and Reader were written specifically so I could explore this weird effect of having education not be completely available to the public. Reader's perspective on these creatures is less clinical which has them rely upon superstition and folklore to interpret what is in front of them while Tim who gets more accurate information or gets a less dispersed version.

You highly doubt Bludhaven was in any shape to contain whatever it is ravaging sector 4-D. After all, it wasn't in any better shape than Gotham was at the moment. You doubt it's ever been in better shape. They're like two cities constantly caught in this vortex of awfulness, looking at each other from two different sides thinking 'poor bastards'.

I am not 100% certain of the canonical relationship between Gothamites and People in Bludhaven but this just sounds funny.

Sector 4-D was an easy hunting ground where young scavengers got their feet wet before they could move on.

I like the idea of more reputable guilds in the world forcefully partnering up scavenger veterans with youngins to make sure they can safely learn the ropes and not die immediately. The starting age varies wildly per organization but the oldest starting is 17 and the youngest is 12. This is at least what the records say. It's easy enough to lie when record-keeping is shit.

Appealing to the guy's sense of responsibility was kind of cheating

Small nod to Tim's motivation to become Robin :)

A building full of books and most importantly, medical textbooks.

Not a lot of books or even research material survived the nearly century-long span between the start of the pandemic and the present day. This was mostly due to people trying to take care of things on their own (setting fire to each other) and general distrust towards authority figures. This is me ranting about current state of affairs.

You try to push down the number of zeroes the man had shown you as you zip past a rusted sign.

There is currency in this world but it's decentralized and useless unless you're A) in Gotham and B) hoping to use it when bargaining with the government. Reader is hoping to use the money for something however it sadly won't help with daily expenses.

Besides, all the other people who won't stab you after cashing in the reward probably don't know half as many words as Tim so you'll definitely need him to get the right books.

My failed attempt at subtly nodding to Reader's illiteracy.

You stare at the rows of cars before you. They're overrun with weeds and vines and rust. A stark reminder that your Gotham is just a fraction of what it had been. You stop your bike in front of a taxi with a faded yellow body.

Reason I like post-apocalypse aus: ruined cities. I live the aesthetic of old abandoned buildings as nature starts to reclaim.

At least not when you checked but you really don't wanna gamble your Scavenger's license on clerical errors by either of your guilds.

I have so many stupid notes on this one occupation

Tim steps out of the sidecar, careful not to jostle Basil in his bag. You want to point out that you should probably wake the cat up otherwise you were wasting food on him but you knew better than to expect cooperation from Tim's furball from hell.

No commentary I just love Basil.

“The one that involves the least aliens.” You pause, narrowing your eyes at Tim whose hand is currently being eaten by his cat. “Or alien adjacent things.”

I was half tempted to prove reader wrong.

Grade A my ass, you think staring at the furball nipping at his knuckles.

The cats given to guild members have different rankings based on how capable they are in detecting and attacking/hunting the creatures. Grade A is supposed to be top of the line. Reader thinks Tim's been scammed.

“Maybe,” you tilt your head, “or maybe the people from before were just idiots.”

I am describing myself.

The skittering voices rise like the fluttering of locust wings.

[The scene where the monster appears]

Absolutely freaking love this scene because I am a huge fan of body horror and I started off writing horror. I had to look up just the right words to describe the vibe I got from Mask Face in Spirited Away. I wanted to creep people out as much as Tim and Reader were creeped out. I also wanted to make the disease's effects more monstrous so that the mythological stuff it inspires sounds more plausible. This creature is likely to reappear.

You splay a hand on Tim’s chest, pushing him back lightly.

Brain screamed: protective gesture.

It blinks at you.

It. Blinks. At. *You.*

Due to the mostly nocturnal nature of the infected fauna, most of them are blind, so this development is horrifying. It's like when Texas Chainsaw Massacre set its horrors in the daylight. They've now been robbed of another safety measure.

"For the record, I hate your plans." You say, gagging.

"What was yours?" Tim fires back, dusting his hair.

"..."

"Just what I thought."

I love sassy Tim :)

Tim doesn't respond.

You pull your hand away and it’s slick with blood.

*Cackles*

#here is my essay

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salt-warrior · 4 years ago

Text

WHEN EARTH TURNS TO ASHES

Masterlist

Chapter Eighteen: The Dawn of Human Suffering

Light snow was beginning to fall under the cover of a purple dusk, but Kai didn't feel the edging bite of cold. The five friends stood huddled together in a tight circle, humbly awaiting for the absence of the sun.

Cress had told them that the night sky would be better to summon Her because the gray realm is closer to the middle realm when the sky is dark. It all had something to do with how ghosts become more active within the cover of twilight and human fear.

A determined Cinder stood beside Kai, her slouched form shivering against her crutches. She held an old, worn envelope that contained the key to summoning the ghost of her mother. Her expression was stony and undecipherable, though Kai could feel nervous energy bouncing off of her like an electrical current.

"It's almost time," Cress observed. "We should come up with some sort of game plan for what we'll do once we summon Her."

"Wait," Thorne intruded, "won't we just summon her, burn the bracelet, and be done with her?"

"Essentially, but there are still some minor details that we might want to go over," Cress admitted, blushing as she looked at Thorne. "She might try to talk to us. She could attempt to hurt us, although I believe that we have to say the trigger words for her to be allowed to even touch us."

"It sounds like a horcrux," Kai said, earning a stare from each of his friends. "You know, in Harry Potter?"

"Anyways," Cress continued, ignoring Kai's words. "We need to be prepared for all the worst case scenarios."

"Worst case scenario, all of you run," Cinder said. "She'll stay with me, and she also won't hurt me. I only need Cress to say the magic words and then you can all leave."

"But won't she catch on fire?" Thorne asked, his voice hesitant to ask the question.

Cress shrugged her shoulders and held her head high. "We don't know; but if I do, just try to put me out fast."

A hush fell back over the group at Cress's words of bravery, but all Kai could feel was his own resolve. Kai looked at everyone huddled together, and wondered how on earth his life had gotten to this point. Less than a month ago Kai was a simple college student at business school. His best—and only—friend was Carswell Thorne. He didn't believe in ghosts. He wasn't ever at risk of dying. He wasn't in love with a girl who saying 'I love you' to could get him killed.

Kai wasn't entirely sure what his life had been leading up to. He enjoyed business school, but it wasn't his passion. Kai wanted to see things, and learn, and meet new people everyday. His father had given him all that he could offer, but Kai only wanted that which wasn't his. Kai was facing a situation that could lead to death, and all he could think of was his regret. Now was the time to redeem himself.

I could hold the entire world in my hands, Kai thought. Yet all I want is to hold Cinder. All I want is Cinder. She is the world. She is the one. She is the reason to everything, and now I know why Channary would do everything in her power to keep her safe.

"Cinder," Kai could feel his heart choking him with all the words he could not say. "I... I..." I love you.

"What Kai?" Cinder asked, tilting her head to the side. She looked so young, so beautiful. Kai felt an ache within him. His entire being was drawn to her, and he couldn't control it. The prospect of dying had his heart making a deathbed request: to kiss her. "What is it?"

Kai took a step toward Cinder. He reached his hand out towards her and placed his fingers against her frozen cheek. Her eyes widened in surprise, though she did not draw away from him. Kai took this as a good sign and brought his other hand up to her face.

Cinder regarded Kai with questioning brown eyes that made him want to write poetry. It was as if the whole world had gone silent and they were the last two humans left on earth. Blood pounded in Kai's ears, and the muted wind blew Cinder's messy hair around her face.

"Are you okay?" Cinder asked. Her eyelashes fluttered with the falling snow. Her lips were slightly parted and chapped from the cold— and Kai couldn't stop looking at them. Her uninjured hand left its crutch to rest against Kai's hand, her icy fingertips made him shiver. "Kai?"

The pull towards her was agonizingly strong. He wanted to kiss her, but he knew he couldn't. He didn't want to screw anything up. He could get them all killed, but what if they were already doomed? Someone would have to say the words, and Kai was done watching everyone else get hurt.

Kai leaned in and brought his lips gently to Cinder's. She tensed for a moment, then relaxed and kissed him back. She wound her fingers into Kai's hair, and he brought his free hand down to her neck. He could feel the blood pounding through her veins, and could taste blood and ice on her lips. A burning sensation rushed throughout Kai's body; he could have kissed Cinder for the rest of his life and been perfectly content.

Cinder was the first to break away, dropping her hand back to the handle of her crutch so as not to touch him. She appeared frazzled, but not agitated. Kai's lips were cold without hers, and he hurt as though he had been stabbed where her fingers no longer rested. His anguish burned in his eyes, and he couldn't let go of Cinder. He couldn't let go of her.

"Cinder," Kai whispered, but she wouldn't look him in the eyes. He no longer cared where he was or what he was about to do. He couldn't care less if the whole world had just been lit aflame; he didn't care if he was about to be lit aflame. "Selene," Kai croaked.

Cinder froze, her eyes large and afraid. Tension boiled around them like a pot of water over a flame. Kai couldn't hear his friends speaking around him. He couldn't see Cinder's silent warning not to say it. He didn't feel her shove him away. The only thing he knew where his lips whispering the words he had wanted to say for weeks. The words were his destiny and fate.

"I love you."

And that's when Kai burst into flames.

***

"Kai, no!" Cinder screamed as she watched a lightning bolt of fire strike Kai's body from the heavens. He was a blazing human torch, sending beacons of light up to hell cast sky— he was the dawn of human suffering.

Around Cinder, her friends echoed her cry. An anguished scream reverberated throughout the wooded area, harmonizing with a predatorial growl. Cinder knew that sound, for it haunted her every dream. It was the sound that she heard when she was alone with her thoughts; it was the background music of her brain.

The smell of burning hair and flesh bore into Cinder's senses. She collapsed to the ground, her entire body trembling with the shock and memories. Her body was out of her control. She could no longer help Kai. She never could. In the end, she was only ever intended to hurt him.

Her friends weren't so helpless.

Thorne charged at Kai, a determined glint in his horror-struck eyes. He tackled Kai to the ground, bringing him in rolling circles across the snow. Kai continued to shriek with the agony of being burned alive, but the flames were beginning to die.

Cress ran to Kai and Thorne, pulling off her coat and beating Kai with it in frantic motions. Iko moved to Cinder's side, telling her to breathe. Spots of black danced across Cinder's vision with the red and orange of the torch that was once a boy. Her throat appeared to have closed off, because no matter how hard she tried, Cinder couldn't bring oxygen into her lungs.

Panic rushed through Cinder, heavier than she could have imagined. She clutched at her chest as the hyperventilations became too intense. She could no longer see Kai, but Ran. Ran was aflame, and Cinder could only watch as his flesh became a blazing meal for Hell.

Then Ran became Peony— peaceful as she silently bore pain that can only be aroused by fire. They were burning, burning, burning. Everything was on fire. The earth had erupted into violent flames. Hell had been cast upon the face of the world and nothing could be seen except the dancing forms phoenix's turning the earth into ashes.

And now Cinder herself was burning. Her skin steamed and peeled off in layers as the inferno consumed her body; but the worst part was the smoke.

Smoke, smoke, smoke. It blinded her. It choked her. It drowned every sense she possessed as a human being. She could no longer see the flames, but the wispy ladies of fate dancing in front of her eyes. Nothing existed anymore except for the smoke.

Smoke

But this time Kai wasn't there to save her from the storm of flames and smoke. Her hero had been struck down by a blade of kryptonite, only it was Cinder who had stabbed him.

"Cinder," Iko screamed somewhere within the smoke. "Cinder, breathe!"

But Cinder couldn't breathe; not with all of the smoke.

"It's all going to be okay, Cinder. Just breathe." Iko shook Cinder, but Cinder still couldn't see Iko. How was Iko still breathing? Cinder wondered.

"It's not real, Cinder," Iko yelled. "It's not real. Just breathe. Breathe in and out with me, okay?" Iko's voice pitched higher.

How can she still breathe? Cinder thought. How come I'm the only one choking?

"Cinder, IN!" Iko screeched. Cinder tried to suck in, but all she could inhale was smoke.

"OUT!" Black sludge spewed from her mouth.

"IN!" Rolling clouds of stormy fire raided her lungs.

"OUT!" A thousand cigarettes worth of smoke swirled from her mouth. The sky was no longer black, but dark gray and stormy.

"IN!" Ice bit at Cinder's lungs with vicious ferocity.

"OUT!" Golden eyes were staring at Cinder, and blue braids were tickling her frozen face.

"Iko," Cinder croaked, weak and tired from all the smoke— but the smoke was gone. "Where'd all the smoke go?" Cinder slurred.

"Kai's gonna be fine, Cinder," Iko said, which didn't make any sense. Was Kai the one making the smoke? Where was Kai?

Cinder was just about to ask her questions, when a long lost voice spoke instead.

"Selene?" Channary cried hysterically. "What are you doing to my Selene?" The woman was tall, thin, and severely burned. She had a face which had once held beauty and charm, but had lost all of its glory.

"Mom?" Cinder wheezed. "Mom, mom stop. Don't hurt them."

Cinder pushed herself off the ground, no longer tired. There was no smoke in the air but a thin trickle swirling up from a small form on the ground. Cinder had not been choking on smoke; she had been drowning in memories.

"My dear Selene, are you alright?" Channary asked with concern. "I won't let them touch you. I will not let anyone else hurt you."

Channary rushed forward, as if to hug her daughter, but her hands went straight through Cinder. A shiver ran down Cinder's spine, and she recoiled from the loving touch. "Selene?"

"Don't hurt them." Cinder panted, taking a step back from her mother. Out of the corner of her eye, Cinder could see Cress and Thorne gently touching a motionless Kai. He was no longer on fire, but his skin was red and blistering. "Just don't hurt them anymore, mom." Cinder drew the bracelet from the envelope still clutched in her injured hand. "Stop hurting me."

A cry of anguish burst forth from Channary. "Hurt you? I would never hurt you, my princess!" Channary threw her body towards Cinder, but there was still no contact. "All I've ever wanted was to protect you; first from the bad men, and now from them."

"And you did protect me from the bad men, mom. You saved me," Cinder soothed, sounding more like the mother who was trying to calm a confused toddler. "But these people aren't trying to hurt me. They're my friends."

"That's what they always say," babbled Channary. "They make promises like jokes. They tell you they love you, but then they only hurt you. No one can be trusted."

Cinder reached for her dead mother, but still no contact was made. It hurt to see her mom like this: dead as the corpse she had identified, but still as crazy in life. She remembered a time when her mom had been healthy, strong, and sane, but it was nearly a dream. Cinder's childhood was gone, and it was about time her mother was as well.

"Mom, they're not going to hurt me. No one has hurt me except for you." Cinder's voice cracked on the last part, and she felt her eyes sting. She needed to distract her mom from the others. She needed to hurt her— to kill her. She didn't want to do it, but it was of mice and men.

Channary wept desperately; just like she had the last time Cinder saw her. Cinder could barely understand her through the sobs. "I... I have... never... hurt... princess... never... my... princess... never..."

"Mom," Cinder stood as close as she dared to the crazed ghost. "I know you didn't mean to. But I was only a kid. You were supposed to be there, but you weren't. You said you would come home, but you didn't."

Cinder could see Thorne gingerly lugging Kai up with the help of Iko. They got him into a fireman's carry, and began to lug his broken body away.

Cress was out of sight, but Cinder knew that she must have been preparing the fire. She was always there. Cinder only wished she had given Cress more credit before and not been so quick to assume.

"I couldn't come home, my love. I couldn't help what happened. They... they caught up with me. They killed me. I tried... but I failed." Channary shed silent silvery tears. Her body looked as real as Cinder's, her tears being the only visible giveaway to her true form.

"I know you tried, mom," Cinder said. "But I can protect myself. I can choose who I love and not get hurt, mom."

A cool laugh echoed from Channary. She wiped her tears out of her eyes, and smiled down on Cinder. It was the first time Cinder had felt like a child in nearly fourteen years. "My dear Selene, you innocent child. Love is a conquest, love is a war," Channary giggled "And don't think I've forgotten about your little friends."

Cinder's blood turned to ice as Channary spun around. She snapped her fingers in a simple motion, making Iko, Thorne, and Kai collapse to the ground.

"No!" Cinder screamed. "Stop! Don't hurt them!" Cinder could feel the panic welling within her. All of her friends were about to die, and it was all her fault. At least her mother hadn't spotted Cress. "Please," Cinder whimpered.

"Ah, my princess, I'm sorry. Children always think they know best, but that is why we have parents. Believe me; mommy knows best." Channary smiled at Cinder in a sickly sweet way that made Cinder want to punch a wall.

A crackle of leaves sounded behind Cinder, and she felt her heart drop. Channary turned and spotted Cress' small form, her wicked grin growing wider.

Another snap of fingers, and Cress was collapsed on the ground, completely helpless. Cinder could feel her mounting horror at the vision before her. She could feel another panic attack welling inside her mind and chest. It was all of her worst memories and nightmares coming to play like a horror movie.

"Which shall I save you from first, my dearest Selene?" Channary hummed gleefully. "Which shall I rescue you from first, besides the most dangerous one. Luckily I already struck the little fiend who dared to hurt you."

Boiling rage bubbled violently inside of Cinder, canceling out the panic. She couldn't believe that anyone could ever call Kai a fiend. He was all of the goodness in the world. He had saved her from a fate of flames, and yet her mother wanted to bestow that same destiny upon him only for loving Cinder.

"Who shall it be, my princess?" Channary chuckled. "Who shall it be? Who shall it be?" Channary was spinning in circles like a little girl playing Ring Around the Rosie. "Who shall it be? Who shall it be? WHO SHALL IT BE?" Channary screamed, flinging her sharp body to and fro.

"Me," Cinder snapped.

Channary stopped her childish spinning. She stared at her beloved daughter that could have been her identical twin. They had the same brown hair, thinned by hardships and fire. They were both thin and bony from lack of love and care. They both had the same scarred bodies that had been caressed thoroughly by fire’s mistress.

"What did you say?" Channary asked.

"It shall be me." Cinder said, taking off her coat and unravelling the cotton bandages covering her scarred hand. They had healed well and fast, but she would always have the shiny pink flesh of scar tissue.

A shriek of agony came from Channary as she fell to the ground at Cinder's feet. She tried to clutch at Cinder's mangled hands, but her fingers went straight through Cinder. She sobbed with a saddened passion that was hard to watch.

"It shall be me," Cinder repeated, "because I've caused myself more pain than anyone here. I've only been hurt because I love you." Cinder paused only a moment before yelling, "Cress, now!"

Flames lit the ground in an instant, spilling light and warmth across the dark landscape. Channary leapt to her feet in outrage, but it was too late; Cinder had already thrown the bracelet onto the smoldering fire.

"No!" Channary screamed as her body began to melt. "No! My princess, my love, why are you doing this to me?" Channary sobbed in anguish, her skin smoking and peeling away from the bones. "I'm your mother!" Channary yelled. "Why must you hurt me, Selene? What did I do wrong?" Channary's body was nearly gone, but her voice still fought to be heard until there was nothing left of Channary Blackburn.

Cinder stared at the boiling tar-like mush that had once been her mother's ghost. "Everything," Cinder whispered. "You did everything wrong." Cinder's eyes stung. "But I still loved you."

A sob burst from Cinder, and she fell to the ground. Sorrow and grief for her mother spilled forth in the form of hysteria. She felt nothing and everything all at once. She felt gratitude and regret. She felt freedom and confinement.

"Mom..." Cinder cried. "Mom... mommy... I'm... I'm so sorry... mommy..." Cinder's hands reached for the place where her mother had been, but she was gone. "Oh, mom," Cinder whimpered.

"Cinder," Cress snapped, sounding surprisingly sharp during Cinder's moment of weakness. "We have to go, Cinder."

"My mom..." Cinder cried, knowing she sounded like a child but not caring. She had lost the final pieces of her mother, and it hurt more than she ever could have imagined.

Cress wrenched at Cinder's arm, trying and failing to pull her from the ground. "Cinder, we have to go now."

"Cress," Cinder whispered. "Why?"

It took Cress a moment to answer, and that's when Cinder remembered what had happened. The fire. The boy. The three words. A sacrifice that should never have been made. Cinder's grief took only an instant to transform into panic.

"Kai?" Cinder asked.

Silence.

#when earth turns to ashes #wetta #a burning world #prince kai #emperor kai #linh cinder #marissa meyer #tlc #the lunar chronicles #lunar chronicles #carswell thorne #cress darnel #iko #channary blackburn #kaider fanfiction #kaider #tlc fanfiction #salt warrior stories

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spartanguard · 4 years ago

Text

even death won’t part us now (2/?)

Summary: Two covens, both alike in dignity, / In fair New York, where we lay our scene, / From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, / Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes / A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life; / Whole misadventured piteous overthrows / Do with their death bury their sires’ strife. (Captain Swan + West Side Story + vampires. But not as sad. Probably.)

rated M | part 1 | AO3 | 3.9k words

A/N: I was going to post this update yesterday but *life*. We really get into the story, though—I hope you enjoy it! Thanks again to @optomisticgirl for being an awesome beta; to @thesschesthair for her amazing art; and to @kmomof4 and @cssns for putting this event on and pushing me to continue this story!

say what you will about Glee, but Darren Criss’s version of this song is amazing

part two— the air is humming, and something great is coming...

2020

The sun was setting on another day, just like it had for the last 5000-plus. At least, Emma figured the number was up there; she’d stopped counting around day 4,588. Which was really an absurdly long time to count considering her days were no longer numbered, but old habits died hard, even if she never would.

She’d accepted that fact somewhere around day 4,040, which ironically was her 40th birthday. But instead of dealing with gray hairs and wrinkles and aching joints, she was still in her 28-year-old body, fairly spry and with exactly one white hair blended into her blonde. (Not that she could see it in the mirror anymore—or, you know, anything—but she knew it was there and that was all that mattered.)

She knew she’d finally settled into her new life when she was looking forward to drinking the deer blood she had at home and not longing for chocolate cake like she had the past several birthdays. Well, she still wished she could eat it—real food didn’t digest properly anymore—but the blood sounded just as good.

“It probably took me about that long to come to terms with it, too. Longer for your dad,” her mom had told her about the revelation.

That had been another epiphany: that the kindly undead couple she’d somehow ended up on the doorstep of—David and Snow Nolan—were her parents. Her actual birth parents. You know, the ones she’d been looking for her entire mortal life? (Had once dreamed would save her from one shitty foster home after another until she finally gave up hope, and instead turned to counting the days until she moved again?)

As it turned out, they’d been attacked and turned shortly after she’d been born—which apparently had been in a backwoods cottage in Maine that her grandparents had owned—and were taking her to the hospital for checkup after the fact. They didn’t trust themselves to face their new reality while also in charge of an infant (an infant with delicious-smelling blood, no less—creepy, but true) and so finished the journey to the hospital, but left her there alone.

Coming to terms with that had taken 1,187 days. There would have been lots of tears, were any of them able to cry; but instead, there was just a lot of emotion, which Emma had never dealt well with. But she was getting better. Who knew the kind of personal growth one could achieve after death? And it was a good lesson in how to handle (or not handle) things should the son she herself gave up ever manage to track her down.

(She looked—once, before she was turned. All she’d been able to find out was that he ended up in the foster system, too. She just hoped he was having a better time of it than she did. Well, had—he’d be an adult by now, wouldn’t he? Damn.)

So. Anyways. Sunset. Which Emma was watching from the roof of their building, which had become something of a refuge for her over the past 15 years. She had her own bedroom, but after so long on her own, being an adult suddenly under the same roof as her parents (who, despite being physically younger than her, still acted like her parents) was a bit stifling at times.

It wasn’t much, but it was her own space: she’d cobbled together a tent with some reclaimed tarps, filled with gently-used cushions, and on nice nights, would bring out a sleeping bag and let the lights and sounds of the city wash over her. It had been overwhelming at first—she kind of envied that her parents only had to deal with forest smells when they turned, and not the incredible everything of New York—but it had dulled over time, which she probably should have expected; it had only taken her a week or so to get used to the smell the first time, right?

That’s to say—the overwhelmingness did; she learned to tune things out and let them fall to the background. But her senses themselves were the sharpest they’d ever been, consequently making her even better at her job than she’d been pre-death. Having ethereal beauty compared to a mere mortal easily drew in most of her targets; her preternatural sight, hearing, and strength made it pretty simple to track them down and subdue them (she loved it when they ran); and she’d found out they were extra willing to comply with her demands when they were down a bit of blood. (It probably was connected to the whole your-sire-can-control-you thing but it didn’t last once they’d recovered from the blood loss and it kept her from murdering random ne'er-do-wells on the street; the lower a body count a vampire kept, the better.)

On a normal night, she’d be getting ready to catch another skip: either gussying up for a honeytrap, revving up her old Bug for a stakeout, or trying to track them down on Tinder while binging Netflix in the background (they kept up on technology...for the most part; she still wasn’t sure what a TikTok was). One thing a lot of the stories leave out is that it takes a long time to build up the kind of wealth and decadence you see with old vampires; even Emma’s parents still had to work, 40-odd years into this thing (David was an after-hours vet and Snow taught night school) and their townhouse was not rent-controlled.

Of all the vampire media out there, their existence was far more What We Do In The Shadows than Twilight.

(Emma had always preferred comedy anyways.)

God, she was really getting sidetracked tonight. Anyways. No one was working because it was the anniversary of her being turned—her rebirthday, so to speak—and her mom was very much Leslie Knope when it came to anniversaries, but especially this one, given that it marked them finally coming together as a family.

That, and they were all going to get drunk.

“My class is a bunch of assholes this semester—I need this,” Snow had gushed earlier that week, grading papers behind their blackout curtains. (Vampires didn’t sparkle, thank god—at least, not without the help of glitter—but they were dangerously susceptible to sunburns, so the whole pale thing was accurate.) “And David—you’ve worked every weekend the last month; they can definitely operate without you for one night.”

“I put in for it a month ago, dear,” he tutted as he gathered the laundry, placing a kiss on her cheek as he went.

They were definitely one of those nauseatingly cute couples, so it was a good thing Emma’s gag reflex was dormant. And, though she’d never admit it, she was a bit jealous that they’d been able to find—and keep—something that had evaded her her entire mortal life, and likely would for her afterlife, too.

Every now and then, a flash of blue eyes blinked into her vision; the same pair she’d seen on the night she transitioned. She still wasn’t sure they were real, and her parents genuinely knew nothing when she’d asked, so she never did again. The fact that she hadn’t ever seen them again, despite knowing just about all the vampires in this part of town (for better or worse), had her pretty convinced it was a mania-induced hallucination. But damn, was it a good one.

“Emma, are you ready?” Snow’s voice pulled Emma from her daydreams (nightdreams?). “It’s time to go,” she shouted—not loud enough to annoy the neighbors, but enough for Emma to hear.

“Coming,” she replied, then took one last glance at the night sky. Maybe there was something different in the stars? She didn’t know; she just had this feeling that something was going to change tonight.

She brushed her hands down the skirt of her light pink dress; it wasn’t what she’d usually wear, but since this wasn’t her typical honey trap, she’d borrowed a dress from Snow. It was definitely sweeter than her taste, with its pastel color and A-line skirt, but just cut low enough to not be demure. Her high ponytail fell somewhere in between. Her fangs would probably take it in another direction, but it’s not like she was going to pose for photos—she only just showed up in those.

In a moment, she was back in the house, grabbing her purse and joining her parents (who equally straddled the line of sweet and seductive; it was a vampire thing).

Out of nowhere, a flash of light blinded her. “Seriously?” she cursed, blinking away the temporary blindness, only to see her mother holding a Polaroid camera. That was the one thing that could document them; thank god the hipsters over in Greenwich Village had clung to them.

Snow just grinned and shook the picture while David lectured, “It’s not like we got to see you off to prom or anything.”

“Yeah, but are you going to do this every year?”

“Yes,” Snow stated matter-of-factly, smiling at the photo before setting it aside. “Now come on; there’s a bloody mary calling my name.”

“Where are we going?”

“That new underground club at 43rd and 10th. Figured we should try it, and it should be trouble-free.”

‘Trouble’ meaning the Aurum coven. Emma still hadn’t figured out the reason for this centuries-long blood feud, but she did know that she’d been dragged in on the side of Coroza, under a woman named Cora; turns out Walsh had been one of her cronies. And it normally wouldn’t affect her, save for the fact that her parents were turned by someone in Aurum (led by the mysteriously mononymed Gold) and that had dangerous implications, not to mention the rising tensions between the two groups as they began to encroach on each other (and each other’s feeding grounds) on the Upper West Side.

“You sure? That’s awfully close.” 43rd had become an arbitrary border between the two factions, and there had been more than a few skirmishes while people were on the prowl for a midnight snack. She’d had a couple close calls of her own while tracking down skips in the part of town, but had somehow managed to evade notice.

“It’s on our side of the street,” her mom shrugged in response and grabbed her purse.

(Why one side couldn’t just move to another part of town, Emma didn’t know, but she was definitely aware of how stubborn vampires could be. And she wasn’t going to move; there’s no way they’d be able to get a place like this anywhere else for a reasonable price.)

She’d hardly gotten out the door when a familiar scent caught her nose—and not necessarily a welcome one: Graham.

“Uh, hi, Emma,” he stammered, while giving her a shy yet adorable grin.

“Hey,” she answered back, not meeting his eyes—and instead finding Snow’s, who was intently studying the sky. Snow had been trying to get the two of them together for at least 10 years, and while Graham was a great guy, a good friend, and handsome to boot, Emma had never been attracted to him like that. A fact that seemed to keep falling silent on Snow’s ears despite her enhanced hearing.

(His blue eyes were pretty, but they weren’t the pair that kept haunting her.)

Given the sudden awkwardness that settled over the group—because that was apparently something you had to deal with whether you were dead or alive—it was up to Emma to break it. Not that she had any skill in that department.

“Alright, uh, let’s go,” she said with little confidence, and set off towards the club, with the others falling in behind her; Graham stayed close and if she wasn’t mistaken, attempted to put an arm around her, but she walked a bit faster to avoid his reach. The bar was only a few blocks away, which they could normally cover in less than a minute, but they had decided to blend in with the crowd tonight; it was nice to be normal every now and then.

But still—every now and then, the hairs on the back of Emma’s neck rose, and it had nothing to do with Graham’s proximity. Something was coming; she just didn’t know what.

That wasn’t for her to worry about tonight, though. Tonight was for fun and drinks and dancing. And once they got to the darkly-lit club, that’s what she focused on for the next hour or so—

—Until her gaze locked with the blue eyes from her dreams.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Killian took a deep breath as soon as he exited the jetway—and immediately regretted it. He didn’t know why he expected LaGuardia to have changed at all in the past 15 years. Despite all the reconstruction, it still smelled the same: of old coffee, questionable sushi, and stale humans. (The latter was a double-edged sword: despite eating shortly before he got to Heathrow, there had been a few delays before takeoff and he was feeling rather peckish now, although nothing here seemed appetizing. Which was probably something he had in common with mortals at the moment.)

He didn’t know why he’d assumed that he might have been routed through JFK this time—why would he think Gold would care enough to properly welcome home his best operative from abroad after 15 years?—but he tried to push that ire to the back of his mind as he summoned an Uber.

At least the delays meant he landed just as the sun was setting; his previous plan had been to hang around the terminal until dusk, so at least this prevented any awkward encounters with some overtalkative Midwesterner on their way back to Cleveland. Signs pointed him to the ride share lot, and a gentleman named Marco was waiting to take him home.

On the ride into the city, he marveled at how New York always seemed like a living, breathing thing, constantly evolving and changing. He could still sharply remember the dusty bustle of the town more than 200 years ago, the sound of carriages running over dirt and cobbled streets. He’d watched as the city grew, sprawling both across and beyond the Manhattan island and up into the sky, the smell of horses and people and sweat replaced by the acrid stench of exhaust (although, even his extra-sensitive nose had gotten used to it in short order).

So it was both surprising and not to see how much the city had changed even in the last 15 years, most noticeably in the skyline: the Twin Towers were still fresh in everyone’s memory when he’d left, so to see the new One World Trade Center in their place was a bit jarring. But the sun still glinted golden off the skyscrapers the same way; pedestrians still hardly waited for the crossing signals to give the okay to go; and though he wasn’t in a yellow cab, a language barrier still lay between him and his driver.

Cash tips were understandable to all, though, which Killian handed over once they’d arrived at his apartment building on 34th—the Chelsea side. He’d owned his flat since the building was constructed, which was fairly impressive, but did require him to occasionally change the name on the paperwork lest anyone notice anything suspicious.

(Someone had figured out at some point that it was helpful to have an ally in both the Social Security office and the DMV; Archie and Jefferson traded off every 20 years or so in order to help create revolving identities for the members of the vampire community. The name on his ID at the moment was Kyle Johnson, and during the past 100 or so years since he’d been required to have one, he’d also been Killian James, Ian Joseph, and—though he had to admit, he’d picked this one just to see if he could get away with it—James Hook.)

And thankfully, he’d had a reliable roommate for the past 80 years. “Honey, I’m home,” he called out after braving the still-shaky lift to the top floor.

“About bloody time,” Robin called back from the couch. “You know I had dinner ready for you before you left?”

“Ha,” Killian answered. “I’d hate to see what that looks like after all this time.”

“Oh, I let him go. And good thing, too—he ended up writing Hamilton.”

Killian had barely poked his head into his musty bedroom before he returned to the living room. “You didn’t actually have Lin-Manuel Miranda in here, did you?” To most people’s surprise, Killian was a bit of a theater nerd; the West End was great, but he was looking forward to catching up on Broadway again.

“No. But maybe that’s a good strategy if we want to get tickets.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

His stomach grumbled in agreement.

Robin chuckled. “There’s a bottle in the fridge you can have; figured you’d be hungry when you got back.”

Killian tossed his luggage in his room and emerged again. “Have I ever mentioned that I love you?”

“Maybe a few times over the past several decades.”

He downed the bottle quickly; the black blood market never gave the best stuff—considering the type of mortals who would be willing to sell their blood for money and didn’t qualify to sell plasma—but it hit the spot in a pinch, and every now and then had something good. This definitely wasn’t, but it sated his thirst long enough to take a shower and wash the airplane off of him.

As he stared at the fogged mirror with nothing looking back at him, rubbing his palm over his permanently well-trimmed scruff, he realized he hadn’t yet checked in with Gold. Even if he’d spent the last decade-plus doing the man’s bidding from abroad, it was still easy to forget about him.

Well, mostly—until he glanced back down at his blunted left wrist. Then it just brought ancient memories to the surface, as fresh as the day they’d happened, no matter how many centuries had intervened.

Which reminded him: he was still missing something. He shot off a quick missive to Gold as he pulled some clothes out of his depressingly dated closet (having left anything more modern in a consignment shop in London), managing to put together something vaguely timeless. But before he dressed, he turned his attention on the nightstand drawer.

He slowly pulled it open, though he knew what would be inside: his hook, as sturdy and sharp as ever, with its well-worn leather brace. Sure, he had a fairly modern prosthetic hand—one that TSA didn’t mind so much—but the hook had come first, and was definitely his preferred artificial appendage. He hadn’t meant to go so long without it, but then again, he hadn’t expected his London assignment to take so long.

(Although, 15 years to him was roughly the same as 2 or 3 to the average mortal.)

Slipping on the soft leather was like greeting an old friend (well, another one, albeit he’d known this one longer than Robin). And snapping in the hook settled a part of him that he hadn’t realized had been adrift all these years. It didn’t fully still the odd sense of anticipation he’d had ever since he landed, but he definitely felt more at ease.

With that settled, he finished dressing and then headed back to the living room and flopped on the sofa next to Robin. “When did we get a new couch?” he asked indignantly, inspecting the unfamiliar upholstery.

“As soon as you left.”

“And what was so wrong with the previous one?”

“It was from the 70s! It was hideous and uncomfortable and you know it.”

Killian could only sigh; Robin was completely right.

“Anyways,” Robin continued. “We’ve plenty of time to argue about furniture but very little to decide what we’re doing tonight.”

“Why? What’s tonight?”

“You arrive back in North America for the first time in a decade and a half and you think that’s not a reason to celebrate?”

“Well, I was in Toronto a few years ago.”

“Still the Commonwealth. Doesn’t count. What do you want to do? There are quite a few people anxious to see you.”

Well that’s good for them, he thought, but he wasn’t so sure of the same. The time away in the UK had definitely made him reconsider some of his connections back here in the States; getting away from the drama with Coroza had made him realize how petty he found it all. Though he’d never be completely extricated given that Gold was his sire, he’d definitely be alright with staying distant from the other frivolous disputes.

(And after spending a bit too much time in Brighton—particularly with some headstones bearing the name Jones and some rather divy taverns that were still somehow open all these centuries later—he wished more than ever to be free of Gold’s influence. Alas.)

He supposed he could placate them for one night, though; it’s not like he was going to sleep anyway. “Are there any new clubs to check out?”

“For you—plenty. For all of us...aye, there’s one that’s just opened up about...10 blocks away? Ish?”

“In which direction?”

“Up, but kind of midtown so it should be in the clear.” Meaning no one from Coroza would be there.

“Sounds fine, then,” he replied; after so many years, every club started to feel the same, but he was willing to give it a shot.

It wasn’t long before he found himself dressed in a waistcoat and slacks that were trendy a decade ago, hoping his hair was styled appropriately (he stopped caring about 130 years ago), and waiting outside the apartment building of Robin’s girlfriend Regina.

“Jones, it’s the 21st century; why do you still have a fish hook on the end of that arm?” she greeted when she emerged from the tower, with a young vampire behind her.

“It’s nice to see you too, Regina,” he tossed back. They’d known each other for well over a couple hundred years and this was just how they communicated. Nodding at the young man, he continued, “Who’s this?”

“This is Henry; he’s new.” The statement was matter-of-fact enough that Killian knew she wouldn’t say anything else. But he seemed friendly, albeit nervous, and Gold never complained about new vampires on their side—just Coroza.

It didn't take much for him to immediately think of Emma. His thoughts had drifted to her more than he cared to admit over the past years, wondering if she’d acclimated or if she’d burned out. It was definitely odd that such a brief encounter had left such a lasting impression, but at the same time, it had taken him well over 250 years to get over his first love; he was a romantic at heart, even if that heart no longer beat.

He of course said nothing about it as they continued on; if no one had discovered what he’d done that night by now, he was content to leave it that way. There were other ways of him finding out if she was still around, such as—

—Such as the green eyes staring at him from the other side of the club, barely a minute after he’d entered it, freezing him in place.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

thanks for reading, friends! let me know if you want/don’t want a tag! @kat2609 @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @amortentia-on-the-rocks @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @shireness-says @ohmightydevviepuu @profdanglaisstuff @wingedlioness @word-bug @distant-rose @wellhellotragic @welllpthisishappening @let-it-raines @pirateherokillian @bleebug @its-imperator-furiosa @fergus80 @killianmesmalls @sherlockianwhovian @ineffablecolors @laschatzi @ive-always-been-a-pirate @nfbagelperson @stubblesandwich @lenfaz @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @idristardis @scientificapricot @searchingwardrobes @donteattheappleshook @lfh1226-linda

#cs ff #cssns20 #cs vampire au #even death won't part us now #my ff #cssns 2020

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loki-friggason · 5 years ago

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I always see a lot of discourse surrounding Goro Akechi, and that’s mostly fine because he is a very morally gray character, but it surprises me how so many takes contradict or even ignore direct quotes from the game. (A popular example that I see is people claiming that Goro wants to kill Shido, when he never outright says so)

I think these misunderstandings happen because Akechi’s plot is scattered around the game and only mentioned superficially, and this is why I am making a thread showing all the important plot points surrounding Akechi’s motives in linear order along with screenshots.

This way, if you ever want to discuss Akechi, at least you can have your facts right:

First, Akechi got his powers from Yaldabaoth two and a half years ago, when he was 15. He was an orphan who had wanted to get revenge on his father all his life, so he thought that those powers were a sign. And so, to prove himself to Shido, he made two of his political opponents psychotic. He didn’t kill them, and he still hadn’t killed anyone before that as well.

At this point it’s a mystery whether Goro knew if he could kill in the metaverse or not, but from the start we can see how he only offered his psychotic powers. Shido, who knew about the cognitive research, then instructed him to kill Wakaba, and Goro did just that.

In game, Shido says that he was the one who taught Akechi how to properly use his powers, so it’s likely that he was the one to instruct Akechi on how to actually murder in the metaverse.

(By that time, Akechi didn’t know about the changing of hearts, so a reason as of why he never contemplated on changing Shido’s heart could have been because he didn’t know it was even possible. He thought that those mystic powers could only be used for evil.)

Now, a big part of the discourse surrounding Akechi is whether he was controlled or not when he decided to follow orders and kill all those people.

In game, Shadow Shido states that he controlled him by offering praise. Shido knew about Goro’s plan: he knew that he was his son, that he wanted to be acknowledged, and that he wanted to trap him. He literally knew everything and used praise to his benefit.

Akechi never suspected a single thing about that.

He thought that he was outsmarting everyone when, in reality, he did just as Shido wanted. That doesn’t make him any less guilty, but the game wants you to know and puts clear emphasis that Akechi was emotionally manipulated.

and he could, and should have said no, yeah, but due to his story of being abandoned and unloved, words of praise coming from his father were something that Akechi was weak against, specially since his plan was also about getting that acknowledgment, which brings us to…

Akechi’s revenge plan, which is a bit of a mess since people seem to think that he wants to murder Shido:

He doesn’t. He wanted to become so indispensable to him that when Shido became first minister, Goro could say “Well, you got here thanks to me, the son you abandoned, don’t you regret leaving me? You are nothing without me.”

After that, he also says that he will make Shido’s life a living hell. The meaning of this is never explained, but LIVING hell pretty much means that Akechi didn’t plan on killing him.

The thing is, the concept of Goro’s plan is incredibly childish and it doesn’t work, but despite that, it still makes sense from his point of view because it was initially created by a lonely, deeply insecure and revengeful 15 year old orphan who wanted to prove that his existence wasn’t a mistake.

Akechi’s plan would have never worked because Shido never cared about him, quite the contrary, so it was doomed to fail from the start.

Akechi is very smart, and he should have seen how wrong everything was, but he was so completely blinded by praise and by the need of feeling useful to the point that he even agreed to become his dad’s hitman.

For a normal character, this would be unthinkable, but Akechi’s background makes him the perfect target to fall into that kind of pit. He can be as smart as he wants, but emotionally he is very weak and easily manipulable. (Again, I’m not excusing his actions, but I believe that the game made a good job in giving Goro a background that could explain why he did something so terrible that no one else would be capable of)

And so, Akechi blindly and stubbornly believes in his plan until Cognitive Akechi tells him that Shido planned to kill him from the start. That’s when Akechi’s whole world falls apart and when he finally realizes that he had been a puppet from the very beginning.

He was so desperate that he couldn’t conceive the possibility of Shido betraying him. Shido’s own cognition had to spell it out to him for Akechi to finally open his eyes. That’s when he sees the whole picture and decides to sacrifice himself and ask the thieves to change Shido’s heart.

This is what he should have done from the start, but he was too blinded to see it because he was alone and had no support, and Shido acted like he cared.

Also, If Akechi had only cared about revenge, he could have taken Shido down a long time ago, he is not stupid, his problem came when he decided that he also wanted to be acknowledged, because that’s when he had to start doing what Shido wanted (aka killing people) to get on his good side.

Revenge and acknowledgment are closely tied to Akechi’s character and both make him what he is and what he has done.

After this, you can still have a good or bad opinion on Akechi as a character, but I hope that these screenshots shed some light on Goro’s most common misconceptions.

#persona 5 #p5 #goro akechi #p5r #persona 5 royal #look if you gotta hate on akechi at least you should have your facts right #you won't believe the number of people that thinks that he started killing when he was like 10 #akechi

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love-and-monsters · 5 years ago

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Guardian Angel

Have an MLM angel for pride month!

M monster X M reader, 3,158 words

You kept seeing feathers everywhere.

You lived out in the county, which meant that seeing feathers around wasn’t usually something that bothered you. What did bother you was how big they were.

They were huge. The smallest ones easily spanned your hand and the largest ones were as big as your forearm. They also didn’t look quite like any bird feathers you’d seen before. The largest birds around were eagles, and those ones were brown. The ones you were finding were mottled gray, the color of soft winter clouds.

For a while, they seemed mostly confined to the outside. The one or two you found inside, you just assumed they’d clung to your clothes and been carried in.

Then you woke up to a few of them scattered around the floor and you realized that there was no way you’d carried them inside.

You gathered the feathers and tossed them outside before returning to your house and scouring it for somewhere a bird could get in. It was small, and it didn’t take a long time for you to sweep the entire place. The only place you could see a bird of that size getting in was the fireplace, which you blocked off by sliding a bookshelf in front of it. It wasn’t the best solution, considering that you couldn’t use the fireplace, but it was summer and you had a little while to figure out something else before you needed to move it.

Satisfied that the problem was solved, you scattered the feathers outside and headed off to work.

That night, you tossed and turned as you slept. Despite not remembering any of your dreams, you woke several times in the middle of the night, shivering in fright.

You woke to something ticklish resting on your forehead. Startled, you sat up and watched as a large, mottled gray feather floated down into your lap. A quick look around the room showed that wasn’t the only one. Feathers were scattered across the floor and over your dresser.

Okay. Okay! So, blocking the fireplace hadn’t solved anything. You carefully got out of bed, trying not to send the feathers scattering everywhere. There definitely hadn’t been any other places a large bird had been able to get into. And, thinking about it, wouldn’t there be more signs of its presence had a large bird managed to get in your home? It wasn’t like anything was broken or out of place. There were just feathers everywhere.

You gathered all the feathers you could find and tossed them back outside. There was quite a pile in your small yard. Coming to think of it, it was weird that there were so many feathers. Could a single bird, even a really big one, shed that many feathers?

Maybe there wasn’t a single large bird getting in. Could a smaller bird or rodent be using the feathers to make a nest? But then why would the feathers be so scattered? Nothing about this made any sort of sense.

You spent most of the morning trying to make your house completely impenetrable, spending so much time on it that you were nearly late for work.

That night, you woke in a cold sweat to a shaft of moonlight. Your body was heavy, your chest weighted like a bunch of stones were resting there. Outside of the beam of moonlight, shadows shifted and twisted. Shapes in the corners of your eyes reached for you like massive claws. There was a strange droning tone, somehow almost too high and too low for you to hear. It took incredible effort just to shift your fingers. All you could do was lie still as the shapes writhed and reached for you.

As the moonlight faded, so did the strange shapes. The first beam of sunlight reached into your room and, as if it had broken some kind of spell, your limbs unlocked. Slowly, stiffly, you got up.

You’d barely slept, so you’d sort of expected to feel bad. What you hadn’t expected was to feel like you’d been run over by a train, or just gotten over a particularly bad bout of the flu. It took incredible effort to shuffle around your kitchen. All your limbs were stiff. Food tasted unusually bland and you had a limited appetite. No matter how much coffee you drank, you couldn’t shake the tiredness.

Eventually, you called in sick to work. There was no way you’d be able to make it there, much less actually get anything done. You curled up on your couch under a thin blanket with the TV droning in the background. You couldn’t even summon up the energy to pay attention to the words. You just lay still and dozed while the words washed over you.

It was late in the day when you realized that there hadn’t been any feathers in your house that day. Huh. Apparently boarding everything off had worked. Feeling a little spark of satisfaction from that, you made a small, easy dinner and slouched up to your room.

You were asleep almost as soon as your head hit the pillow. Despite your exhaustion, you woke in the middle of the night again.

Those strange shapes were back. They seemed thicker, more present than they had before. Your field of vision had narrowed slightly and around the entirety of it, shapes shifted and snatched at you. Nothing moved when you looked directly at it, but whenever your eyes shifted away, you could see something formless moaning and twisting there.

Terror choked you. A sense of malice hung thick in the air. Whatever these things were, they wanted to hurt you. They wanted you frightened and sobbing in a corner, and if they could get you, they would do whatever they could to make it so. As you stared straight ahead, your field of vision narrowed further and further until you could barely see anything but the horrible shapes. You knew, with perfect, utter clarity, what when they filled your vision that they would have you.

The shaft of moonlight in your vision seemed to grow larger, brighter, more solid, like a doorway opening. Gradually, the silhouette of a human appeared, stepping through the doorway of moonlight.

The shadows retreated, shrinking away from the glowing man with horrible screeching noises. As they moved back, the light poured into your room, almost blinding you. The glowing man unfurled enormous, feathery wings and light poured from them, filling every corner. The shadows vanished, unable to stand up against such an outpouring of brilliance.

You closed your eyes as the light grew too bright to look at. When it faded, you blinked them open again, trying to clear the spots from your vision.

The man was still there. You felt your bed groan and shift as he sat down next to you. The moonlight had returned to normal and in it, you could see that he was wearing long, white robes and his hair was dark brown, cut into a short, almost military cut.

Oh, and he had an enormous set of wings.

They were mottled gray, just like the feathers you had been finding around your house, and certainly large enough to be them. The man ran his hands through his hair with a deep sigh and looked at you.

“It would be nice if you stopped throwing out all my protective charms,” he said. His voice was low and steady. “You are making this job particularly difficult.”

“What?” Your voice was a little croaky and weak.

“I would suggest not speaking,” he said. He reached back into his wings and plucked out a large feather. He examined it for a moment, then reached over and placed the feather on your chest. It nearly touched your chin and it felt oddly heavy, but still reassuring. “Keep the feather with you. It will help you regain your energy.”

The man stood and moved out of your field of view. It took enormous effort to turn your head toward him and, when you did, he had vanished.

You didn’t expect to fall asleep after all that, but you were out as soon as your eyes closed. When you woke up, all of your limbs were stiff and you felt like you had a chill. You were soaked in sweat, despite your constant shivering.

Slowly, you stumbled out of bed and shuffled slowly into your kitchen, a quilt wrapped around your shoulders like a cape. As you spotted your kitchen table, you came to a stop.

The man from the night before was sitting there, skimming the morning paper and sipping a cup of tea. He glanced up when you walked in. “Good morning. I’m glad you’re well enough to get out of bed. I brewed a cup of tea for you. I hope you don’t mind that I got myself some. You seemed to have plenty.”

You stared at the enormous wings the man had carefully navigated around the wooden chair back. “Are you an angel?” The question sounded stupid as soon as it left your mouth, but you weren’t sure how else to phrase it. The man gave a small smile.

“Correct.” He sat back form the table, turning his torso toward you. He tapped at a small golden badge with a sword insignia on it. “Guardian class.” He reached out and tapped at a clipboard that was resting on the table. “I’m on assignment. For you, specifically.” He slid the clipboard toward you. “You’re being haunted.”

“Haunted,” you repeated, looking down at the sheet. It had something written on it, but you couldn’t even recognize the letters. They seemed to shift the longer you looked at them.

The angel slid the paper away from you. “Man isn’t meant to look at Enochian script,” he said. “Nor is he meant to have close encounters with evil spirits. You should be grateful that you came out unscathed.”

“What was that thing?” you asked, dropping into the seat next to him. He slid a cup of tea toward you and you took it without thinking.

“An evil spirit, as I said. It’s quite a nasty little thing. Its goal is to feed off a person’s fear and torment. Once it drains them sufficiently, it consumes the body and traps the person in a perpetual nightmare as a living source of energy.” The angel took another sip of his tea. “Another night and you would have been completely overtaken by it.”

A flash of anger rose in your chest. “You waited that long to do anything about it?”

The angel turned a flat, calm expression toward you. “Calm yourself, sir. I did more than that. Angel feathers work as wonderful wards against evil spirits. Alas, when someone keeps removing them from the house, they work less well.”

You felt your face start to turn red. “You don’t need to call me sir,” you managed. “And I didn’t know they were wards. I thought they were just feathers a pest had been leaving in my house…” You trailed off as the angel gave a small smile.

“It’s all right. In many ways, it’s my own fault. I’ve been stretched a bit thin recently, or I would have stayed and slayed the thing on my first night. But there has been a lot of activity in the past few weeks and I just…” He slumped over the table, massaging his forehead with a hand.

“I’m sorry,” you said after a moment. The angel lifted his head and drained the rest of his tea.

“It’s no problem. It isn’t your fault after all.” He placed ht eteacup on the table, fiddling with the handle. “I will need to stay here for the rest of the day. The spirit is strong enough that, if I give it a chance, it will be able to create a ward to block me out. I was only able to get in in the first place because I was able to take it by surprise.” He flexed his wings and stood up. “It will return tonight. I will be able to dispatch it and you can go back to your usual life.”

With that, the angel strode off through a doorway and into the living room. After a moment, you gathered up the teacups, placed them in the sink, and followed.

The angel was sitting on the edge of the couch, tying several feathers together with a golden thread. He didn’t look up until you had crossed the room and sat on the couch next to him. You barely even registered that you were moving. There was something about the intricate pattern his fingers made over the feathers and cords that drew you in and made it almost impossible to look away.

His fingers stilled on the cord for a moment as he looked questioningly at you. “What is it?” you asked, nodding at the intricate piece of weaving.

“A charm,” he said. “It’s designed to promote healing and recovery.” He finished the weaving around the feather and tied it off. He stood, stretching his legs, then gestured to the couch. “Lie down.”

You did so. The angel bent over you and fastened the charm around your neck. He attached several strings to your neck and the charm and began to spread them over your body, overlapping and twining them together in a geometric pattern.

You closed your eyes as the angel worked over you. There was a faint sensation as he wound the strings together, one that you couldn’t quite identify, but one that was pleasant nonetheless. The angel’s hands were slightly calloused and there was something nice about the sensation they caused when they brushed over your skin.

The weaving ended up trailing down your arms and attaching at your hands. The angel patted your shoulder and stood up. “I will go scout the house out and find areas the creature may be lurking. You should stay here and keep yourself well-rested.”

He vanished back into the house and you settled down onto the couch. Your head felt unusually heavy, but the worst of the body aches and discomfort had faded. You felt… not good, exactly, but better than you had before. Apparently, the charm was working.

Before you knew it, you had fallen asleep. When you woke up, you were ravenous, your stomach twisting and clawing at your insides. You stumbled out of bed and walked into the kitchen, pulling some of the weaving around your arms loose as you did so.

The angel was already in the kitchen, picking through the refrigerator. He looked up when you walked in and clicked his tongue disapprovingly when he saw that you’d pulled the weaving loose. “You could have asked me for something rather than get up.” He gestured to a chair and you sat down in it, lifting your arms so he could work on them.

“I didn’t want to bother you.” Your voice was stronger and the angel seemed pleased by that. He checked over all the weaving, then gave a satisfied nod.

“I assume you’re hungry?” He looked around, a lost expression crossing his face. “I’m afraid I don’t have much experience with human food…”

“I’ve got it.” You made a simple sandwich. You were so hungry that it still tasted amazing. “Do you want anything?”

“Angels do not eat human food,” he said. “We sustain ourselves with holy energy.”

“Suit yourself,” you said, polishing your sandwich off. “Have you figured out how to banish that evil spirit thing?”

He nodded. “It is quite strong after feeding on you for so long, and my attack last night left it on high alert. Still, I believe it will need to feed again. This means it will still come out once the sun goes down and you are in bed. When it does so, I will be able to attack and take it out.”

“So, I’ll be bait?” you said. The angel frowned.

“No. That would imply I would let the creature feed on you as a distraction. You have my word that nothing will happen to you.” He gave you a serious, determined look and you felt your face begin to heat up. The set of his jaw was firm and solid and made you feel protected.

You watched the angel meander around the house, fiddling with the sword that he had at his waist. Every now and then, he would give you a brief examination, apparently checking up on the evil spirit’s effects on you. His presence was comforting and you found yourself looking forward to having his attention totally on you.

When the sun started to go down, you started to feel nervous. The angel convinced you to eat a larger than normal dinner. “You’ll need your strength. Just in case.”

That wasn’t reassuring, but the angel looked firm and you tried to feel comforted by that.

The angel suggested that you do your bedtime routine as normal, so you did, brushing your teeth and getting changed for bed. The angel was always nearby, ready to protect you.

You settled into bed. The angel took his position near your headboard. From your position, you couldn’t really see him, but you clutched the feather he’d given you tightly to your chest.

You didn’t fall asleep, so you got to see the evil spirit’s advance. It crept in slowly around the edges of your vision. Weight gradually dropped onto your chest, growing heavier and heavier. You couldn’t move. The thing curled around you, trying to drain you. You could feel it.

A brilliant flash of light came from next to you. The angel stood, unsheathing his sword in one smooth motion. There was a horrible noise, like something screaming in many voices, then the heaviness lifted. You sucked in a great breath and sat up.

The angel was standing over you. His sword was glowing, gleaming with brilliant light. “Are you all right, Adam?” he asked. You started. He knew your name. Had you told him your name?

“I’m all right,” you said. “Are you?”

“Certainly.” He turned his head toward you and smiled. “Go to sleep. You should get your rest.”

You sank into sleep almost immediately. When you woke, the angel was no longer there. The only sign that he had ever been there was the feather still tied to your neck.

For a couple of weeks, that remained the only sign. You held out hope for a few days, but eventually, you recognized that you were probably not going to see him again.

And yet, after those couple of weeks, you woke to see a tall, winged man bathed in moonlight. He saw you staring and smiled.

“We seem to have solved most of the evil spirit problems,” he said. “We are no longer stretched thin, and, as such, I have been reassigned.” He smiled. “From now on, I am your personal guardian angel.”

#exophilia #monster boyfriend #angel #angel boyfriend #monster lover #monster romance

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lacewing707 · 4 years ago

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[Mind Blind] Trappers

Never have I thought I‘d write something that isn’t my first language (at least not this early), but I just love Mind Blind so much I have to do something to contribute to the fandom. Here’s a fanfiction about Nick and f!Button as a result. Dedicated to @mindblindbard for creating such an amazing game (And I would also like to apologize beforehand for the possible OOC.) Summary: a bit of Snickly, less bit of GrayxButton, and a whole bundle of Button’s monologue. Enjoy!

A small “click” echoes from across the room, taking over the quiet essence that previously engulfed the house. Someone is entering, and with only two people living in this place, it’s not hard to guess who it is by the door. My brother Nick, with a coat on his forearm and slightly disheveled hair, is trying too hard to loosen his tie, as if it would strangle him somehow should he fail. He seems to be in a more solemn mood than usual.

I cautiously edge over the sofa, taking a good look at his face. Dreadriness seems to drag down those poor brows on his forehead. When he notices my gaze, my brother slowly drags his eyes up to meet mine. One brief moment of tortured silence follows, then suddenly his shoulders loosen:

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

I grin, relieved to notice his confrontation sounds more of exasperation (or amusement dare I say) rather than of anger. His eyes crinkle with indulgence as a smile steadily plays on his lips. After all, Nick could never really be angry with me. I mean how could he, with his sweet, loving, adjective-adjective little sister, even if she kind of locked him in an empty room for hours, with no one but her best friend Sally, who happens to have a massive crush on him ever since elementary school.

Oops.

Now, before you all begin to judge, I just want to state that my intention is utterly and undoubtedly pure in heart. It was none other than a wedding vow under a Ferris wheel, with heaps of flowers blooming in the background like July fireworks. Sally is going to wear a lily-white dress, cascading down the curve of her body until it floods the ivory stone pavement. The color matches Nick’s ridiculously flashy suit, which...should not come as a surprise knowing how much of an extra he is; and when the pope finalizes the vow, standing aside a model bridesmaid as I am, I will be SCREAMING on top of my lungs “kiss already!” - or better yet, preparing to kiss alongside them, in the delightful scenario of a double wedding (in which the other spouse is definitely not decided by-the-by).

I admit, being stuck in a closed room is not the most creative way of starting a romance, very much beneath a creator such as myself. But you know what, Nick has always expected me to be innovative, so let’s surprise him with this epitome of cliché shall we? In fact, it can serve as a double trap, an unexpected tactic that could put the opponent off-guard and unprepared and, and…

Alright, screw it. After Rosy’s one hell of a training, I was exhausted, okay? Exhausted and, well... a bit lazy. Still, at this point, might as well just start throwing things aimlessly. I’m sick and tired of waiting for my best friend and my brother to be an item. For all I know, Sally’s feeling has been pretty clear, and I am sure there’s something from Nick’s side, but those doofuses just keep throwing at each other meaningless banter and even insisting on the weird, full-first-name basis. What was that all about?

The squeaky sound from one of the cupboards abruptly cuts through my train of thought. I raise my head, only to find Nick already standing beside the kitchen counter. Even though I did prank him a good deal, he still wants to make sure his sister has good nutrition for the night.

“How did you even get access to that room?” He wonders.

Well my dear brother, you obviously have not made aware of my very resourceful friend Glitch. It only took an avocado toast and some treats (vegan, of course!), made and packed by Nick with love. Never would have thought they could be used against him just like that.

Ouch, feeling a bit guilty here; but a double wedding is awaiting, and I just cannot ignore that call from the future. It is my (self-proclaimed) duty to make such vision a reality.

I may have developed some other questionable methods for Nick to come all the way down from the top floor, such as making Grayson unknowingly lead his best friend into a trap. Now, I’m sure I could get Gray involved in a more volitional manner, with just a few shed of crocodile tears, but as much as I love him (I mean, not literally, ahem!), the guy is a disastrous liar. No doubt Gray would be figured out in the blink of eyes.

I need not say a word, as Nick must have known all about my schemes from my open daisy field of a mind. For a brief moment, his brows creased into contemplation as an unreadable expression sets upon his features. It is one of those times where I wish I could just read his mind.

I would assume he’s questioning my ethicality, which is seriously weird coming from him, but I guess it’s different now that he’s the victim? Regardless, I approach the counter, a cheeky smile plastered on my lips.

“So how was the quality time with Sally? Anything...interesting?”

A faint blush flashes across his cheek, and I don’t need to be a Ment to know what’s going on. It’s no challenging feat to imagine that squishy feeling like marshmallows, blooming in his chest; that thumping sound of heart whenever that person’s image conjured in one’s mind; and that sweet-yet-bitterness when ones almost-but-not-quite touch...

I mentally clear my throat, now is not the time.

Nick seems to be resonating my mental throat clearing as well. Dishes clank as he’s trying so hard to form an intelligible answer.

“W-What do you mean interesting? Nothing’s interesting!” He swings around, almost colliding with the edge of the counter. “Let’s eat, Button!”

“Really, Nick?” I smirk.

It’s rare to see Nick like this, very rare. My brother always likes to pride himself on being the suavest of the suave, yet he’s acting like some hormonal teenage kid with a crush. I smile so hard, it’s a miracle that my cheeks are able to contain it. One toothless, dazzling grin as I try my best not to laugh my arse off in a villainous manner. Thousands of suppressed thoughts loom beneath my subconscious.

Then, they all explode.

“Muahahaha!!”

“So much for all those teasing her before eh?”

♪“Who said, who said “I don’t love her”?”♪

It felt immensely glorious. Waves after waves of thoughts come crashing down at once as my heart is bursting with sheer excitement. My head must have been a hell ground for Nick, which can only be worsened by his Pollard Score of 10. This means he can dissect my crumbling mess of thoughts very clearly, and no doubt that Nick can very well hear all my gloat, teasing, as well as a bunch of old songs to which I so horribly butcher the lyrics just to further torment him.

♪“And you’re never ever ever, gonna fool yourself now”♪

Nick’s face is so red, might as well make some marinara sauce. Immediately, he turns around and bolts to his bedroom, despite knowing how little it can help when my mind is already a full-on broadcaster. For the first time in my life, I am actually grateful for my sucker of mind blindness.

Makes the teasing a whole bundle of fun!

I barely hold my breath as I settle down on my diner seat, making a mental note to wrap Nick’s dish in case he’s done sulking in his room. Still giggling to myself, I muse, today has been a fun day.

Glitch stares at the neatly packed lunch box temptingly dangled in front of his eyes. An amused smile plastered on his lips.

“It seems that I’ve been attracting a lot of deals with the Wiseman lately, have I?” He chuckles. “What’s with you and all the locked rooms?”

Nick grins. False innocence imprints on his handsome features while he struggles to contain a devilish satisfaction. Button will be so pissed, knowing her own recent scheme actually inspires the trap that has yet to befall her. How he wishes to see her face when it all comes down.

He may or may not attempt this as payback, but one thing Nick is very certain of.

He is not the only person who wants the best friend - sibling scenario.

_____

I’ve just realized that K is the only one from the main cast who doesn’t make at least a cameo appearance. 😂 Oh well, I do have another idea specifically for them anyway (if I ever manage to write it down =)) ).

#Mind Blind #fanfic #interactive fiction #Think I might have ruined Nick here #I love him but it's so hard imagining him being in love #not to mention the guy jokes a ton and my comedic skill is just as much as Rosy’s #that’s why he stays silent most of the time in this ff 😂#choice of games #Nick Wiseman

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capricornus-rex · 4 years ago

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Someone Left to Save (9)

Cal Kestis x Reader

Requested by Anon

Summary: The Mantis crew arrives to the capital of Ulfin, in the planet of Pevera, under siege. They meet the local rebel cell spearheaded by the former Republic admiral, Jax Beneb, who seeks to destroy the Empire’s occupation that was aggressively imposed upon while exploiting the planet of its natural resources. A plan is devised to destroy the Imperial’s main base of operations—as well as their influence—in the planet; however, it was a do-or-die mission that you and Cal had gotten yourselves caught in.

A/N: I’m trying to come up with ways on how to write and publish like I normally would. Good thing I have a few spare tech I can use!

Tags: Force-Sensitive! Reader, Inquisitor! Reader, Jedi! Reader, Fake Death, Jedi turned Inquisitor, Seduction to the Dark Side, Turn to the Dark Side, The Dark Side of the Force, Aftermath of Torture, Torture, Psychological Torture, Redemption Arc! Reader, Possible Redemption, Premonitions | Additional tags (also TW): Destructive habits, Depressed! Cal

Also in AO3

Chapters: 1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7 | Previous: Part 8 | Next: Part 10 | Masterlist

9 of ?

The forgers at the Imperial armory fashioned your mask with a hybrid of square and triangular accents. Meanwhile, you donned the ash-gray ensemble that goes underneath your armor plates. In the set, you’re granted a pair of pauldrons, gauntlets, greaves to go with the calves of your pants, and a breastplate with a red stripe along at the hem. They all fitted like a glove.

The piece de resistance is all that’s left.

You watched the Imperial armor technician weld and solder the helmet until it morphed into their ideal, desired shape. Sparks flew, shimmered to light the room, and then die out almost instantly. Bit by bit, you’re starting to see his artistic vision realized.

“I do not discriminate. Newcomer or otherwise, I put a lot of attention to detail in all of my crafts,” the technician thought out loud, perhaps sensing your curiosity and worry that it might not look as good as the others.

“I’m sure you do, considering how many we are right now,”

“It doesn’t matter to me whether there’s dozens of you. I can make one unlike the other—always.”

He harrumphed a scoffing laugh as a response, taking pride in his declaration before continuing.

The armor technician has finished the shaping phase, next he lets it sit for a minutes before cooling it with vapor. You watched the whole process with great intent and curiosity, at the same time, it’s as though you’re watching your new face being created right in front of your very eyes.

He gingerly took the helmet in both of his hands, cradling it with an esteemed carefulness—treating it with royalty and high regard, for crafting an Inquisitor’s mask was a heavy yet rewarding task to complete. This particular forger was an expert crafter, he hand-designed and sculpted most if not all Inquisitors’ helmets and masks. Feeling the weight of yours in his hands, he carefully stepped away from his smelter and toward you; like a monarch’s crown, he presented it to you and inched it closer for you to take it.

“Twelfth Sister,” addressed the armorer.

The gloss of the duraplast once cooled distorted your reflection on its convex surface. A part of you doesn’t recognize this face, the other acknowledges it but doesn’t accept the reality—at least not yet.

From the armorer’s hand to yours, the helmet rests in its rightful owner’s grasp. You hoist it to the top of your head and then lowered it once you’ve aligned it. One moment, your eyes were shrouded by black, and then the next thing you know you’re seeing red—literally—through the visor of your helmet, though you see things as clearly as you’d normally do.

“It’s a perfect fit,” you said blankly, although the comment delighted the armorer very much.

He bowed and returned to the front of his smelter, he’d afford small glimpses of you getting used to the helmet. From your end, there were functions that you’re new to—such as infrared scanning—and there were buttons disguised as accents on the side of the mask that respond to these features.

“Interesting,” you mouthed to yourself, not caring whether the armorer heard it or not.

You tried breathing through the mask, fortunately for you, this won’t hinder the strenuousness of your fighting style—let alone movements in general—as well as catching your breath. For a moment, it’s as though the same world was unraveled before you with brand new eyes—ones that stopped fighting the hatred and used it as strength, rage that blinds yet helps you see with great clarity, the intoxication to power was a permanent leech on your skin and you relished it.

Now completely outfitted in your Inquisitor’s garbs, you make your exit out of the armorer’s chamber and head out to join your “brothers and sisters” in conference. Being the newest, therefore the lowest in rank, the crew and Stormtroopers have mixed feelings about you—though you could care less.

They looked at you with curious yet skeptical eyes as you strode past them. You arrived in the conference hall, heads turned to the door at the sound of the sharp, metallic buzz and then revealed you standing on the other side.

“Ah, the newbie, right on time!” the male Twi’lek Inquisitor chirped, his pointed porcelain white teeth standing out of his glistening, obsidian-black skin.

You stepped in, took that one gap in the line and seemed to have closed the circle surrounding the holotable. You didn’t miss much of the briefing, though they picked up where they left, you intently studied all the holographs that are flashed on the table: battle tactics, ship routes, and person profiles. You listened to the Second Brother explain everything down to the last detail; you saw what kind of person he is when the two of you aren’t swinging your sabers at each other’s neck, trying to kill one another.

The next part of his presentation included a whole collection of head shots. He explains that they are the current, surviving Jedi across the galaxy. The images of unnamed faces encircled the holotable and slowly rotated for each and every one to see. Below their portraits are short, bulleted write-ups of the latest reports about them: be it last known locations, current agendas, potential accomplices, and recent activities.

After the one you’re looking at, the next one made you quiver in your armor—you can spot that splash of red hair, a naïve freckled face, that boyish charm and a scrapper’s roguishness from a parsec away.

Cal’s head shot rotated and froze right in front of you; blank, jade eyes blending in with the fluorescent blue of the holograph as it stared through your helmet’s visor.

The most crucial part of your past life stares back at you.

The male Twi’lek, namely the Fourth Brother, noticed you in the corner of his eye, sensed your uneasiness and discovered your intrepidity replaced with a sudden, dramatic loss of self-confidence. The Second Brother continued his exposition.

“According to our latest intel, these are the Jedi currently in hiding. Some of them are so bold enough to join factions, such as the traitor—the former admiral Jax Beneb who made with a faction in Ulfin,”

“This one, Cal Kestis, joined them not too long ago. He travels with the Mantis crew comprised of its pilot, a Lateron named Greez Dritus, the right-hand and former Jedi Cere Junda, and… er… a witch. We don’t know the latter’s background, we can only confirm she’s Dathomirian.”

“She’s called a Nightsister,” you corrected the Second Brother.

“He and his crew got themselves involved with the uprising in Ulfin,” the Fifth Brother continued.

“Until the Imperial fortification was bombed—no thanks to Twelfth Sister right here.” The Seventh Sister finished with a voice of chagrin and sarcasm.

There were soft gasps and quiet murmurs amongst the other Inquisitors who apparently had no prior knowledge.

“In my defense, I wasn’t one of you that time,” you dryly chuckled before adding. “Took a few good voltages before you broke me, eh Seventh Sister?”

Feeling outclassed, Seventh Sister rolled her eyes and avoided eye contact from you. The sight of her furrowed eyebrows and the crease on the side of her nose warranted a satisfied, mischievous smirk. You bobbed your head at an angle while the next head shot proceeded, and then Cal’s image rotated to the female red-skinned humanoid with cropped brown hair on your left—this one is known as the Eighth Sister.

Second Brother continued with his plan, catching everyone’s attention by clearing his throat and getting back to the objective at hand. The point was to fan out to selected planets and systems where the Jedi stragglers ought to be and hunt them down—which is their original prerogative ever since the Inquisitorius was formed. Before anyone else could call it, you pressed a button which prompted the ring of head shots to spin wildly until the picture of Cal glows right in front of you.

“I’ll find him, along with Cere Junda,”

“Pheh! Hey, who says you get to have first dibs?!” the Eighth Sister screeched.

“Do you know them like I do?” you raised your voice against her and you were met with a stifled silence due to the lack of a good answer. “You’d be more productive in recovering junk parts salvaged by Jawas than finding the Mantis crew and the Jedi boy!”

The same silence hung around the holotable. You seem to have a knack in making anyone who spoke against you to hold their tongues. It seems everyone was waiting for you to elaborate on your rationale.

“I know the pilot’s flying tactics as well as Cere Junda’s technical tinkering that go hand-in-hand. The Nightsister is not to be underestimated lest you won’t be meeting her good side; and her powers exceed urban legend—she can cloak a ship like a normal cloaking device would, she can raise the dead, she can bury you alive six feet under without even touching a hair on you. That’s how potent her magick is. The boy, on the other hand, I know the most—his fighting, his emotions. Point is: I’m the best chance in finding them.”

You glanced left and right, searching for an objecting reaction from the Seventh Sister and Fifth Brother, and then looked straight into Second Brother’s eyes.

“And you can’t deny that, Second Brother. So do the two right beside you.”

The rest of the Inquisitors turn to the Second Brother for his reply, he gave in and he cannot deny that cold, hard fact—that you were once in connivance with these people. And so, you’re granted with your chosen targets; the others followed suit in selecting which Jedi to go after.

—–

Cal wakes up in a cold sweat again. It has become a frequent occurrence, an unwanted habit that he’s trying so hard to kill.

The weeks turned into months, he’s honestly lost count that he had to ask someone else.

They’ve moved on from Jax Beneb’s rebel faction and went off-world. At first, it was difficult convincing the boy that they had to go and leave the planet, as there’s nothing coming back to him as much as he hoped, and whatever he’s waiting for is just dead air. He had developed a destructive habit of drowning himself in trances—he’s practically returned to where he was before: where he loses control in meditation, doing so has distorted his subconscious vision; he eats only once a day—sometimes not at all—and locks himself up in his room. BD-1 is his only companion through and through, but not even the tiny droid can get a word out of the Jedi boy.

The bracelet, your bracelet, is now worn around his wrist; but in the first time he’s secured it on his arm, the leather cord felt like it was burning and searing through his skin, but when others would take a look at it there’s nothing out of the ordinary. The metal pendant, with the scorch marks obscuring the finish, felt like a red-hot branding iron on his arm, his hand twitched and jerked, yet he couldn’t bring himself to swat away or rip the trinket off.

He hated the pain, but it was the only comfort he knew of remembering you by.

A self-imposed penance.

He blames himself for not coming sooner to get you out.

“[Y/N] would hate to see you like this, Cal,” Merrin started to scold.

There was nothing the Nightsister got out of the Jedi.

When he looked at her straight in the eye, she flinched; and then she got a closer look of the sorry state he’s in—there were dark circles around his eyes, the swelling and the redness of the lining of his eyes suggested restless nights whiled away with crying, untreated cuts and bruises spotted his knuckles and the damning evidence is the small yet noticeable streaks of blood on the gray walls.

“Merrin, I can’t crawl out of the grave that I’ve dug for myself,” Cal shuddered, his voice muffled as his mouth was blocked by his knees folded and drawn to his chest. “I know she’s still here. And I’m talking like the sentimental kind, no, I really know. You have to believe me. You all must think I’m crazy.”

“You don’t see or hear any of us saying so,”

“I know, I just… I don’t know if I’m imagining overthinking it but I just feel like you guys are only humoring me,”

“I don’t do that kind of thing, Cal, it’s not in my nature,” Merrin shook her head. “But I miss [Y/N] too. More than you’d like to know.”

Cal sighed and didn’t speak further. Merrin dismissed herself out of his bedroom and reminded him that Cere had left a plate of dinner for him before closing the door. When he was left alone again, he hung his head low and ran his fingers through his loose, unkempt hair.

He had been alone for most of his life, but this was a different kind of loneliness—one that he isn’t entirely used to. The emptiness, the silence, and the depression bore an alien, coldly terrifying air that hung heavily around his bedroom. The engine hum drowned out his sobbing as he tucks himself away in bed, deliberately forgetting his meal outside.

Cere feels all of that grim emotion pooling inside that room, she wonders how much of those feelings will she pick up if she opens that door—could she take it? Will she be overwhelmed? These were the questions she asked herself.

“Give him some more time. I don’t think he needs us right now, Cere,” Greez glumly said, stopping her in her tracks in any attempt of consoling Cal.

Cal could not sleep—another problem he’s dealing with. He lies with his back flat on the bed, tears trickle down his temples and pools on his pillow just below his ears, he feels like he’s nestled in his deathbed. He can close his eyes, but he cannot catch a wink of sleep. Sometimes, he mistakes dreaming for meditation—of the other way around.

As the meeting pronounced adjourned, they scrambled out of the conference hall while you’re left alone. Arms crossed with one another, you stared at the set of head shots you projected on the table—Cal and Cere. Even though you know them so well, you wondered what kind of information the spies have written about them in their reports.

Your eyes trailed to the write-ups for each profile.

CAL KESTIS

Last known location: Ulfin City in Pevera, Goltan System

Potential accomplices: Cere Junda, Greez Dritus (shipmate), unidentified Dathomirian female

Recent activity: Involvement in rebel-initiated terrorist assault

Charges: Conspiracy and acts of terrorism against the Empire

CERE JUNDA

Last known location: Ulfin City in Pevera, Goltan System

Potential accomplices: Cal Kestis, Greez Dritus (shipmate), unidentified Dathomirian female

Recent activity: Involvement in rebel-initiated terrorist assault

Charges: Conspiracy and acts of terrorism against the Empire

You sighed as you finished reading through the facts of their profiles. You turn away from the holotable and stand in front of the mirror that oversees the operations happening outside the Fortress in Mons Golotha. It’s originally a spice mine owned by a crime syndicate who capitalized in the illegal spice trade, but since the occupation and establishment of the Fortress Inquisitorius, the propriety was handed over to the Empire.

Through the window you watch the moving specks that are the people slaving away to harvest the raw, unprocessed spice, loading them into crates and then into freighters. But the turmoil of these pitiful workers weren’t your focus, you’re channeling it to finding Cal’s connection in the Force and through the Force. The storm in your mind has calmed for a time, allowing you to think and meditate clearly; even in the darkness, you see a light at the end of the path. You pursue it, as you run towards it like an excited, curious child you utter his name.

Cal…

His eyes shot up, he was on the verge of falling asleep already until he heard his name in the distance. He sat up, surveyed the bedroom and found nothing. He shrugged it off as nothing and decided to lie back down… but the voice called again.

Cal...

Now this time, he recognizes the voice. He bolted up.

“[Y/N]?!” he gasped.

Where are you?

“Where are you?”

You didn’t answer, one question led to another.

I need to find you. Tell me where you are.

“I… I’m in—”

“So, Twelfth Sister! How’s the hunt coming along?”

The boisterous Fourth Brother interrupted you and deprived you of the most vital part of your plan. He barges right into your personal space; before he could utter another word, you grabbed him in a chokehold using the Force and slammed him against the window wall. The impact was so hard that a crack appeared right behind his head almost like an icy halo.

The grit of your teeth hissed out the words, “What. Do you. Want?”

He gurgled his words but turned out into frothy noises, you saw him tap for submission on the glass and his ankles buckling.

“What is it that you have to say that is so important that you had to interrupt me and my meditation!?”

“I…. Guhhkk! Wanted to ask if… aagghhk! You plan to go alone!”

You released the Twi’lek, he fell to his knees coughing and clutching his neck.

“I work alone. Go.”

You turn away and wait for the Fourth Brother to leave your sight. Despite calling each other brother and sister, there was no filial connection amongst one another; simply put, it was only tolerance and putting up with each other’s bull. You, on the other hand, hate everyone. Some of them may have not played a part on your turning, but you can’t help but remain hostile towards them—the Eighth Sister deduced that it’s a normal feeling when you’re the fledgling of the Inquisitorius.

You leave the room and make for the hangar to your TIE Fighter.

Meanwhile, Cal was met again with silence and the ecstasy he felt in hearing your voice—even just in his head—died with his melting smile. He sighed and slipped under his sheets again, his heart ached as he coaxed himself to sleep.

Another long night awaits.

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warpoetrydivinity · 4 years ago

Note

Which Daedric Prince do you think is the least awful?

Well, that certainly depends on the context. By their very nature, they are all awful in their own rights. Azura? Enslaves her followers. Traps them in a null sense of peace and tranquility. She disguises her shackles with love. Much like a heavily over-controlling parent. She masks her true intentions with the idea that “she knows best”. The moment you try to defy her though, just like those parents, she will strike you. Boethiah? Only cares for bloodshed and battle. She will lie, she will cheat, and she will manipulate both her followers and those who are against her in order to cause as much chaos as possible. Boethiah would, quite literally, kick a man while he is down to “test his mettle”. Clavicus Vile? Is nothing more than a nuisance, and that is on purpose. His eternal struggle is one of boredom. He views the world as a stage and he will pluck and prod the actors as much as he wishes. Not to mention his other half, his companion Barbas, who often causes even more trouble. Hermaeus Mora? Perhaps he could be viewed as one of the “least awful” simply because he doesn’t involve himself often. He spends his time hunting knowledge, striving for the unobtainable, but never quite comprehending it. He takes the time to hoard information, to hoard knowledge both forbidden and not, but does not take the time to fully comprehend it. Knowledge is power, but he’ll never obtain that power for his lack of true knowledge. Hircine? Could be another one viewed as the “least awful” for similar reasons. Hircine does not go out of his way to be worshiped, nor does he seem to truly wish to be. He finds his thrill in the hunt, however, only when it is fair. I would go as far to say that Hircine has some sense of honor. Jyggalag? Though not currently his own prince, he will return eventually. Or perhaps he already has, and is simply floating out in the infinite beyond? No one can truly say. I would say that Jyggalag has the potential to be one of the worst, in the sense that he’s extremely radical in his beliefs. Wisdom and Order, at any costs. He would deny the very nature of mortality by forcing all to follow a totally predetermined plan. Suck the very life out of all around him until everything was gray. Malacath? Is certainly not the brightest of his brothers, but I would give him this, he certainly cares about those who follow him. His very nature is that of being an almost fatherly figure to those who have been beaten down and broken. Though his focus on battle, his thirst for bloodshed, certainly disqualifies him from being one of the least awful. Mehrunes Dagon? He is a being of chaos, even more so than many of the other Princes. He brings about destruction, disaster, and death in his wake. Though, he also brings about change. It is his field in which revolution, both good and bad, come forth. He appreciates the ambitious, and could very well represent the turbulent energy below our feet. Mephala, my Anticipation? She is quite similar to Vile in the sense that her only goal is her own amusement. They will spend countless centuries spinning a web, trying to cause the most “interesting” outcome. Patience is a natural part of her own sphere, and she would wait an eternity if it meant seeing things play out as she wishes. Though they often do not. Though talented, yes, she views all mortals as puppets on strings. And once she is bored of you? She will toss you aside. Meridia? Well to put it simply, she is similar to Jyggalag in the sense that she is incredibly radical in her own beliefs. There is also a similarity to be drawn between her and Mora, that being an incredible sense of greed. She is insatiable her quest for “light”. Out of all of the princes, she is one of the ones which demand worship the most. She is practically starved for praise, and will burn anyone who says anything negative about herself. Then one can draw a comparison to Azura. She views mortals as ends to a means, as pawns which she can use. Meridia may lie, she may say that she cares for you, and that she is a light in the darkness. But a light that burns bright enough to blind you will only cause you to see eternal darkness. Is Molag Bal even worth speaking about in this context? He carries all of the negative traits of his brothers and sisters. Cunning in his schemes, patient to wait for them to come to fruition, greedy in his quest for power and dominance, cruel in his thirst for bloodshed, and completely uncaring for his followers. Though perhaps his worst trait is his own pride, which is always his own downfall. Whether it is at my own hands, or that of the many mortals that have and will defeat him for eras to come. Namira is gross. That is her very nature. She does not WANT to be viewed as anything other than awful. She revels in her own repulsion, and the deeds which would cause people to pluck out their own eyeballs in order to not see them again. She is quite like Azura and Meridia in the sense that she only cares for the worship of her mortals. She sees her worshipers more as toys than anything else. Namira simply wants to see how far she can bend a person until they break. How long they can hold onto themselves before they simply become a part of her. Nocturnal? Well, to put it simply, she is a bitch. Just as prideful as Molag Bal, while also viewing herself as superior to the others as Meridia. She believes herself to be “unfathomable” and gives herself her own titles as she sees fit. She pushes those that follow her to be as selfish as she is. To seek their own power and ambitions, at any cost. While also chastising them when they defy her, despite her own teachings of treachery. Nocturnal’s very nature of being “shadowy” and “deceiving” is often what causes her to be so predictable in the first place. Peryite, one of the most forgotten princes, revels in the suffering of others. He views illnesses, blights, diseases as being gifts which he blesses the mortal plane with. All he cares for is systematic destruction, a controlled pandemic, something which he can sit back and watch the numbers rise for. He is methodical, and will often try to stay a step ahead of those he is against. Many underestimate this dragon, but I believe that is simply part of his own plans. Sanguine, I’ve found, is often viewed as one of the “better” Daedra by those of you on the web. And indeed, there are mortals in our realm as well who simply view him as a “party god”. That is by his own design. He represents that feeling of excitement as you first take a sip of alcohol. One? It can not hurt. Two? What could go wrong? Three? Four? Then it goes on, and on, until it spirals out of control. THAT is what Sanguine is. The destruction of one’s self, by your own hands. He pushes mortals down an ever darkening path, until they can no longer recognize themselves. That is the nature of the prince of debauchery. We’re nearing the end now, are we not? Sheogorath..Is a Prince in which I’ve had many dealings with over the years. The Mad God, the Patron of Art, the Gentleman with a Cane, the Tester of the Mind. He is many things, and yet, he is all simply Sheogorath. Of all the princes, he is the only one which is truly unpredictable. In some ways, he is similar to Sanguine, in that he’d rather allow someone to destroy themselves than to do it himself. Just like the others, his main goal is often to sate his own eternal boredom. The difference is just that he is far more creative in his means to do so. One day? He might save a little kitten so he might watch it grow. The next day? He might rip out its entrails to jump rope with. Sheogorath simply DOES. Planning is something he leaves to others, though sometimes, for the sake of being unpredictable, he might plan himself. That is ultimately how I view Sheogorath. Not good, or evil. Not nice, or awful. He is simply unpredictable, the truest being of chaos there is. Of all of the Princes, Sheogorath might just be the one with the most potential. Lastly, we reach Vaermina. She simply hungers for destruction, and will often give people flashes of future disasters, only for them to cause those disasters sooner. She views mortals as being in which she can torture eternally, whether they are awake or sleeping, she claims them either way. She will take your worst fears, and make you face them over and over until you are no longer afraid of them. Then? She will simply find something new for you to fear. Until the only thing you fear is yourself, and you take your own life. Only for you to wake again. Vaermina is a Prince of eternal torture. Nothing more, nothing less. There is no “least” awful Daedric Prince. They’re all awful in their own ways. Hermaeus Mora and Hircine might be the least destructive of them, but even then that is a stretch. The Daedric Princes are by their own nature, destructive. Wherever they might go they bring about some kind of change. Sometimes positive, sometimes negative. Regardless of who they might be. Comparing their individual actions is fruitless, as they are constantly at work in the background. Likely with an infinite number of unattributed events being caused by themselves. That is my final stance on the matter.

#The God Answers #The Daedra #Daedric Princes

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kaypeace21 · 5 years ago

Text

Byler hints in the background of s1-3

Honestly, this should just be called- ‘my autistic brain casually (and without even trying) notices shit in the background, but never mentioned it- because I thought it sounded too crazy to talk about’ XD. But the symbolism and Easter eggs give my byler-shipping heart so much life. So I thought, since you guys prob. didn’t notice it- I’ll mention it anyways. So here goes.

Drawings/rainbows

There has been a theme in s3 about how Mike equates ‘falling for girls’ as a part of growing up, and his feelings for Will as something childish that he has to has to grow out of.

- confessing to El : “A feeling … yeah, like, something… like OLD PEOPLE say it sometimes”.

- “And Will too. I was thinking we could all have new presents to play with and *scoffs* Sorry, that made me sound like a 7 year old... (apologizing to El)

- Mike getting in a fight with Will (after d&d), and saying they can’t be close anymore:

Mike says, “It’s not my fault you don’t like girls!”, and then he tries to ½ apologize only to say, “I’m not trying to be a jerk. Ok? But We’re not kids anymore.” Explaining, this is just the way things are-boys fall in love with girls, get girlfriends, and this is just a part of growing up (heteronormativity). He tells Will “I mean, what did you think, really? That we were never gonna get girlfriends? We were just gonna sit in my basement all day and play games for the rest of our lives?” And poor Will who is probably more aware of his feelings just responds. “Yeah, I guess I did. I really did.” And of course Mike immediately apologizes for being an “ asshole”, after this.

But here’s the thing! Mike actually does wish he didn’t have to grow up and that he could play games with Will (without girlfriends) for the rest of their lives. His room, in s3, SCREAMS that he’s trying to grow up/act straight... but he can’t let go of his feelings for Will.

He literally takes down his old childhood poster from s1-2 for a more mature/adult poster. But on the same wall (where the old poster used to be) he hasn’t removed a single d&d drawing Will has given him. He’s pretending that he’s grown out of d&d when Lucas is around- because he’s emulating how (the straight) Lucas acted, all season. But Mike has it BAD (and is seriously pinning) for Will! Like, I love Will but his art at 11 years old isn’t so great to justify it still be on Mike’s wall at age 14. He’s just that whipped (and literally can’t part with a single drawing Will has ever given him) XD

Like... it’s cannon that Mike caresses Will’s drawings

He’s that ‘ dumbass blinded by love’ who thinks anything Will’s draws is a perfect- masterpiece. Mike could literally see Will draw scribbles and think it’s amazing! Like in s2 he just guides his hands through the scribbles he drew on the wall- no joke! XD

However, what’s interesting though is the one other things he took down from his wall. In S1 Mike (before he even met El) has a heart sign, with a red heart being propelled by a rainbow. Yet in s3 , the season where he’s ‘obsessing’ about El- it mysteriously disappears. However, in the first ep of s3 when Mike is making-out with El we see a emergence of the heart being propelled by a rainbow (in El’s room) as a drawing. Probably signifying Mike participating in compulsory-heterosexuality and that no matter how hard he tries- he’s not straight!

So given the fact he can’t part with any of the pictures on the wall...you better believe Mike still has that giant binder filled with every drawing Will has given him . And he’s probably hidden it away , with the rainbow heart sign (because he knows it would look suspicious to have laying around).

-Also, Mike literally has more rainbow symbolism than Will (and has had it through every season) XD

-the s2 ref being the most on the nose) Forbidden fruit + rainbow = queer forbidden romance. And during the 80s, that rainbow-apple poster in the AV Club was suspected to be in reference to Alan Turning (the gay ‘father of computers’).

Animal easter eggs that relate to byler and the upside down/supernatural-plot .

tigers- Mike keeps a tiger poster (which was right next to that rainbow-heart sign) in his basement through s1-3. In s1 we see Will also has a tiger drawing, which is later put on the wall (like a poster) in s2. Sara Hopper (like Will ) had her death faked by the government (and had a tiger plushie in s1)- and Kali probably had something to do with it since in the prequel novel ‘suspicious minds’ had Kali talk non stop about her fav animal , tigers. Theory here. But again, Jancy is also connected to tigers as a romantic symbol (just like byler).

sharks- The Duffer brothers themselves said they based the s1 demorgorgan off of sharks, which Nancy even references in s1. Mike and Will have shark iconography in their room/basement. Will has a jaws poster shown in s1-2, and Mike has shark toys visible in s2. The shark (and bear) symbolism hint at the fact that Will created the upside down/demorgorgans/mind-flayer using his powers- theory here.

bears- Will since s1 has had bear symbolism around him. Bears symbolically represent “wisdom” like ‘Will the wise’ and were associated with the demorgorgan/upside down in s1 and 2 as well . Max and Nancy compared demogorgans to bears- and Nancy and Jonathan used a bear-trap to capture a demorgorgan in s1 .

But s3 made bears a romantic symbol- Mike was going to buy a golden teddy bear for El as a romantic gesture. The golden bear had a bowtie (it’s male). And the gray bear that Mike gives to her, was originally Will’s (as shown in s1 &2). This gray bear is coming right in between Mike and El (at the end of s3). They even kiss , while El presses the bear right in between them. In conclusion these romantic bears represent Will. * I mean that whole awkward kiss (where Mike’s eyes are open and he doesn’t kiss back- happens in Will’s room, in front of Will’s open closet, with Will’s bear smushed between them (pretty blatant foreshadowing).

dinosaurs- This one is probably a stretch but we see this boy has tons of dinosaurs (at least 6). He starts to info-dump on El about how much he loves them. But, she has no interest. And if the wtf look didn’t make this obvious.

She even gets up and walks away, ignoring his tangent about dinosaurs.

She literally couldn’t care less about his interest in them.

But in spite of this, we see Mike gave her Rory in s3 (since it’s in her bedroom). And in s2 we see him sadly look at Rory, with 2 other dinosaurs in frame. This, along with s1 implies he has a huge collection of various dinosaurs .But his collection is missing one of the most popular dinosaur species... the brachiosaurus (the long necked dinosaur).

And right after this scene in s2 scene, we go to Will’s room. And he has a huge brachiosaurus! This boy couldn’t even afford a halloween costume and had to have his hand-made by his mom... but he could afford this huge -fancy dinosaur replica? I bet Mike bragged about his dinosaur collection to Will (like he did with El). But Will being a nerd, was actually impressed. So Mike actually gave him his best/fav toy in his collection- kind of like what he did with Rory.

frogs- This is the most hilarious thing to me. I laughed for like 20 minutes on my rewatch. In s1 Will has a GIANT stuffed plushie of a frog next to his jaws poster and teddy bear. I’m dead! Will doesn’t even disagree with the “frog face“ insult.

He’s just like ‘well, he’s my frog face’ . Time to snuggle with this frog that looks just like Mike . Will is so in love but also low key savage dragging Mike like that. I can only imagine Dustin and Lucas saying “nah, you don’t look like a frog”. And poor baby-Mike asking Will what he thinks, and Will not being able to lie, just saying “ Well... some people like frogs.” XD

We also see that in s2 the frog is missing but the Jaws-poster, coin jar, and the bear (we later see El holding in s3) remain .Probably to indicate this is when Will started to subconsciously suppress his feelings for Mike. Although @theclericwill pointed out -that , instead, Mike may have used the frog-plushie as a pillow... for his frog-face XD

Throwing shade at Mileven/mileven shippers in s2

In the Montauk pitch (later named Stranger things) they describe the Mike and El dynamic by saying “ If Mike is the Eliot of our show,Eleven is our Et.” (AKA they’re from different planets)

-In s2 , Erica is forcing He-man and barbie to make out. Lucas angrily separates the two. And then this discussion happens.

Erica: “Hey , They’re in love!”

Lucas (livid- and standing right next to a rainbow): “No, actually, they’re not. They don’t even exist on the same planet.”

Not to mention I doubt it was a coincident they had a (bratty) pre-pubescent girl be the proxy for most mileven shippers.Like not all mileven shippers are bad, but almost all the toxic ones (that the Duffers have to deal with) are tween girls. And to the Duffers, only a child could think 2 people are ‘in love’ after a week of knowing each other. Or that El could understand such things like romance- given the fact that her and Mike are from different planets (given how El has no experience with the outside world).Mike even says in s2, he can’t hate Max because he ‘doesn’t know’ her (despite knowing her as long as he knew El). Meaning he doesn’t love El since he doesn’t know her.

Plus, El told Mike, he treats her like ‘garbage’ and ‘a pet’ . And Finn after s1, said that the Duffers told him Mike thought of El as a puppy, and she is even compared to Dart (a demo-dog in s2). Mike asking Dustin, angrily “What, You have a bond? Just cause he likes nougat (eggos)?” Being a blatant dig at people obsessing over this shallow aspect of their relationship.

Mileven was also compared to that of family members. In s1, right before they kissed, she asks “will you be like my brother?” (while wearing Nancy’s dress). And Mike also referred to her as his ‘cousin’ . Not to mention, El loved ted’s laz-eboy chair (and Nancy said Karen and Ted “never loved each other” ). And right before Karen is about to cheat on Ted - she looks at him sleeping in the chair (and the lyrics are ‘I should have walked away’).

It’s pretty hilarious, since so many people try to ‘no-homo’ byler by saying Mike thinks of Will as a brother/or family- yet, their relationship has never been directly compared to a sibling (unlike mileven).

People also seem to not realize Mike lied in s2 (just like he did in s3). He thought El was dead in s2. He told Max it “got her like it did bob” and then he made a spectacle in front of everyone saying “I never gave up on you”. Which was a blatant lie (since he just told Max a few minutes earlier, she was dead -_-). Mike simply blamed himself for her death (he said they needed her to save Will and even referred to her as a “weapon”). So when she died he felt the most responsible- and was hoping she was alive (and would answer his call) to alleviate his own guilt. Not because he loved her (that was an act). When he saw Will’s dead body, but heard his voice, he went on a rescue mission to save Will (from another dimension). But, Mike didn’t even bother going into the woods after seeing El outside his window (something he did for Will in ep 1, during a storm). And then in s3 Mike couldn’t even bother to call El and apologize- but ran to apologize to Will in the woods during a storm (bringing that whole parallel -full circle).

Plus, El told Mike, he treats her like ‘garbage’ and ‘a pet’ . And Finn after s1, said that the Duffers told him Mike thought of El as a puppy, and she is even compared to Dart (a demo-dog in s2). Mike asking Dustin, angrily “What, You have a bond? Just cause he likes nougat (eggos)?” A blatant dig at people obsessing over this shallow aspect of their relationship.

Bob and Mike parallels- the Rubik cube

Both are unathletic, smart, love comics, the only 2 to not treat Will ‘different’- and would do anything to protect their loved ones. And they also had crushes on Byers in childhood, and tried to give their Byers normalcy (despite them not being a ‘normal family’). They purposely display, and have Will -mirror Joyce- and Mike -mirror Bob- in multiple shots, throughout s2.

And both Mike and Bob are AV club leaders. Bob mentioned in one of the earlier episodes that he founded the Hawkins Middle AV club . And Mike later grabs Bob’s Rubik cube, and mentions this after his death (to solidify the connection- even if subconscious in our minds. He even proclaims after this “we can’t let him die in vain” . And this is when Mike makes the plan to help Will (before El shows up).

gif credit: cath-avery, dailystrangerthings

#byler #byeler

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sad-sweet-cowboah · 5 years ago

Text

Misty Forester

Name:

Misty Selene Forester (Rodriguez)

Born:

April 10th, 1873 (Aries)

Age: 24 in RDO events, 25 in the main game, 33 in the epilogue

Birthplace: Manhattan, New York City, New York

Notable Characteristics:

Long brown hair

Bright green eyes

Plump red lips

Black, red, and white color scheme

Fashionable, will always make sure she looks good even if she’s wearing a potato sack

Sassy af

Vocally talented

Other Info:

Half Puerto Rican, 1/4 English and 1/4 French.

Bisexual, known to openly flirt with both men and women

Skills:

Sharpshooter

Persuasive speaker

Skilled actor

Weapons:

Duel wielding custom Mauser pistols

Lancaster Repeater

Carcano Rifle

Hunting Knife

Family:

Arella Forester (Mother)

Luis Rodriguez (Father, unknown whereabouts)

Marie Forester (twin sister, deceased)

Background:

Misty is the child of immigrant parents. Her mother, Arella, is from England and is the daughter of a successful French businessman and an English woman whose own family came from their own wealth. Arella was set to be married to a man who too came from a rich family. Arella was unhappy with this, stole some money from her parents and managed to escape to America for better opportunities. Despite her parents search, she managed to avoid them. She settled down in New York City. There she met Luis, a man who escaped his own home, once living in extreme poverty in Puerto Rico. They bonded and quickly formed a relationship, and Arella soon found herself pregnant.

Before Misty and Marie were born, Luis received word that his mother back in Puerto Rico had fallen ill. He didn’t want to leave his love and their soon to be children, but he had no choice. He managed to get back to PR and would often send letters. Arella kept him up to to date with everything, eagerly waiting his return. However after the twins were born, the letters stopped coming.

A couple of years passed and Arella gave up hope that Luis would return, wondering if he perished or just stopped caring. Either way, she had her daughters to take care of and did her best to raise them. The funds she once nicked from her parents’ fortune allowed her to provide her and her daughters a comfortable living situation.

All the money in the world however did not prevent Marie from getting sick. She became infected with Cholera at the age of five and despite the aggressive medical care, she ended up passing away.

Both Misty and Arella were heartbroken. They stayed in NYC for another six years, and decided to move south, relocating to another city known as Saint Denis. Arella, having grown up around French culture, felt right at home. Misty missed NYC, but soon fell in love with the grandeur of Saint Denis and often wandered around, marveling the well-dressed citizens and enjoying the entertainment. She soon realized she wanted to become a singer, seeking out a vocal trainer whom she learned from for a few years. She also hung around the theaters, speaking with performers and learning tips and techniques on not only singing, but acting as well.

Little did she know that it would come in handy one day. At the age of 16, her grandparents ended up in Saint Denis for a vacation when they ran into Arella by accident. The reunion was explosive, and a lot of shouts and curses were exchanged before everything calmed down. Misty did not know that her mother ran away years ago, and she never heard much about her grandparents except for that they lived in the UK. Despite the tension held, her grandparents absolutely loved her and wanted to keep in touch. Sometime after, she was kidnapped by a gang of outlaws. Somehow word had gotten out she was the granddaughter of a wealthy family, and their intention was to hold her for ransom.

She was with them for three weeks, having to endure their vulgarity. They gave her the bare minimum, feeding her bread rolls and making her sleep on the ground, knowing she would do no good if she got sick or injured. Despite how afraid she was, Misty managed to form a plan, carefully learning their mannerisms and how they interacted with others. She managed to escape without inflicting violence, using her charm and learned acting skills to weasel her way out. Unfortunately for her, she had no idea where she was.

No longer was she in the state of Lemoyne, instead finding out she was in a completely different state called West Elizabeth. With nothing but the clothes on her back and no money in her pockets, she had no idea how to get home, and she was certain those outlaws would catch up to her sooner or later. She managed to keep herself discreet for a couple of days, laying low and charming shopkeepers into giving her a couple of cans of food. All the while, she was desperately trying to find a ride back to Saint Denis that didn’t cost her money, or being subjected to disgusting favors from men twice her age.

One night she’d found shelter in a barn, sleeping peacefully when the sounds of voices aroused her. She realized immediately it was the gang of outlaws that kidnapped her in the first place, and she had no way to defend herself. Despite her trying to keep quiet, they eventually found her hiding spot. With no way out she was ready to accept her fate, until she heard gunshots and the heavy thudding of bodies. More gunfire sounded and she opened her eyes to see them facing outside the barn as a flurry of bullets both entered and exited the barn. She hid behind a crate, listening to the carnage until the gunfire stopped. Seeing the gang were all dead, she warily left her hiding spot and met the man who saved her, a fellow named Hosea Matthews. She recognized him immediately, having seen his wanted poster plastered all over Saint Denis for years. She thought he had the same intention of holding her ransom, but instead surprised her in saying he was here to help, after hearing talk about the rival gang searching for a young girl.

And so for the next few days, Hosea taught Misty how to defend herself. He gave her a revolver, teaching her how to shoot and basic tracking/hunting skills. He even offered to bring her back to his personal gang.

Main Game AU:

Misty considered Hosea’s offer. How she wanted to return home, but had a fear that upon returning, the same events would transpire and may end up with her, her mother, or others she cared about getting injured or killed in the crossfire. The last thing she wanted to do was bring home dangerous, greedy men, and decided to leave with Hosea.

Thus then started her journey as part of “Dutch’s Boys”, a scared young girl soon taught to be a useful gang member. Dutch and Hosea discovered her acting skills and put her to work for heists and robbery.

More to come soon...

RDO Events AU:

Upon declining Hosea’s offer, he gave her money to take a train back to Saint Denis and wished her luck, and let her know that he’d help her again if she ever needed it. She thanked him and got on the next train back home, glad to finally have a way back but she’ll never forget Hosea.

She returned to an emotional reunion, by not only her mother but her grandparents as well, who refused to return home until she was found. They immediately offered to take her and Arella back to England with them, where they guaranteed her safety. Arella declined for the both of them, while it was tempting, she did not want to subject Misty to the life that she hated.

Life returned back to normal for Misty, and putting the experience behind her, she tried pursuing a life in show business as she intended. Despite having a beautiful voice, she just couldn’t break past performing on the streets. She was constantly in other more successful performers’ shadows.

When she moved out on her own, she found it much harder to live on the meager money she was making. She then remembered her experience while being held hostage. The outlaws spoke about their tales and triumphs with stealing riches. She soon began to succumb to her curiosity, finding herself hanging out with the less desirable folk in Saint Denis.

She soon made herself a posse of her own called the Midnight Regulators, making their way across five states like a storm in robberies and ambushes. Misty often takes the role of damsel in distress to lure rich folk into trying to help her, and then robs them blind. She will also help those who are in greater need than her, sometimes becoming a “Robin Hood” and giving part of her loot to poor families.

Unfortunately, one of her gang members became too greedy and tried to overthrow her by attempting to kill her. The fight ended with Misty putting a bullet in their skull. The gang disbanded after that and she was alone, pulled to perform for funds.

Extra:

Legally her name is Misty Rodriguez. However, her mother introduced them using her own maiden name for her daughters to avoid discrimination.

Misty is actually afraid of horses, except her own, after being kicked in the chest as a child. It took her a long time to get comfortable around them.

She secretly hopes to meet her father one day.

She is considered morally gray.

Despite how her life has changed, she still wants to be on stage one day.

She has a soft spot for children and while it doesn’t seem likely, she hopes to settle down and have her own family.

Horses:

Cressida, an amber champagne Missouri Fox Trotter mare:

Misty’s main mount and her absolute favorite horse. Both fast and resilient, Misty was drawn in by this mare’s prowess and beauty.

Cornelia, a marble sabino Criollo mare:

Misty’s first horse. Cornelia can easily match Cressida in speed and stamina, but she’s very clumsy. Misty doesn’t ride her as often in fear of accidentally injuring her.

Orion, a sorrel overo Criollo stallion:

Misty came across this beautiful stallion tied up at a gang hideout, and took him once she’d done away with them.

Andromeda, a bay frame overo Criollo mare:

Misty’s newest horse. A prized mare she found at Braithwaite Manor when she snuck over to originally steal horses. She made out with the ones needed plus Andromeda for her own collection.

Blanche, a white Kladruber mare:

Not the fastest mount, but gorgeous and sturdy. Blanche, meaning “white” in French, was given to Misty by a man in thanks for saving his daughter.

#Misty Forester #red dead online #RDO #red dead OC

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