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multiharlot · 2 years ago

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90 days // matt murdock x reader

summary: it takes 90 days for you to break the habit of loving a dead man.

warnings: angst with a happy ending, TW: severe depression and shutting down so please please please read with caution if you are sensitive to material like this, season 3 matt so i mean...fake dead, lol. some cute foggy and karen moments for our little hearts perhaps? who knows, this is a long one, my bad guise

masterlist || add yourself to my taglist

inspired by 90 days by p!nk (well not really but i got the idea while listening to this song)

day 1 when you'd found out, you were a mess. you'd fallen to your knees in the police station, screams laced in pain and agony leaving your mouth as you sobbed. foggy fell to his knees besides you, scooping you up in his arms as you pleaded with a god you didn't believe in to bring him back to you. you'd spent the following week screaming and crying and begging any higher power that possibly exists to bring him back. you screamed at them in a fit of rage, infuriated that they took him from you. foggy had stopped by the day before the funeral and found you sitting on the shower floor, the bathroom door wide open, still in your clothes in a borderline catatonic state, letting boiling hot water pour on top of you.

he'd panicked and shut off the water, grabbing your face and checking for any real damage as he did his best not to cry. but when your eyes met his, you'd just broke down, grasping at his arms. without question or contest, he'd climbed into the wet bathtub and held you and your sopping wet clothes close to him. cradling your head against his chest, softly shushing you as you sobbed.

"i know y/n. i know." he whimpered, a small hiccup leaving his mouth as he silently cried with you.

"where is he, fog? where's his body? he needs to come home" you cried, clutching tightly to foggy's arms.

"i don't know." he cried, sniffling softly as he brushed your wet hair our of your face.

your painful sobs broke foggy's heart more than he thought it could break. you were struggling to breath as you let out loud sobs, and foggy wasn't sure how to help you. but he held you, and he stayed. once your cries softened, he helped you out of the bathtub and left to bring you dry clothes and make you something warm to drink while you took off your wet clothes and dried off your body. he turned on the heater to make the apartment warmer so you wouldn't get sick, and he'd stayed with you when you held tightly to his hand after getting you into bed.

foggy stayed and he helped you as best he could. because he knew that if it were him, matt would've taken care of foggy's family like they were his own, so he owed it to matt to take care of the only family matt had left.

day 8 it was raining the day of matt's funeral. you thought it was fitting as you watched the love of your life be lowered into the ground. or rather, his empty casket.

foggy held your hand as tightly as he could, pulling you closely to his side. and you weren't sure if it was more comforting for him or for you, but regardless, you appreciated it and him. the rain was pattering loudly against the umbrella that foggy held above the two of you.

ever since the shower incident, you hadn't spoken a word. hadn't cried, you barely ate, you had taken a sabbatical, which your boss was happy to give to you, offering you as much time as you needed. you were a shell of a person. you felt empty at best. so as you watched the priest say a prayer over matt's descending casket, you just leaned your head on foggy's shoulder, not saying a single word, not shedding a single tear.

once the funeral was over, you sat at a table in josie's, staring blankly at the wine glass in front of you. giving a tight smile and a nod when anyone would come up to you and offer their condolences. foggy sat with you the whole night, holding your hand through it all, trying his best to talk you through things. but as much as you loved foggy, you weren't interested in his endless optimism at the moment.

day 14 you could always be found in you and matt's shared loft, either on the couch or in your bed, on matt's side, clinging to his pillow. sometimes, you found the energy to sit at the counter and stare at the wall. you had nothing left in you to give. foggy and karen worried heavily. every time they'd come to see you, you were thinner, your eyes more sunken in and dark. today when they walked in, you were in bed, hadn't showered or eaten in at least two days from what they could tell. so foggy and karen helped you out of bed and into the shower where they sat you in the bathtub and foggy went to bring you some of your favorite soup while karen washed your hair. you remained silent and catatonic as karen gently gently rinsed you off. she'd dried you off and helped you into new clean clothes and sat with you on the couch, softly brushing your hair.

"i know it's hard. and it's okay to be depressed, but we're worried about you. i don't...i don't think you're okay, y/n. i think...i think you need some help." she sighs as she pulls the brush through your hair.

you don't say anything, you just sit there. you knew she was right. you did need help. and you were never against getting help. but you had no energy to get out of the house and go talk about your feelings. you didn't want to talk. you didn't want to do anything.

when foggy came back, he had multiple bags of food in his hands. each containing your favorite soups and foods from different take out places. they'd sat with you on the couch, making sure that you'd at least eat a little bit of the food foggy had brought you. and you did. you ate until you couldn't bring yourself to grab the spoon anymore. after a while, karen had gone home and foggy sat next to you in bed, and you'd laid you head on his lap, laying in silence as he softly pet your head.

"i know karen already talked to you, but you need help y/n. i'm so worried about you. i...i can't lose you too. you don't have to talk when you get there. i'll set everything up, and drive you there and pick you up. all of it just...please. you need help." foggy pleads.

you lay there for a moment, bringing the blanket further up your arms.

"okay" you squeak out.

foggy swore in that moment, he'd never heard a sound more beautiful than when you'd spoke.

day 35 after some time, the antidepressants and the therapy started to help and you started to speak again. and then you started to go out. you started small. first it was the corner store, then it was the supermarket, then it was target, and suddenly you found yourself back at work. your coworkers offered you as much support as they could, but remained at a distance, not wanting to feel like they were pushing you. the first week or two of work was difficult. you kept hoping you'd come home and he'd be in the living room. and coming back to an empty home that used to be shared did more damage than you thought it would.

"you want to sell it?" karen asks, furrowing her eyebrows

"yeah" you mumbled, poking at the pasta on your plate.

"why?"

"i just...i can't do it anymore, karen. it feels like i'm living in a tomb. i have to move on. i have to get better." you sighed, putting your fork down and picking up your drink.

"don't." she shakes her head.

"don't?"

"you should move out. move on. be happy. but don't sell it. i'll pay the bills. just please, don't. not yet at least." she pleads, reaching across the table and grabbing your hand.

you pause, contemplating it for a moment, and then you nod.

"okay."

day 53 you'd found a beautiful apartment not too far from your workplace. the neighborhood was nice, mostly families. it took you a little while to adjust, but eventually, you did. your routine began to look a little more normal. and every sunday night, karen and foggy would come over for dinner and you did your best to move on and be happy. you were sure that at some point, you wouldn't be pretending anymore, and that you'd actually be happy.

you were right.

you were slowly reverting back to the social butterfly that you used to be. of course you missed matt. everyday you did. but you'd accepted that he wasn't coming back, no matter how much groveling and praying and begging you did. he was gone. and all you had left was the memory. and you had learned to be okay with that.

of course every now and then you'd find yourself stopping by the loft and sitting in front of his closet, leaving the doors open and breathing him in. finding comfort in the lingering glimpses you'd catch of him. you were sure that there wouldn't be a day that goes by where you didn't think of him, miss him. he was the love of your life. and he always would be.

but you also knew that at some point, you had to let him go.

day 76 you regularly visited his grave. keeping the stone clean and adorning his final resting place with beautiful fragrant flowers. a piece of you hoped that if they smelled strong enough, he could smell them even in the afterlife.

most times you went, foggy came with you. foggy did his best to stick by you, to support you and your choices, and you two had leaned on each other a lot through your grieving processes. you both had attempted to cling to the pieces of matt that he'd left in you both. and you'd found peace in each other.

"i like it short like this." you smiled, spinning around in the barbers chair next to foggy as he looked nervously between you and the mirror.

"you think so?" he asked, scrunching his eyebrows.

"i do. it looks good. you look very clean cut. but in a good way" you nodded, a small smile on your lips as you brought your coffee up to your lips, taking a sip.

"good good." he breathes out nervously as the barber brushes the fine piece of hairs away.

you and foggy leave the barber, walking along the street and as you toss your coffee away, foggy just smiles at you.

"you look better." he notes, making your chest swell with pride.

"thank you. it took a while, but...i'm getting there and for now, i'm okay." you smile.

and for the first time in a long time, you weren't lying when you told foggy you were fine.

day 90 you were stood inside of matt's apartment for the first time in a very long time. you breathed in the air, the surrounding smells were still the same despite karen only coming occasionally. you stood there in silence, just looking, when suddenly the door slams open, making you jump.

"matt!"

you furrow your eyeborws as karen storms in, foggy in tow.

"what the hell is going on?" you ask, looking as karen searched the apartment.

"did you know?" she asked, turning towards you.

"know what? foggy, what's going on?"

foggy sighs, his entire demeanor falling, his shoulder drooping as he walked over to grab your hands.

"let's sit down, yeah?" he says, grabbing your arms and seating you on the couch.

"foggy please, what's going on? why is karen looking for matt? he's dead the last time i checked." you chuckled nervously, the nerves bundling in your stomach.

foggy paused, his mouth opening and closing.

"no...he's not."

you suck in a breath and your chest starts to tighten. you just smile, shaking your head.

"that's not funny, fog."

"i wish this was a cruel joke. i do. but it's not. he's alive. he came and saw me last night. told me that we were in danger because fisk is out now." he explained, petting your head and keeping hold of your hand.

you didn't know how to react, so you sat there, a blank stare on your face, your moth fallen slightly open, and a single tear falling down your face.

"a-alive?" you whimpered.

foggy quickly wiped the tears from your face and nodded.

"yeah. alive."

"w-why would he do that?"

"exactly! why would he let us think he was dead!?" karen shouted making you wince.

you sat there trying to process as foggy said that the matt who came to see him wasn't the same matt that we knew, that something was wrong, missing.

"i have to go home." you breathed out, just standing up from the couch and walking out the door.

you couldn't handle any of it. so when you got home, you sat on your floor, and you cried.

day 92 you were stood with foggy, smiling and talking with everyone as foggy campaigned. foggy had his hand placed on the small of your back as you took a photo together in front of the banner. as he announced he'd be there to answer any questions, foggy's gaze shifted to a man walking in.

"i got a few." he asked, taking slow steps towards you two.

"like...what's the secret ingredient in your world famous nelson's sub?"

"a uh, soft robiola."

"mmm...perfect. team at work is gonna love that. uh. give me six."

"oh, theo can help you, actually. he's at the counter." you smiled, shifting your weight slightly to create a window to theo.

"is there anything else?" foggy asks.

"yeah, when was the last time you or ms. y/l/n saw matt murdock?"

"who're you?" foggy asked, standing up taller.

the man said nothing, just held up his badge. and your stomach dropped, causing you to lose your balance. foggy grabbed your arms, stabilizing you.

what the hell have you done, matt

day 105 foggy and karen tried to keep you out of everything going on at the request of matt. despite what matt had done, he did it because he loved you. he did it to protect you. and foggy and karen just wanted to shield you from more hurt.

but they weren't there to stop him from climbing into your window the evening after he'd finally defeated fisk.

you were stood in your kitchen, humming along to the song on the radio.

"hi."

you jumped and let out a yelp, dropping the knife on the ground and turning around to see matt stood on your living room, a somber look on his face.

"what're you doing here?" you ask, your voice harsh and cold.

matt let out a breath, feeling his way across your apartment, closer to you. he could hear your heartbeat accelerating. and as angry as you were, and as much as you wanted to hit him and scream at him, which you would, you wanted more to just hold him.

you'd had time to come to terms with the fact that matt was alive. you were still angry, unbelievably so, but you'd guessed that one of the gods you'd prayed to had finally listened.

"can we talk?" he asked, leaning on your kitchen island across from you.

you stood there, staring at him, tears prickling your eyes.

"now you want to talk? after i screamed and cried and spent thousands of dollars at a mental health facility and on antidepressants? after i buried you into the fucking ground!" you cried, taking a step towards him and hitting his chest.

"y/n i-"

"i wanted to die, matt! i didn't want to live anymore! your death broke me and it was all for nothing!" you yelled as you threw punches into his chest like he was a punching bag.

and at some point, you were just hitting him as you yelled and cried. tears were running down matt's face and he eventually grabbed your hands, stopping you, and pulling you into his arms.

"i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm so sorry." he whispered into your hair and he held you tightly against his chest.

"you're not here. you're not real." you cried in denial of the man holding you in his arms, and he shook his head.

"i'm real. and i'm here, baby. i'm here and i'm not going anywhere." he breathe out, entangling a hand into your hair and clinging to your body like you'd wither away soon.

you cried and breathed him in, letting any guard you'd previously put up fall. your knees buckled and matt gently kneeled, sitting on the ground as he held you. you clung to his shirt and you both cried. matt pressed soft and gentle kisses into your hairline.

you'd eventually cried yourself out and you were just sitting on the kitchen floor with matt, your half cooked dinner now cold and sitting on the stove. your wine on the counter now warm. matt's fingers combing through your hair. you'd sat in silence until your phone rang out. you just stood up without a word, silencing your phone and grabbing the pill case on your counter. you stared at it, and matt stared at you. he stood up, walking up behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist, tucking his head into your neck.

"i'm sorry."

"i know."

you quickly took the pills before shutting the case and just leaning on the counter, letting matt hold you some more.

to be quite honest, you weren't sure what to feel. you weren't sure if you should be angry still or if you should just enjoy that fact that the love of your life was in fact, not dead. but for now, you just wanted to be with him.

you grabbed his hands, unwrapping them and intertwining one of your hands as you walked over to your bedroom. you'd changed into a sleep shirt and without having to say anything, matt had taken off his shirt and pants and crawled into bed with you. you laid your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, confirming that he was alive, that he was here.

"i promise, i'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. if you'll let me." he said softly

"please don't leave again." you whimpered.

"never. i promise." matt tightened his arms around you and you looked up, placing a hand on his cheek.

you scooted up and leaned your forehead on his, your noses touching.

"i'll stay for as long as you let me. and even after that." he said, softly confessing to you.

you just look into his eyes, your hand on his cheek, and you lean in slowly. matt's arm moves up and he gently places his hand on your jaw before meeting you halfway, pressing his lips on yours. he could heart your heart quite literally skip a beat, and you let your hand move into his hair.

you pulled away and gently pushed the hair out of his face.

"i can't handle it again. i'm serious. i can't."

he just nodded, and held you close to him as you both drifted to sleep. and for the first time since his death, you slept through the night without any nightmares.

and when you woke up every day after that, he was still there, like he promised he would be.

taglist:

@luvr-bunnyy @glowstick-lesbian @anothersworld @mrbillymontgomery @inas-thing @fuck-goes-on @eddiemvnsonss @nia_um @multibishh @takeyour-pants-off @afootnoteinyourhappiness

#matt murdock imagine #x reader #marvel #daredevil #daredevil x reader #marvel fanfiction #marvel men #matt murdock #matt murdock x reader #netflix daredevil #matthew murdock x reader #marvel daredevil #foggy nelson #foggy nelson x reader

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starconsumer444 · 4 years ago

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Sakusa Kiyoomi (18+)

A/N: This is actually like??? Fucked up, but it’s stated that I write dark content (in my pinned), even then, I know it may still come as a shock to some people?? So, it’s only fair warning if I put this disclaimer here telling you its !!MESSED UP!! You’ll come to find out later on that this is fairly on brand for me tho...so yeah. I had fun writing this even though I’m sure the proofreading on this is jackshit.

(CW/TW: Yandere!Sakusa, “Master” as a Name You Call Him, Kidnapping, Semi-Stockholm Syndrome, Abuse, Implied Non-con, GN!Reader, Belting, Degradation, Being Forced To Wear A Maid Dress Regardless Of Gender [Forced Feminization??], Implied Enforced Line of Sight [Sakusa Doesn’t Typically Let You Look Him In The Eye], Abuse, A Knife [Wielded with... Murderous Intent], Lots Of Crying, Literal Drowning, Please tell me if I missed something...)

A rush of hot panic runs through your body as you hear the locks on the front door clicking open. You want to run, but it’s like your feet are cemented to the polished ceramic floor in front of the sink where you stand.

You still have so many unwashed dishes. The water still runs when it should’ve been done well before he got here, like it typically is. It sounds so loud along with your heart beat in your ears and the shutting of the front doors. You know you're in trouble-- know there’s no way out of it and still you press on in hopes that maybe he’ll have mercy when he see’s you trying to be good. You know it’s no use though, it’s always been no use.

You should be waiting for him by the door, on your hands and knees, but you’re not. You’re pathetic, tears starting to stream down your face as you anxiously scrub away at a sullied plate from last night.

He let you off the hook last time, he’s not going to do it again, you know. But you can’t do this anymore, you want to go home. You want to go home so bad.

You grab a large carver knife from the drying rack as you hear his footsteps behind you. You’re done with this; you’ve been trapped in this hellhole with him long enough. It’s time that you free yourself.

You’ve told yourself that so many times before.

“Can’t do simple tasks?” He sounds so close; dangerously close. You turn around to find that he is.

You hold the knife flat to your chest, or rather the fabric of your French maid outfit that he forces you to wear around the house when you're busy. His face is indifferent-- annoyed actually.

“You get one chance.” He huffs out. “Put the knife down now and I won’t factor that into your punishment.” His speech is slow, careful, like he’s talking to a child.

“You’re gonna hurt me,” You try to stable your voice, wiping away your still falling tears with one shaky hand and pointing the tip of the knife at your kidnapper. He only steps forward, caging you in between him and the sink, tip of the knife pressed to his chest. “Sakusa, please-” You say as he reaches behind you to turn the tap off, and you recoil out of habit.

“What did you just call me?” He stares down at you and you can only look down at the knife between you and him.

“I’m sorry, master.”

“Put the knife down.” He grabs your jaw with savage strength, pulling you onto the tips of your toes. Still you don’t let go of the knife, tip now pointed at his sternum. “Drop it.”

You shake your head as best you can, eye’s meeting his for the first time in a while, this can be your way out. It’s been months of his senseless torture. Days on end without eating, violating your body over and over, watching you shower, making you clean everything the way he likes it...you can’t stand it anymore. If you have to smell bleach for one more day, you’ll be sick. You can’t do it. Your body is worn out and you know you can’t fight him, but you have to try, right?

“Fine,” He throws your frail form away from him, effectively slamming your backside into the sink counter. “Stab me. Do it. Now.”

Your tears start to fall harder now, blurring your vision. You don’t bother wiping them though, you just reach behind you to sooth your lower back as your knees hit the ground with a painful thump. Your curl into yourself, body wracking with sobs, as you hold up the knife to offer it to him. You know he’s unaffected by your show, he’s probably looking at you with that same avidly disinterested gaze he always does, as he watches you crying into the skirt of your dress. You can’t help it though, defeat and shame run through your body like fire.

You feel him slide the knife out of your hand, and the sound of it clattering into the sink reasonates, bringing on a new type of heartbreak.

Why did you give up? This could’ve been your chance? Your chance to kill him. To run away and never look back. Why did you give up? Do you hate yourself?

You don’t bother trying to fight it when he drags you up by your hair, telling you how stupid and useless you are. You can hear the faucet running again and you can feel him jerk your head back uncomfortably.

“Where were you planning on going?” He prods in all his sick glory. “We’ve watched the news together, they’re not looking for you.” He says as he pulls you backwards under the flow of the water. You weren't going to answer anyway.

You thrash about violently and you feel him press his torso against you. At the very least you want your feet on the floor, but with the way he’s holding you it’s impossible. And he must’ve put the stopper in because you stupidly gasp for air and catch nothing but water in your mouth, too urgent to notice the water coming above your face. Now you’re choking underneath him with no escape, you’re desperate and trying your hardest to pull yourself out of his grip. He’s always been too strong for you.

You kick at him, try to scream, try to bring your head up from such an uncomfortable angle...everything. It’s all useless. You feel him latch onto your throat to hold you under even tighter and all you can manage to do while you flail about is dig your nails into his forearm.

Your lungs are burning, your stomachs empty, you’re stuck here, why are you fighting? What is there to fight for?

He holds you under for about a minute, barely even struggling against your incessant kicking and scratching. When he cuts off the water and finally drags you up, you’re coughing up water until you dry heave, falling forward once more when he lets your hair loose.

You fall on all fours in front of him, lightheaded and swearing to yourself that you’re gonna vomit. Nothing ever comes up, and for that you’re thankful. Stomach acid on his floor would’ve angered him more and you know it. You try to crawl away, to catch your breath, hoping that this is all over. He just drags you back by your ankles, telling you to stay on your hands and knees, and pushing up your dress to reveal your underwear.

“No one wants a dumbass like you, don’t you get it?”

You know.

“This is where you belong.” You can hear the jingle if his belt coming undone. “You’re not a bad housekeeper, it’s just times like this.” He sounds so far away, like he’s not destroying you more and more the longer this goes on.

“I give a worthless fuck like you, who doesn’t wake up on time to do simple tasks, purpose and you want to stab me?” He chuckles to himself. “Pull your underwear down.”

You comply, moving one shaking hand back to pull them down with several hesitant jerks filled with urgency.

“I fuck you, I feed you, I give you a roof over your head...everything... I give you something to do with your pathetic life and you want to run...” You know not to say a word back. “You can’t even wake up on time to get your work done before I get here and you think you can run?!” He laughs darkly before you feel a sharp stinging pain travel across your ass accompanied by a loud cracking sound.

The belt sends your body forward in pure agony. You don’t even scream, just let out an open mouthed whimper and move back into place for him to lash you again. You deserve it.

You can hear him snicker evilly at your submissive display.

“Count.” He demands.

“One.” You whine.

THWACK

“Two.”

THWACK

“Three.” And tears start to fall.

You reach twenty and by then you’re flat, faced down on the ground, begging for his mercy.

“Please, master,” You inhale, trembling from his harsh mistreatment. You’re sure you have bruising welts on your ass, and its going to hurt to sit. You just want him to stop. “I’m sorry. I’ll learn to do everything on time. Please just don’t hurt me anymore.”

Begging has never once worked on him.

THWACK

“Twenty-one” This time you scream and drag your aching body away from him using your forearms. Tears and snot stream down your face in a miserable display of defeat.

He relents. You know its over when you crawl over to him, not even bothering with your underwear (instead opting to kick them off), and hug his leg. Your body is quaking and you’re still begging for him to have mercy on you for whatever reason. You know he’s done.

You don’t even notice you're getting tears and snot all over his pants as you beg and beg for him to be kind to you. He just kicks you off of him, not caring to hear whatever you’ve got to say for yourself. You lean back into a cold cabinet door, hugging your knees to your chest silently.

“Clean up. When you’re done, take a shower and don’t come out of you're room for the rest of the day. I don’t want to see or hear you. Do I make myself clear?” He looms over you like the devil himself and you know to look at his feet.

“Yes, Master.”

#yandere sakusa #yandere haikyuu #sakusa x reader #sakusa smut #haikyuu x reader #tw: noncon #I'll figure out these tags later because...#sakusa imagines #haikyuu imagines #tw: abuse #sakusa kiyoomi #horrible horrible dogshit writing #please tell me if there are any errors

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m19writes4mlb · 3 years ago

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Defenceless - Chapter 1

Summary: When things become too much, one can feel trapped. Adrien becomes acquainted with this concept, and decides to break away for a while.

Chapter: 1/?

Word Count: 1611

Rating: T

Adrien is familiar with the feeling of helplessness. He has never had much control over his life. There is almost always someone dictating what his next step should be. Rarely does he get to decide his own fate, so he isn’t surprised by the fact that his first relationship seems to be about to end for circumstances beyond his control.

Kagami is a wonderful girl. She is smart, driven, determined, pretty, and comes from a similar background. Plus, she is more socially inept than him, which is both a blessing and a curse. To an outsider's eyes, Adrien and Kagami were a perfect match. However, no outsider had a clear picture of who he is; thus, subtracting validity to their assessments.

He isn’t just Adrien Agreste, professional model and sweet, picture perfect son of France’s top designer Gabriel Agreste. He is also one half of Paris’s beloved superhero duo: brave, dorky, flirty, and confident Chat Noir. That being said, neither one truly encapsulates Adrien’s full essence on their own. He is something in between, an amalgamation of his personas.

The truth was that no one was privy to his true self. He feared what whoever was the first person to truly see it would think. To Adrien, rejection and ridicule were scarier than anything else. Thus, he developed a fool-proof strategy to never have to deal with them. He never showed the entirety of himself. He hid behind masks, all of them carefully designed with just enough truth to be believable. Adrien Agreste could bend and mold himself into exactly what the person he was with wanted him to be. Even so, this came with a strong draw back. When one focuses on pleasing those around them and spends all their time behind masks, they forget what it is that really lies beneath the façade.

Most of the time, not knowing what his real self was didn’t really bother him; he took it in stride. He viewed it as something that with time would solve itself. Nevertheless, when situations like his current one took place, he realised just how much damage not knowing one’s self could really cause.

Looking back on it, he now realises that even though he cared about Kagami deeply, he did not love her. Sure, he felt a special connection to her. After all, none of his other friends could understand his home life like Kagami could. He admired her deeply. She is a go-getter with a can-do attitude. She fears nothing, and never hesitates. He holds her on high regards, but he can now see that that is where his feelings for her end.

Adrien had hurt Kagami. He gradually and painfully broke her heart and did not realise that was the case until it was too late. He couldn’t see how much he was putting Kagami through, until her trust in him was almost completely gone. After all, if Kagami still trusted him, she would not have set that trap using the lucky charm Marinette gave him. Kagami was perceptive, and she knew Adrien was holding something from her. She gave him a final chance to come clean, but he simply could not explain himself. It was his deception that got Kagami akumatized again. He felt like her akumatization was on him, regardless of how out of his hand that affair was.

Each mask came with responsibilities for Adrien as the wearer, and the Chat Noir mask came with the biggest one. Even if he wished to show his true self to anyone, he couldn’t. Being one of Paris’s protectors required anonymity. He didn’t want to lie to Kagami. Even if in hindsight he could tell that their relationship was a stagnant one, Adrien would have loved to at least clear the air between himself and Kagami. She deserved an explanation, but he just could not provide one, not without putting her in danger and Paris on the line.

Adrien Agreste was tired. He didn’t want to have be perfect all the time. He was exhausted of always being told what to do. Not having any control over anything in his life was slowly wearing him out. He was teetering over the edge, and needed a reprieve. The only moments when he can let go, are when he is clad in a leather cat-suit. Considering the fact that said outfit comes with the duty of keeping Paris safe, it is certainly concerning to say that when he donned it is when he feels the freest.

Adrien was looking out of his bedroom windows when the severity of everything that transpired that day hit him. His hands went to grab onto his hair and a frustrated groan escaped him as he fell to his knees. He wanted to scream, cry, kick, and punch. His skin felt prickly. Air felt as though it was in short supply. He was restless, yet couldn’t move. He kept so much bottled up and hidden. Adrien felt like he was going to explode.

After what felt like hours but could just as easily have been seconds, Adrien stood up. His countenance became stony and unreadable as he let the words out, “Plagg, claws out”.

Chat Noir ran. He ran as fast as he could. He needed to get away, away from a neglecting home, away from endless responsibilities, away from the wounds he caused, away from his castle of lies. The further he moved, the easier breathing became.

Chat had no destination in mind. He just knew he wanted to escape, at least for a small while. He traversed the rooftops of Paris. His run was tense with rigid yet erratic movements. His turns were sharp and his pace gruelling. Chat wanted to burn. He had hurt someone dear to him. He deserved to feel at least a fraction of her pain.

The cool night’s breeze unrepentantly hit Chat Noir’s face, alerting him of the wetness beneath his eyes. His lungs felt as though they were on fire. His legs felt ready to fall off. He didn’t stop. He pushed himself harder.

A leap approached, for he was about to reach the end of the rooftop he currently found himself in. His legs were begging for respite, but he reproached it. He pushed himself off the ground and flew. His body however refused to keep enduring abuse.

Chat’s right leg does not stick the landing. His right shoulder takes the brunt of his fall, making him hiss. His momentum makes him roll around the rooftop. He stops and lies face-up. He lets out an embittered scream. His hands fly to his hair and pull hard in a pitiful attempt to ground himself. He pants heavily and stares at the sky.

Slowly, his breathing evens out. Chat sits up and brings his knees to his chest. He hides his face behind them, and lets sobs wrack his body as his tears run freely. He embraces his despair and agony. He feels horrible about himself, and for once, instead of keeping it all in, he lets it all out.

He stays like that for a while, impossible for him to say how long for with exactitude. He cries until he’s got no more tears left. Once the burden he carries feels at least a little lighter, he looks up.

Twinkling lights on a familiar balcony a few blocks away catch his attention. He stares curiously. It was 22:00 when he left his home. He is certain it has been a good while since he did. He knew Marinette was a night owl, but it seems like an odd time to be outside on her balcony, especially given how cold it was tonight. He studied his friend’s silhouette more closely. She was leaning on her railing, resting her cheek on one of her hands. She appeared deep in thought as she gazed into the horizon. Overall, she appeared quite dejected.

Marinette is one of the most amazing people he knows. She’s a beautiful, kind, gentle soul who is willing to do whatever it takes to help those she cares about out. She’s his Everyday Ladybug.

Lately, she has been having a rough time. Even though Marinette hasn’t said anything about it, Adrien could see how the circles underneath her eyes were growing darker every day. He could see how his bubbly friend who lit up every room she walked into was withering.

He could see Alya was becoming more and more concerned about her best friend. He could see how her boyfriend Luka got more and more restless asking her to let him in. Her friends kept trying to reach out, but Marinette kept pushing away with one excuse or another. Adrien knew something was wrong with her, but he had no clue what to say to her. If neither her best friend nor boyfriend seemed to be able to do anything about it, what could he do?

Adrien only knew one thing. His friend should never feel low. Marinette Dupain-Cheng deserved the world and then some. She was an ever-burning flame whose warmth uplifted everyone around her. That flame was getting extinguished, and a world without her light was not something Adrien wanted to see. Thus, he decided that he was simply not going to allow that to happen.

Feeling slightly better after his cathartic break down, Chat stood up with renewed purpose. He had hurt someone he cared about today, that was a wrong he couldn’t right anytime soon. He’s being given the chance to help someone else who is dear to him, to at least restore some sort of balance in the world. He’d be damned if he didn’t take it.

Chapter 2 →

Author's Note

So as I said in my introductory post, I am posting my works here and on AO3. I chose to do this because I feel like it is easier to interact with readers in here. I am more than happy to answer questions and reply to your comments.

Ko-fi

#miraculous ladybug #miraculous fanfic #adrien agreste #chat noir #marinette dupain cheng #ladybug #marichat #adrienette #ladynoir #MLB Defenceless #MLB S4 #ladrien #love square #mlb fanfic

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generallynerdy · 4 years ago

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One life, I thought—a thousand deaths (Jon Antilles & Fay)

Summary: On Queyta, Obi-Wan Kenobi is not the only one to escape Durge and Ventress. One of the four legendary Masters, Jon Antilles, emerges from a lava stream despite knowing he’s going to die. He’s so sure of it that he crawls his way to Fay’s side, wanting to spend his last moments with the woman who he considers his Master. But she has other plans. Plans to make certain that Jon Antilles lives past today.

Warnings: Angst, Character Death, On-Screen Character Death, Implied/Referenced Character Death, there’s both sorry, Self-Sacrifice, The Curse of Immortality, holy shit i made myself sad dude Word Count: 2,191

Prompt: Angstpril Day 2 - Sole Survivor

Author’s Note: listen I know nobody knows about these characters that are in literally one comic but I have FEELINGS about them okay?? Jon is meant to be a badass mysterious enigma but he screams sad boi and Fay is like...the greatest cryptid Jedi ever, I love her. So, of course, I decided to make them and Knol and Nico suffer. (Also I know Obi-Wan survived the mission but the Sole Survivor still applies because Jon is the sole survivor of the four legendary Masters, just in case that wasn’t clear.) I just finished this today, so the editing is minimal.

Read on AO3

Using the Force as a shield is, in theory, one of the easier skills a Jedi utilizes. That is assuming, of course, that the Jedi in question is in good health, a decent mental state, and isn’t under a severe amount of stress. If said Jedi is, say, three feet into a pool of lava, already bearing grievous injuries and the weight of the deaths of two close companions, and feeling the fading life of another, the simple task, understandably, becomes something of a problem.

Jon has finally managed to pull the Force around him like a blanket. It protects him from the bubbling lake around him now, but the first few seconds he couldn’t pull it off were torture.

As it turns out, lava burns. It burns like shame, like failure, like the nightmares Jon used to have about his Master abandoning him on a planet in Hutt space for getting just a little too mouthy. And it hurts nearly as much.

“Fuck,” he hisses. He makes a rule of not cursing, but right now feels like an appropriate time to break it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He claws at the charred remains of his robes. Contrary to popular belief, lava doesn’t melt initially, as Jon now knows. Instead of melting, he burst into flames for the few seconds it took to pull himself together, though they felt like an eternity. Red, throbbing burns litter his entire body, his hair singed but miraculously intact thanks to his hood, which is entirely ashes now. The pain consumes his thoughts, making his shielding start to flicker in and out.

And then, through the debilitating agony, a touch of something familiar.

Jon’s eyes fly open. “Fay,” he whispers.

Her light is dimmer than it should be, not flickering in and out mischievously like it usually does. But still, she makes an effort to reach out, to check on him. It sends a sob up his throat.

“Hold on, Fay, hold on.”

Clenching his fists, he opens himself up to the Force. His actions are ones of faith, not of desperation, and he lets it flow through him as he takes a deep breath. The idea of using one of his Master’s abilities would normally make him nauseous, but the disgust doesn’t even cross his mind this time as he prepares to teleport. He thinks of that open, flat space of rock that Obi-Wan and Fay ran to, their enemies close behind. Focusing fiercely on that distant image, he pulls on the Force and folds the two points—

Jon collapses on solid ground with a heaving gasp.

Every inch of his body protests the change, especially his knees, which burn when they make contact with the ground, but somehow he manages to ignore his own complaints.

Fay isn’t far, or she shouldn’t be, at least. The distance between them seems gaping when he tries to move.

Still, her light is fading fast. And he wants to be by her side.

So, Jon Antilles crawls on hands and knees, dragging his body across sharp stones and past bubbling streams of lava. He aches with each movement and cries out when it becomes too much, but he persists regardless. Something in him knows it may be the last thing he ever does.

Finally, he sees her.

She’s sprawled out, her chest hardly moving as her breathing becomes shallow. Her near-golden hair is filthy with ash and her eyes are dim. She’s hardly herself, Jon thinks, and feels his stomach sink.

Hundreds of years the great Master Fay has lived and breathed. Hundreds of years and he’s going to watch her die today.

“Jon,” she calls out weakly.

He pulls himself to her side, grabbing her hand with his own shaky ones. “I’m here, Master.”

They only met when he was a teenager, but he feels as if he’s known her all his life. They’ve travelled the Outer Rim together, following the Force, for decades now and he’s never regretted a second of it. In all but title, Fay is his Master. She was always better than Dark Woman, even when the bar was six feet under. The only record with both their names will be at the Temple, where the dead are listed, a handful of mission reports with other Jedi, and the stories the younglings share of the 4 legendary, nomadic Masters.

“Knol and Nico,” Fay breathes out, “they’re one with the Force.”

Jon grimaces. “Yes. And the Force is with us.”

She laughs, breathy and half-choked. It’s an old lesson, familiar and grounding. “And so too are they,” she adds.

“Where’s Obi-Wan?”

“Gone, with the cure.” She smiles just a little. “The Republic fights another day.”

Suddenly grim, he squeezes her hand. “But not us.”

A pause.

“But not us.”

The silence overwhelms them. The wind whistles in the distance, carrying with it nothing but smoke and ashes. Queyta isn’t the best place to die, Jon thinks absently. He would rather it have been someplace with flowers.

“I wish it could’ve been Jedha.”

He almost jumps at her voice, but her words jarr a surprised laugh from his sore lungs. “Jedha? I thought you hated cold planets.”

“Oh, yes, but not that one. Force, I should have taken you. The Force there is so...so strong, so pure, you can feel the kyber from the surface,” she explains, staring straight up at him. If anyone else were to gaze so intensely at his scars, he’d be uncomfortable, but she’s safe. She’s family. “And the Guardians of the Whills are so kind. I met a young one of theirs some decades ago. You two would’ve gotten along.”

Jon laughs a little. “You’re always looking to find me friends, Fay.”

Her smile turns sad and she lifts a hand to his face, letting it rest on his cheek. “You’re so young,” she whispers. “Too young to be so lonely, Jon.”

He shuts his eyes, lets himself be comforted by her touch. When he opens them again, she still has that gut-wrenching look on her face. He places his hand on top of hers, unsurprised at how cold they are despite the blistering heat.

“I’m not lonely,” he promises.

Jon doesn’t say that it’s because of her, Knol, and Nico, but Fay picks up the thought anyway. Her eyes fill with tears.

“I have watched so many I love die.” Fay’s voice wavers as she says it. He realises that it’s the first time he’s ever heard it do that. To be honest, he’d thought it was impossible. “Taken by age, by Darkness, by foolishness. Never have I met a soul as good as yours, Jon. And never a Jedi so worthy of love.”

“Fay…”

She shakes her head. “Your Master did not deserve you. The galaxy did not deserve you.”

Pulling her hand away from him, Jon squeezes it. “You did,” he says firmly, though his voice cracks.

“I hope so,” she admits with a rueful laugh. “I hope so.”

He smiles weakly. “I wish you’d found me first. But I thin-I think the Force knew when I needed you to save me. Because you did save me, Master. I could never thank you enough.”

She takes his word silently, holding his hand even tighter. “You never needed to.”

“Thank you,” he says now, even though it’s useless.

Fay’s grey eyes meet his pale ones and suddenly, she’s distressed. “You’re so young,” she repeats.

But Jon can see that she means something else this time.

“Not too young to do my duty.”

“Too young to die doing it.”

Jon thinks of Tan Yuster, one of four Padawans to die on Geonosis. The Jedi have experienced great loss these past months since the beginning of the war and so many so much younger than Jon have died in battle, the clones included. Of course, to Fay, they all may as well be children.

“I will go proudly into the Force,” he promises her. At your side.

Fay’s expression twists. “No.”

He scoffs. “I don’t think we have a say in it.”

“The Force let me live this long,” she says suddenly, as if it’s a realisation, “longer than I should have. Obi-Wan is gone, I’ve done what good I can, except...you’re here. Why are we here?”

“To say goodbye,” Jon offers.

She shakes her head, then tries to sit up, struggling until her would-be Padawan helps pull her up. “I’m done with goodbyes.”

“What are you—?”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish his question. Fay presses their foreheads together and grabs his hands with a newfound energy that terrifies him. Chills go up his spine when her presence in the Force covers him like a blanket. Warmth climbs up his hands, then his arms, and with a glance down he finds that his skin is healing.

“Fay, no!” he cries, trying to shove her away.

She only tightens her grip. “Stay still, Jon.”

She sounds more like herself, certain and unwavering. Jon would be happy-crying if he weren’t horrified. He tries to drag himself out of her grip, but she’s impossibly strong. Her healing creeps up his entire body, soothing his burns, though scars remain behind.

“No, no, no—FAY! Fay, stop it!” His screams turn to sobs. “You’ll die, stop—!”

“I already am,” she says, just as certain in her abilities as her fate. “But you don’t have to.”

Trembling, his attempts are weaker now but still there. “Please, please,” he begs. “Not without you!”

Tears stream down her cheeks. She allows herself a moment of weakness; she opens her eyes and meets his tearful gaze, remembering the teenager she first met. He was so scared and so brave. And for a moment, she’d thought he must be a ghost. But no, he was just a boy. For the first time in a long time, she had let herself build a bridge between them, like Knol and Nico before him, even knowing she would have to watch him die one day.

Now, she thinks with fierce stubbornness, she won’t have to.

It feels like her life is leaving her for him, though she knows it’s just fading into the Force. It’s to it that she speaks, the cosmic energy she’s dedicated her long, long life to.

“If anyone is deserving of the time you’ve given me,” she gasps out, “it is Jon Antilles.”

She doesn’t see the horror in Jon’s face, but she can feel it in his quiet Force-presence, so subdued. He hides himself on purpose and it truly breaks her heart. His light is so strong. The galaxy is all the better for his existence.

“I don’t want this! Fay, I don’t—let me die, please—”

Fay only lifts her head and kisses his forehead, the sort of gentle gesture a mother might give her son. “One day,” she promises. It rings with truth, with the strength of the Force behind it. “But not today.”

Jon cries out and tries to rip himself away, but freezes when pure light washes over him. The warmth he’s always associated with Fay soaks into him, healing all his wounds in an instant and rejuvenating his fading energy. Stars burst before his eyes, like he’s seeing into the very universe beyond Queyta, beyond what he’s meant to see with his petty Human eyes. In another instant, it’s gone and Fay is slumping over.

She falls to the ground with a thump, a noise that jolts Jon back into focus.

“Master!” he sobs.

He pulls her up from the ground with the sickening realisation that she’s a complete deadweight. She’s limp in his arms, already paling. Desperate, Jon pushes her hair out of her face and finds...nothing. Her eyes are dull. With his fingers on her wrist, he can’t feel a pulse.

“Fay?”

The steady beat of her Force-presence is gone, a gaping hole in his universe. Their bond, one strong enough to resemble a training bond, is shattered, a physical pain that throbs in his skull.

Jon begins to hyperventilate, his sudden gasps for breath burning his now-perfect lungs.

“Come back,” he begs Fay’s corpse. “Fuck, please. Please, come back.”

He pulls her into his lap, clutching her robes like a child being left behind for the first time. It doesn’t hurt to move anymore and, thank the Force for it because his entire body shakes with the force of his cries.

Overwhelmed with grief he’s never experienced, Jon wails into Fay’s shoulder, rocking back and forth. The agonizing sound rings across the valley, a noise like torture.

It’s only now that he feels the frayed edges of his bonds with Knol and Nico.

He screams again, his vocal cords protesting it sharply.

The last time Jon was this alone, he was a child. And now, he’s right back where he was before he met his three closest companions. Except now, now, he knows what it means to love and to lose. It aches. It aches like nothing he’s ever felt.

“Please,” he whispers hoarsely. “I can’t—I need you. What do I do? What am I supposed to do?”

He never gets an answer.

River’s Tags: @hahaboop & @mystoragehatesme

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kgraces · 4 years ago

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With a Fearful Trill

@badthingshappenbingo

Bad Things Happen Bingo Prompt: Captivity

For @sassydefendorflower

Read it on Ao3 here!

The clouds overhead threaten rain, and Dick is seriously annoyed with himself for forgetting his umbrella that morning. The streets of Blüdhaven are crowded, as usual, and the cracked pavement under his feet makes for an uneven walk. Dick takes a sip of his cold coffee, mind alight with some sort of nervous energy. He can’t place it, but something feels off as he walks home from work.

Dick stifles a yawn, stepping over a particularly mangled piece of concrete. His shift at work was a tough one; he’s wrapped up in a nasty homicide case as both Officer Grayson and Nightwing, and his brain feels sluggish after hours of wading through evidence. He checks his watch, frowning at the way the numbers seem to blur together. He thinks he’ll have time to get in a quick nap before patrol, at least.

The foot traffic thins as Dick gets closer to his apartment, so it catches Dick off guard when a man pushes past him, hitting his shoulder roughly. Dick stumbles a bit, and before he can recover his footing, electricity arcs through him. Getting tazed hadn’t been a part of his plans for the day, and Dick only has a moment to mourn for his nap before he crumples to the ground. The sole of a boot enters his line of vision before it connects with his temple. He loses consciousness, sinking into the peaceful dark.

When Dick was a kid, he used to try to joke with Bruce about the stupid ‘Boy Hostage’ nickname. Of course, Bruce was never fond of the ‘X days since our last kidnapping incident’ whiteboard, but Dick thought it was hilarious. He mentally resets the counter back to zero when he wakes up tied to a chair.

Years of vigilante experience honed into instinct kick in as soon as he regains awareness. He keeps his eyes closed and his body lax, listening hard to determine whether or not he’s alone in the room. He was kidnapped as a civilian, so he can’t fight his way out, but he can use his skills to help himself however he can.

Still, this is probably going to suck.

Once he figures he’s alone, Dick carefully opens his eyes and takes in his surroundings. A dimly lit basement greets him—underground, if the chill in the room is any indication. A short window close to the ceiling lets in weak sunlight through a heavy layer of grime. He’s mostly uninjured—for now, a voice in the back of his head sings—but restrained at his wrists and ankles. His head aches from getting knocked out, and his muscles feel stiff, but he’s okay. He just needs to tough this out until Bruce can track him down and orchestrate a rescue from Batman...

Dick’s blood runs cold.

Bruce is off-world with the Justice League.

Before he has a chance to really let the panic set in, he hears heavy footsteps and the jingle of a set of keys. The lock turns, light spilling into the room as a burly man steps across the threshold. He smiles, a nasty thing, and shuts the door behind him with a heavy thud. He holds up a cell phone, still smiling, and Dick recognizes his own phone in the man’s hand.

“Mind explaining why your daddy ain’t answering his phone?” The man says, a sneer creeping onto his face and into his tone.

“Call the WE number,” Dick says, voice more tremulous than he feels. Judging by the last vestiges of daylight leaking through the window, it’s still dusk, and if he knows his little brother, he’ll still be at work. Dick can only pray Tim will answer. The man dials the number, leaving them both to wait with bated breath.

“What do you need, Dick?” Tim’s smooth voice comes over the line after a few heartstopping moments. “I’m a little bit swamped right now.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Grayson can’t come to the phone at the moment,” the man says, tone oily. Dick hears Tim’s sharp inhale over the line. “If you want him back in one piece, it’ll cost you.”

“I need proof of life, first,” Tim says coolly. The man sighs, as though he’s exasperated already, but he presses the phone against Dick’s ear, regardless.

“Tim?” Dick says, voice breaking just a little—the perfect image of a frightened civilian. His brother hums softly in acknowledgement. “Don’t worry about me; I’m fine. I’ll be okay.” He starts to ramble a little, but he’s cut off by a sharp blow to his ribs. He exhales a wheeze as the phone is jerked away from him.

“One million dollars and you get him back. Every hour you delay will cost him.” The man hangs up before Tim can reply, but Dick isn’t worried. Tim’s already tracking him, and the cavalry will be here soon enough.

He looks up at the man holding him for ransom, disdain etched on his features as he looks into beady eyes. The man scoffs and shakes his head, turning to exit the room again. Dick wants to make a quip, some sort of stupid pun, but he can’t let himself seem too much like Nightwing, not right now. He bites his tongue and sits silently as the door swings shut again.

His headache worsens as the time passes. The light from the small window fades little by little, but it’s hard to track the time. Dick waits patiently, but his limbs itch for movement. He hates being restrained like this—cut off from grounding himself in motion. Nervous energy builds up in him, and he has to tap his fingers against the wooden chair arm to stop himself from losing it. He hopes Tim hurries up.

The next time the door opens, it isn’t to a vigilante, but rather to Dick’s captor. His smile is meaner, somehow, and he’s holding a hammer in his hands. Dick’s breath catches in his throat. Has it already been an hour? He doesn’t know, but judging from the man’s impatient pacing around the room, Tim is late.

The hammer swings, and Dick’s hand shatters under the force of the impact. He stifles a sob, and bitterness flares to life in his chest at the chuckle he hears at his side. He’s definitely got a few broken bones, but it’s not enough. The weapon hits Dick’s fingers next, and he nearly screams as white-hot agony roars through him. The man steps back, admiring his handiwork, before he snaps a photo with Dick’s phone and presumably sends it to Tim.

Dick glares up at the man, hair matted with sweat as it falls into his eyes. He nearly snarls out a threat, but he has to resign himself to acting as a civilian would—terrified and vulnerable. He hates it, but it’s the role he has to play for now. The man leaves again, and Dick lets out a shaky breath.

What’s taking his brother so long?

Another hour must pass. The sun has gone down, casting the room in shadow, and when the door to the small cell opens again, the light is blinding for a moment. Dick cringes back when he hears heavy footsteps. He can’t go very far with his limited range of motion, though, and his arms strain against the zip ties lashing his wrists to the chair. He hears a heavy sigh, but it isn’t his captor.

No, the sound is mechanized, warbled by vocal modulators.

Jason.

His younger brother is at his side in an instant, using a knife to free him from his restraints. Dick hears him curse lowly at the sight of his mangled hand, so he offers Jason a reassuring smile. It probably comes across more as a grimace, but he tries his best.

“C’mon,” Jason says, helping Dick to his feet and steadying him when he stumbles. “Tim’s going crazy upstairs. Someone needs to stop him before he permanently cripples someone.”

“You left him alone to deal with them?” Dick asks, raising a brow. “That’s just not fair.” He pauses as a thought occurs to him. “Wait, how many guys are up there? I’ve only seen the one.”

“Ah,” Jason says, and Dick can hear the cruel smile in his tone. “That guy. There were five others, but last I saw, Tim was going toe-to-toe with that one. Last man standing and all, you know how it is.”

“He saved him for last on purpose,” Dick says with a sigh. His brothers are ridiculous sometimes. Overprotective over him, even though Dick is the eldest and should be worrying over them, instead.

They make their way up the stairs, with Jason supporting most of his weight, since his legs are still wobbly from being restrained for hours. Dick can hear the sounds of the fight grow louder as they reach the first floor—sounds of shattering glass and wood splintering reaching him, along with the telltale thwack of Red Robin’s bo staff hitting its target. Dick almost winces in sympathy, but the pain in his hand keeps him from feeling bad for the guy.

“Let’s get out of here, Red!” Jason calls, sounding amused. “I got him, and GCPD is already on their way.”

“Fine,” Tim replies, tone lilting on a whine. He emerges from one of the rooms branching off from the hall a moment later, looking perfectly put together, despite the fight. “Want the last word, Hood?”

“Don’t I always?” Hood passes Dick over to Red Robin and draws a firearm, heading toward the room Red had just left. Dick sighs, shaking his head as he hears both Hood and his assailant start shouting. He turns his attention to Tim.

“Thanks for the rescue,” he tells his little brother.

“Like we would just leave you there?” Tim asks, tone sardonic. Dick grins at him. “Let’s get you back home, okay?” Dick nods and lets Tim lead him out into the night. One of the Batmobiles is already waiting at the street corner, and as soon as Tim gets Dick settled in the backseat, Jason joins them, sliding into the driver’s seat and starting the car. Tim pulls down his cowl and sends an unimpressed look toward Dick.

“What?”

“You’re an idiot for letting yourself get injured like that,” he says. “Also, B’s losing his mind.”

“You told Bruce?!” Dick practically yelps.

“Alfie insisted,” Jason says, turning to look at him. Sometime between starting the car and now, he’d tossed his helmet onto the passenger seat, leaving him with just a domino mask obscuring his features. “No one says no to Alfie.”

“Especially once those assholes started hurting you and broke the terms of the deal,” Tim grumbles. “They only waited half an hour.” He glances over at Dick, reaching out to examine the damage done to his hand. “Sorry they had the chance to hurt you, Dick.”

“It’ll heal,” he says easily, brushing off Tim’s concerns. He ruffles his little brother’s hair with his uninjured hand. “Please tell me Bruce didn’t come back to earth over this.”

“Okay then, we won’t tell you,” Tim says, grinning wickedly. Dick groans, letting his forehead rest against Tim’s shoulder. Tim and Jason laugh, but Dick can’t muster up a scowl to send their way. He’s safe, and he’s hurting and exhausted. Tim seems to notice him droop, slumping against his side a little more with each passing moment. “Get some rest, Dick. We’ve got you.”

“Sleep it off, Dickiebird,” Jason says. “You’re in for a hell of a lecture when you wake up.”

“Prolong the inevitable,” Tim agrees, nodding along. “We’re taking bets on whose lecture will be worse: Bruce or Alfred.”

“Nah,” Dick mumbles, smiling a little as Tim carefully wraps an arm around his shoulders. “Dami’s will be the worst of the bunch.” His brothers both snort, and Dick falls asleep to the sound of their laughter.

His brothers have him. He can rest easy.

#my writing #dc #batfam #batman #nightwing #red hood #red robin #tim drake #dick grayson #jason todd #bad things happen bingo #prompt: captivity #batbros

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iceeckos12 · 5 years ago

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a study of hands

thinking about jon’s burned hand. warning for graphic discussion of burn/burn scars.

edit: had to remake this post since i accidentally deleted the read more when i was editing it a;slkdfal;skdjf

Georgie isn’t there when Jon gets home.

Small mercies, he thinks hysterically, distantly, squeezing his wrist. His right hand doesn’t feel like a hand, doesn’t feel like skin layered on sinew and meat and muscle layered on bone. It feels like someone stuck a ball of agony, a ball of pain so incandescent that it transcends his comprehension, on the end of his arm. He doesn’t dare look at it. Just the smell is enough to make him feel sick.

He staggers into the bathroom and fumbles with the tap, turning the water on as cold as it will go. He doesn’t have the strength to get ice cubes from the freezer, even though he knows that it will help. (He’s not sure how he knows that it will help, but some part of his brain is screaming don’t cover it, that will trap the heat in, put it in ice water and keep it there, but it won’t do much for a third degree burn, you need a skin graft, you—)

He stares at the bottom of the tub for a moment, wondering why it isn’t filling up the way it should. Then he remembers that he needs to plug the drain, because otherwise the water is going to keep swirling away, away, down the plumbing and deep into the earth, like—like—

He twitches his hand. He doesn’t mean to, or maybe he does, he’s not sure, and the pain is so intense that he immediately vomits into the water.

The drain wasn’t plugged, he thinks hysterically. Small mercies.

He doesn’t go looking for Mike Crew the next day.

He can’t. Georgie had poked her head in when he woke up, and he’d rasped, “I’m going to have a bit of a lie-in.” And he’d said, “I’m fine, just not feeling well.” And he’d whispered, “Don’t worry about me, just...just—don’t worry about me.”

His whole body feels like it’s been lit aflame, like he’s on the shore of a burning sea that keeps lapping in and out, in and out. The waves keep crashing in and out, in and out, breathtaking and exhausting.

The burn, when he can finally bring himself to look at it, is ugly, even worse than the worm scars. Blackened and charred around the edges, red and mottled in the deepest parts. An actual, literal brand in the form of a handshake. He wonders if, whenever he shakes someone’s hand, their fingers will slot neatly into the confines of the scar.

Come on. It won’t hurt.

He chokes on a sob and rides the agony into oblivion.

Jon used to have pretty handwriting.

He knows that’s a weird thing for a boy to have. It was just another thing that they used to make fun of him for in school, but he used to be defiantly proud of it. It was something that he worked for. He used to open calligraphy books and copy each painstaking letter onto the paper, his tongue poking out from between his teeth, until they looked just right, every time.

He’s not sure why he cherished it so much. Possibly because he had so little to be proud of when he was young. He was stubborn and a know-it-all and difficult, but at the very least he had gorgeous handwriting. His classmates used to pay him to write love letters.

It’s not something that he thinks about until he gets back from that whole debacle with Mike Crew and Daisy and Elias—and reaches for a pen. His right hand throbs in agony, and his fingers don’t bend quite right, and the pen skitters to the ground and across the floor.

He stares at it numbly for a moment, frozen in place, lips parted. Then his hand throbs, and he sinks into his chair, breathing through the pain, as he’s become used to doing.

He hadn’t thought about—about his fingers not quite bending all the way anymore, about his grip not having the same strength that it used to—

Even after the agony subsides into a low, manageable simmer, he keeps breathing, counting the beats, head bowed over his curled and mangled hand.

He uses Institute funds to buy a machine that makes labels for him. In the meantime, he practices with his left hand when he thinks no one else is looking, putting each painstaking letter to paper.

He’s been wearing button-ups since his first day at the Magnus Institute.

He remembers wearing a rented suit to his job interview, nervous and fresh-faced and eager to please. Elias had taken one look at him, smiled, and told him to relax, that they were a little more casual around here, that it was fine.

Jon had insisted on the button-ups. He’d turned their care into a bit of a ritual, making sure that each one was starched and ironed, lines crisp and precise. That was how he wanted to be seen: crisp and precise. Qualified.

The execution of that intent had been flawed, though. He had sabotaged himself by shutting his eyes to the truth of the supernatural, and it had eventually turned against him.

He looks at his many shirts now, and all he can feel is dread. Each button is shaped like misery, the starched fabric sandpaper. He knows without trying that he will be on the floor, breathing through the pain, if he tries to put one of those shirts on.

He tries anyway.

He wears things to work that he never would have in the past. An open jacket layered over a t-shirt, tucked into the hem of black jeans. A chunky cardigan made of smooth, comfortable fabric over a long, serious skirt. Enormous sweaters that he can bury himself in. Things that are easy to put on, easy to wear.

His skin itches when the others look at him.

He thinks that he understands what Elias means about choices now. Regardless of whether or not he wanted to become a monster, the choices he made lead to him becoming one. Regardless of whether or not he wants to be vulnerable, he chooses to do so.

(The other choice is struggling over the buttons of one of his formal shirts, his hand going more and more clawlike with effort. It doesn’t feel much like a choice at all.)

Jon picks up the mug, and Martin lets out a shout of horror and scoops it from his grip.

“Jon, that’s really hot, be careful!” he admonishes. He’d seized the tea roughly, but his grip goes gentle as he carefully lifts Jon’s scarred palm, fingers fluttering over the warped scars. “This is your bad hand, too—does it hurt?”

Jon stares at his hand too, at the still healing skin, at the way the reds bleed into pinks bleed into more red. The scars create deep rents in his skin, almost to the bone in some places. He thinks about monsters and pain and emotions and apathy, and the indistinct lines they create.

“No,” he says honestly. There had been nothing to feel.

”You used to plait your hair,” Daisy says.

It’s been quiet for several hours now. Jon thinks that’s the thing he likes best about Daisy: her presence is undemanding now. Not calm, perhaps, but not frenetic or wild, either. Focused. Unconcerned until you give her a reason to be otherwise.

She gets concerned about a lot more than Jon thought she would. Her patient, searching gaze seeks out the exhaustion in his bones, the hungry way his body curls in on itself, increment by increment. She is in stark opposition to the cold and uncaring Eye, who would let Jon cannibalize himself just for a little entertainment.

(She is in stark opposition to herself less than a year ago. A blunted knife, a dulled edge.)

“I did,” Jon concedes.

Daisy waits, because he usually elaborates. It’s about choices, though. Choices are something that he’s thought about a lot in the past few months, especially after his coma, especially after the Buried. He wants to tell Daisy, but he doesn’t want to feel as though he was guided into it.

It’s ridiculous. It’s—he knows that it’s silly. Nonverbal cues are a language that he had to learn, so he should respond. But—he wants to be asked.

After a beat, she asks, “Why don’t you anymore?”

Jon lets out a gusty sigh and raises his right hand so she can see the twisting, ropey mess. He concentrates hard, pressing his lips together as he closes it as far as he can, shaking the whole time.

Daisy sighs, a sound sympathetic to his own.

Jon lowers his right hand again, letting it rest on its side, half curled.

“I could do it for you,” she says.

Jon hesitates for a second—

(Georgie was the person who taught him how to plait his hair. His gran had always cut it short herself, insisting that this was easiest and it saved money anyway, even though Jon had always wanted to grow it out. By the time he met Georgie, his hair was loose around his ears, and he had no idea how to take care of it.

A year after they met, Georgie drunkenly tripped over the couch and told him that she was going to plait his hair. She’d tried to do something difficult, too difficult for her inebriated state, before dragging Jon into a clumsy, playful kiss. He’d responded enthusiastically, but in the back of his mind, he remembered the tug, the sensation of twisting strands, and it had felt good.

She’d done it for him for almost two years. She’d force him to sit on the floor while she sat on the couch, and then she’d bodily drag him as close as possible before turning his ever-growing hair into something beautiful and complicated. Just like you, she’d told him, half-serious.

One day, she’d laid her hands over his and said, “Let me show you how, for when I’m not here.”)

—before nodding, and forces himself to remain very still as Daisy gets to her feet and approaches him from behind.

In the Buried, Daisy’s hand had been small and tight. He hadn’t been able to feel the warmth of it, or the minute scars pricking her skin. He’d gripped back as tightly as his burned hand could, which he’s sure wasn’t very tight at all. There’s a lesson in that, too, but it’s more specific. Intent and execution.

Daisy’s thumb had carefully rubbed the edges of the scars, touching patterns in the divots in his hand. Her hand had fit kindly.

Jon shivers at the first gentle touch in his long tresses. He thinks about the duality of knives and let’s go through the voicebox, and about gentle understanding in the crushing sensation of the Buried. Execution, with nebulous, incomprehensible intent.

Martin holds Jon’s hands in his and looks at them like they’re beautiful.

Jon’s still getting used to that. The soft, fond way Martin’s eyes alight on him when he’s barefoot in the kitchen. The teasing grin when Jon glares mockingly across the space between them. The exasperation whenever Jon skips a meal or stays up until the darkest hours of the night.

He wants to be with Martin and he chooses to be with Martin. His intent is synonymous with its execution.

He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop. He takes long walks in the burgeoning light of dawn, the hem of his skirt getting soaked in the morning dew. He retreats into himself when his leg and his hand and his everything are all screaming at him in tandem, a symphony of past and current aches.

Martin always welcomes him home. Martin’s gaze is that of the dawning sun, soft and radiant. He tucks Jon’s fingers over his and sweetly kisses each scarred knuckle, reverent, like he’s holding something precious.

Jon learns by example. When Martin wakes in the middle of the night, his eyes distant and hazy, Jon clumsily turns up Martin’s hand and presses his lips against the warm, smooth palm. When the fog rolls in around them, Jon carefully holds Martin’s face between his hands (one half-curled, the other firm and steadying) and leans their foreheads together.

#tma #tma spoilers #jon #jonmartin #daisy #my writing #fic #warning for burn description

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desnayy · 3 years ago

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Brain go brr at 3am in the morning

He doesn't know why he is here, kneeling on the ground with his hands manacled and chained in front of him, the wings on his back broken beyond repair, blood dripping down from his wounds onto the ground, staining the stone white. The manacles were tight, too tight, hurting his wrists. Same with the chains spiraled up his arms, digging into pale skin. His whole body ached, and his head throbbed with pain. He lowers his head more, to block out the bright light shining into his eyes, feeling more than seeing the dark purple braid slide over his shoulder to hang down, the end nearly brushing a puddle of white blood.

There was murmuring around him, people talking in sharp angry tones that made no sense to him. He feels like he should know what they are saying, but he can't. He doesn't even try. He's just so tired. He just wants to rest. So lost in his own exhaustion, he pays no mind to the shadows falling over him, not until he feels a hand on his head, pushing him further down. He has no time to complain or question, before something is pressed into his back between his shoulder blades.

It takes only a few seconds before the agonizing pain breaks through the dullness in his senses, the sound of his scream covering the sound of the brand being pressed into his skin. There's more burning on his wrists and arms as the manacles and chains glow a bright purple, before vanishing as the branding iron is lifted. His scream had trailed off into broken sobs, barely noticing the stars branded onto his wrists connecting to the constellations spiraling up his arms, mimicking the manacles and chains.

With no time to recover, he is yanked into a more upright position, not noticing he had slumped almost to the ground once the branding finished. He doesn't have time to wonder what is happening next, as he feels something being rested against where his wings met his back. With no warning, more agony as his wings are cut, more burning indicating a heated blade. It's not quick either. It's slow, agonizing... torture. His throat is hoarse from screaming, tears stuck in his eyes refusing to fall.

As the cutting ends, there is a pulse of magic. He sees a golden light at the edge of his vision, and then knows nothing more.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first thing he knows is the sound of waves hitting sand. The second thing he knows is the scent of the ocean. The third thing he knows is the searing sun in his eyes as he opens them, prompting a hiss of pain and hurriedly lifting his arms to press his hands against his face. Once he can blink without black dots blocking his vision, he moves an arm to push himself up, a jolt of pain as he does so. He can see more from his new position of sitting, confusedly blinking as he looked around.

He appeared to be on a beach of some kind, the ocean not to far from where he sat. A cautious glance up at the sky revealed it to be a little bit later than midday. And try as he might, he could not recall how he ended up here. There were such massive gaps in his memories, it was a miracle that he even remembered what a beach was. Or how to breath. Pushing himself up further, he was able to stand, though unsteady. He turned towards the ocean first. Peering into the shallows revealed nothing but his own reflection. Pale skin, choppy dark purple hair reaching his neck, and mismatched eyes. His right a dark orange, and his left a dark green. He frowned, briefly recalling his eyes being a solid gold before his face went slack as the memory withered away.

Shaking his head to clear it, he looked down at his clothes. A black long sleeve turtleneck shirt and dark grey pants. No shoes of any kind. The clothes felt... stiff. Like they were new and unworn until now. He ran a hand down his face and gave a heavy sigh, turning away from the ocean and towards the birch forest behind him. Just standing around wasn't going to get him anything, except maybe cold as night hit. Might as well try to find shelter and regroup his thoughts. He took a step forward, and promptly tripped over something, falling face first into the dirt.

Half buried in the sand behind him was a book. Opening it revealed pages of an unknown writing, his vision swimming as he tried to read it. The only thing he could make out was that it appeared to be a diary or journal, and that there was, a name?, or something constantly repeated. 'Desnay'. He ran the name through his head, mouth soundlessly saying it as well. Was that him? It had to be, right? Who else could it be, when there was no one else around?

The newly named Desnay just gave another sigh, closing the book and rubbing at his eyes. Regardless of this new mystery, it would do him no good to stay here and risk himself to the elements and whatever else was here. So, Desnay stood up, tucking the book away in his inventory (which totally did not give him a fright when he first opened it), brushed the sand off his front, and set off into the woods. Leaving behind a singular patch red tinged white on the sand, slowly washed away as the tide rose, erasing Desnay's first marks on this world.

#minesona #long post #drabble #ask to tag #it's 4am as i finish this and brain no worky with content warning tags rn sorry

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elsaclack · 5 years ago

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59 for jake/amy!

baby BABY baby!!!!!!!!!!!!!

this is…….a fresh contender for the angstiest thing i’ve ever written straight up oops

trigger warning for graphic depictions of violence and injury!!!!!! this got REAL dark guys i’m SORRY

59. “Don’t touch me.”

Darkness descends rapidly over Brooklyn, plummeting Jake’s apartment into powdery, faded shadows and a bone-crushing silence.

Jake sits alone in the center of his couch, staring at a spot just beyond the far left corner of his coffee table that he can no longer honestly comprehend. The smell of stale beer and old laundry permeates the stillness around him, enveloping him in a sort of cocoon of anxiety spurred on by the latent adrenaline still humming through his body.

The solution to this, of course, would be an easy one. It’s not like this is the first time the aftershocks of a particularly gruesome case followed him home. It’s not like he doesn’t have coping mechanisms (whether they’re healthy or not is a decision to be made by him and him alone, regardless of what the crackpot precinct shrink says when he’s forced into mandated therapy sessions). There are eleven more beers in his fridge, ready and waiting for him once he polishes off the last few gulps of the open bottle before him. There are shitty nature documentaries to pretend to watch. There are video games collecting dust on the bottom shelf of his TV stand. There are unopened bags of potato chips in his cabinet (also stale, probably). Solutions are all around him, readily available, patiently waiting for him to blink the initial shock away and make a decision.

The beer bottle’s label - long since peeled away from the amber glass - is damp and disintegrating between his fingertips. He’s tangentially aware of it in the same way that he’s aware of the fact that he’s thirsty for something more substantial than old beer. It’s there, it’s a concern, and it may even be valid, but it’s nothing more than a violently-rocking buoy struggling to remain upright in a tsunami. He could throw the label away and wash the water-goopy paste off of his fingers and order a meal and throw on a movie, and he could spend the rest of the night pretending like he’s okay. He could idly scroll through his Instagram feed and pretend like he isn’t waiting, hoping for the call or the text he already knows will not come. He could turn the television on and studiously avoid the local news channels until he finds something stupid and funny and safe to focus on until the rest of his thoughts retreat to the sealed compartments in the furthest corner of his mind.

He could do those things - any of those things - but he doesn’t.

He can’t.

He’d told himself, way back at the beginning of his beat cop stint, that he’d never let himself be vulnerable. His job can’t allow it, he’d reasoned. Vulnerability allowed for weakness and weakness meant disadvantage and disadvantage meant death. His job is too important, his perps too ruthless. He’d find other ways to be vulnerable, other groups of friends to allow beyond the towering walls of false bravado and showmanship.

Within two years, and for four more after that, he had no notably close friends to speak of.

Until Amy.

And Charles, and Rosa, and Gina, of course. But Amy - stupid, perfect, brilliant Amy - was the only one who wormed her way in without his express knowledge. He still can’t remember, exactly, when the shift between annoying know-it-all partner and close confidante and friend happened, but one day - one day -

She was there. Right there, right beside him. Full of understanding and patience and gentle advice that left him feeling warm and safe in a most peculiar, unfamiliar way.

(Beyond that, he’s not sure when the shift between close confidante and friend and girl of his wildest dreams happened, either, but right now that seems neither here nor there.)

So it makes sense, then, that the masochist within him insists that he deserves this torture, in some way. A fitting price for a most egregious error in judgement that ended with her name being added to a long list of victims.

She’s luckier than most - something he keeps reminding himself, the only tattered rope keeping him from sinking into a bottomless abyss of regret and shame. Ernie McMahan simply did not leave survivors, and yet - survive, she did. Of course, nothing about tonight’s situation followed protocol, even by McMahan’s standards. The series of events that unfolded between 6:14 and 6:38 PM only unfolded by sheer happenstance. It’s not like Amy fit McMahan’s type - nothing about her screamed leggy blonde - and it’s not like he sought her out and preyed on her like all of his other victims. Hell, he’d only attacked because she got too close to finding him, but.

But.

The guilt sinks in a little deeper, soaking through his bones. Objectively speaking, it wasn’t expressly Jake’s fault. Like, sure, he wasn’t where he was supposed to be - where she told him to be - but in all likelihood, even if he was where he was supposed to be, it probably would have only meant he would have gotten to them a few seconds earlier.

He would have gotten to her a few seconds earlier.

Not huge in the grand scheme of things.

But insurmountable tonight.

The guilt crawls like a living thing through his belly, slimy tendrils licking up his skin, and when he closes his eyes he sees it all again - late evening sunlight spilling tangerine through the cracks between wooden boards haphazardly nailed over warehouse windows, illuminating the edges of a silhouette knelt over a writhing mass on the floor, muscled arms swinging and swinging and swinging. He can hear it, too - sickening sounds of knuckles pounding against bone and flesh, gasps and yelps and grunts of her in pain and fear, desperately fighting to escape, sensible rubber heels scraping uselessly against the dusty floor and fingers scrabbling at the butt of her firearm, lying six inches away, as his knees pressed against her chest and her left arm to keep her pinned.

He’d sprinted, flown, not sure if his feet were actually touching the ground, and tackled him off of her. On a kind of primal autopilot, he’d punched McMahan in the face so hard he’d knocked a tooth out before roughly rolling him to his belly and snapping handcuffs over his wrists; when he twists his own wrist now, he can see the angry split between his knuckles, already scabbed over, darkened red skin around it only just now curdling into what he’s sure will be a gruesome bruise. There will be more on his shoulder, and another on the right side of his forehead from where he’d hit the floor at an angle as he tackled McMahan. Something he’d usually be stoked about - nothing said badass cop more than battle scars.

Now, though - now, he can’t stand the talismans of his own failure.

Distantly, through his cracked open window, Jake hears a forlorn siren wailing. It fades into the night as quickly as it came, and he buries his face in his hands, gingerly scrubbing the heels of his palms over his eyes in a doomed attempt at drowning everything out. It wasn’t enough, being forced to stay in place to keep McMahan subdued while Amy slowly writhed in excruciating pain a mere six feet away. No, it wasn’t enough - because the angle afforded him the perfect view of her bruised and bloodied face contorted in an utterly terrifying portrait of agony, the way her entire body seemed to shudder and tremble with each labored, rattling breath in, and - most nauseatingly - the way her clothes hung tattered and ripped around the seams.

He tried to talk to her between snarling at McMahan to shut the fuck up and calling for backup on his radio. He tried to get her to speak, to look at him, to respond in any way, but all he got back were bone-chilling moans and heels still scraping uselessly against the ground.

Cops raided the scene before the EMTs - Jake scrambled toward her the second he was sure the beat cop had a solid grip on McMahan’s wrists. He’d crawled, ignoring the sting in his hand and the uncomfortable grit of the ground beneath his knees, reaching for Amy before his consciousness could catch up.

And the moment his fingers brushed against her arm, her eyes flew open, glassy and unseeing but fixated on his face.

“Don’t touch me!”

He’s in no way a wordsmith - has never claimed to be - but even if he was, he’s sure there isn’t a single word to fully encapsulate the raw, feral force with which those words left her. He didn’t know, before tonight, that she was even capable of making that kind of sound. It’s like the words were wrenched out of her chest, ripped out of her by some demonic force, sending him falling backwards and scrambling away from her on instinct.

Her eyes hadn’t followed him.

He’d stayed nearby, hovering, useless, until the EMTs rushed in. He’d watched them kneel down beside her, one speaking to her in a loud, calm, slow voice. He’d watched her wordlessly shriek again when their hands touched her body.

He’d closed his eyes and turned his head away when her shriek immediately transformed into a harsh, punishing sob as they lifted her onto a gurney.

He’d followed them out into the parking lot, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek as tears dripped down his face, only stopping when Rosa stepped between him and the ambulance. Go home, she told him. I’ll stay with her.

He wanted to fight her. He still wants to fight her.

But Amy’s words were still swimming through his mind, etching themselves across every available surface where he’s certain they’ll stay for the rest of eternity. So he didn’t fight her. He just nodded, cast one more glance at the ambulance, and forced himself to walk away.

Because it’s not his fault, but it is his fault, and even though realistically speaking his following her instructions to a T might have changed things just a little, he’d find a way to forgive himself for not. But what happened after…he exacerbated her pain and distress and fear, he made things so much worse, and he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to forgive himself for that.

Amy’s felt a lot of things toward him - he just never imagined fear would be one of them.

The sound of his ringtone cuts sharp and shrill through the air around him, and he starts, blinking for the first time in what feels like a very long time. Rosa’s name shines bright at the top of his screen above her contact picture - her scowling at the camera in front of the dartboards at Shaw’s six years earlier - and he struggles to remember how to swallow as he taps the answer button.

The word hello sticks in his throat.

“Peralta?”

Her tone is as flat and monotone as usual, but he senses the weariness beneath the surface. He clears his throat, forces himself to swallow, and hears her breathe in loudly through her nose on the other end of the line. “Hey,” he finally manages, wincing at the way his voice cracks from lack of use.

“How fast can you get to the hospital?”

Dread floods his belly at once, ice cold fear in an empty cavern, and he’s on his feet before he’s aware of his own actions. “Why?” he asks, not bothering to mask the fear in his voice. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing’s wrong, she’s fine,” Rosa assures him - and the fear subsides a notch or two. “She’s fine - well, she’s gonna be fine - she’s awake and aware, and she just gave Charles a statement on what happened.”

Jake nods, momentarily forgetting the fact that she can’t see him. It’s strange, the knot of jealousy forming in his throat. So Charles was allowed to go to the hospital, but he wasn’t?

“She wants to see you,” Rosa’s voice breaks through his momentary spiral. “She won’t stop asking for you.”

Something about the reproach in her voice tells him that this is probably an argument Rosa’s been having with Amy for a decent amount of time; a small smile erupts across his face in tandem with the undeniable affection throbbing in his chest.

“I told her I’d call you to see if you were still awake. I can’t lie to her, mostly because she knows my tells, but - I don’t know if you coming up here is the best idea.”

He frowns as he pulls his closet door open and reaches inside for his sneakers. “Why?” he asks as he drops to the edge of his bed.

“She’s still shaken up and super emotional, and I don’t know if - if seeing you is gonna - y’know - make it worse. She cried when she woke up and saw me, and then she cried again when she saw Charles, and we weren’t even on the scene with her - it’s obviously your choice, I can’t tell you what to do, but I just don’t want her to go through any more emotional trauma than necessary tonight. Okay?”

He lets out a breath as his heel slips inside his sneaker. Rosa’s not wrong - just like she wasn’t wrong when she sent him home at the scene.

But.

“She wants to see me,” he mumbles, bending to slide his other foot into his shoe. “I can’t - not come. I owe her that much. If she wants me to come, I’m gonna come.”

He hears Rosa sigh, her breath crackling against the receiver in a way he thinks might be harsh under any other circumstances. “Fine,” she says after a moment, “but change your shirt before you get here. You had bloodstains at the scene.”

He glances down at his chest, eyes automatically drawn to the red smears over the left side of his chest he hadn’t noticed until that very moment. He has no memory of when they got there, no idea whose blood it may be - with a grimace he clears his throat, and mutters “will do.”

“Presby. Get here soon.”

Twenty minutes later finds him standing at the sign-in desk of Brooklyn Prebyterian Hospital’s bustling emergency room, casting furtive glances through the receptionist’s window to the doctors and nurses rushing to and fro as he fills in the sign-in sheet. Amy’s still in a high-priority observation room here, according to Rosa’s text, though not for much longer - she’ll be moving to a trauma specialist wing as soon as the room there is ready for her. Her stay will be short-lived, provided her concussion proves to be a grade two, as the doctors currently suspect.

The nurse receptionist pulls the clipboard down to her desk when Jake slides it toward her, and after a moment of typing information into her computer, she reaches beneath her desk and produces an adhesive visitor’s sticker with his name and driver’s license photo. “Keep this on at all times,” she instructs as she hands him the sticker.

He nods, pressing the sticker down over his heart, and follows her directions through the doors and into the interior of the emergency room.

She leads him through a winding series of hallways, lined with glass walls and patients in varying states of distress, but Jake doesn’t absorb any of it; his focus remains on the back of the nurse’s head and on trying to regulate his breathing.

He spots Rosa first - wild curls unmistakable despite the distance. She’s got her back turned toward the hallway, facing the bed against the south wall, concealing the vast majority of the figure laying in said bed. Jake’s heart is in his throat.

The nurse stops five steps from the doorway to her room, gesturing toward it wordlessly, stepping aside to allow Jake to move past her. And it’s like his vision has tunneled - all he can see is Rosa’s torso and the legs stretched across the mattress to Rosa’s right, all he can hear is the quiet voice of his partner, his friend, his everything.

(Uh-oh, he thinks.)

He must make some noise there in the doorway - perhaps an unintentional rap of his knuckles knocking against the doorframe, or a strangled sound from the base of his throat - but Rosa turns toward him sharply, brow furrowed, shoulders tensed. She relaxes marginally when she seems to register who she’s looking at; slowly, she leans back, and Jake catches his first glimpse at Amy.

Angry, mottled bruises paint a vicious portrait across her face, accented by a swollen split to her upper lip and a truly alarming amount of swelling around her left eye. She’s looking at him standing in her doorway and all he can do is breathe, breathe, because she’s alive and he knows that but he’s never seen her like this before and it’s tearing something vital out of him, destroying him from the inside out. He releases his breath slowly, raggedly, letting his nails bite into the unrelenting metal doorframe to keep from releasing the sob expanding dangerously in his chest.

The room is quiet, disturbed only by the distant sounds of the ER behind him and Rosa standing, chair pushed backwards by her knees. “I’m gonna go get you another heated blanket,” she murmurs to Amy, before moving toward Jake.

She pinches his upper arm as she passes him, and the pain of it is almost enough to shock him out of his trance.

“Jake,” Amy murmurs - and that’s it, that’s what shakes him free. He moves toward her at once, forgoing Rosa’s chair to kneel beside her bed, overly cautious to keep his hands pressed to the mattress despite the consuming urge to touch whatever parts of her she’ll allow him to touch.

Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me.

Neither one of them speak for a moment - he’s only partially aware of the tears wetting his face, far too distracted by the relief drowning his fried nervous system. Her left arm is stretched across the mattress at her side, her still-shaking fingers rising and falling erratically in a way he thinks probably isn’t entirely voluntary; deep bruises dance across her skin here, too, splotching around her elbow, traveling all the way up beyond the edge of her sleeve.

“I’m so sorry,” he breathes, and her brows knit together. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry -”

“No,” her voice rasps, and he squeezes his eyes shut, the memory of her guttural shrieks echoing in his mind. “Don’t - no, Jake, no sorries -”

“I should have been there with you, I was supposed to follow you through that doorway but I kept going down the hall -”

She shakes her head, a grimace momentarily contorting her features at the movement, and her hand leaves the mattress altogether before flopping back down again. “Stop, stop, please. It’s okay. I - I know. It’s okay.”

He drops his forehead to the mattress for a moment, trying to draw in a steady breath, and feels another weak thump against the mattress near his head.

“Jake,” her voice is higher, now, warbling at the base, and he springs up to find her eyes shining with tears. Her lips part to draw in a shaking breath, and he’s about to come out of his skin with a bone-deep desire to do whatever it takes to make everything okay for her again. “Jake, I - I’m sorry.”

Tears streak down both of her cheeks in tandem, but bewilderment falls like a wet blanket over his instinctive sense of alarm. “For what?” he asks in a strangled whisper.

“I screamed at you,” she mumbles, head lolling to one side. “You were trying to help me and I screamed at you.”

“I scared you,” he protests, “I touched you without any warning and - I mean, I know better than that, we both do, we’ve gone through the same training courses and we know - Amy, honey, you were in so much pain and you were also in shock and I scared you. I deserved a hell of a lot worse than you screaming at me.”

Her chin quivers as she lifts her hand again, managing to keep it aloft a little bit longer than before. “I didn’t mean it, I didn’t, I - when I woke up and you weren’t here…”

Her fingers weakly curl into the folds of her blankets as her voice trails off, tears streaming down her face in earnest. “I thought I would make things worse,” he admits softly. “I thought - I just wanted you to feel safe.”

She sniffles, her good eye wide, and her fingers flex again. “Will you please hold my hand?” she whispers.

He scoops her left hand up immediately, covering it with both of his own, pulling it up closer to his face to press his lips against her fingertips where they protrude between his palms. Her eyes flutter shut and she sniffles, returning the gentle pressure as best she can. She lets out a breath, releasing a quiet hum from the back of her throat; the noise, so little, settles like balm across his aching heart.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, good eye fluttering open. He nods, gently caressing the soft skin of the back of her hand with his thumb. “Jake, I - I, um. I need - I need to tell you something.” He shifts a little closer, ignoring the stiff protest in his knees, and she studies his face for a long moment. “I don’t know how to do this,” she admits after a moment.

“Okay,” he shakes his head, flashing her an encouraging smile, gently squeezing her hand. “You don’t have to tell me right now.”

“I want to,” she says earnestly. “I just - when I was - I thought, for a second, that - that I wasn’t gonna - that -” she stops, clenches her jaw, and he finds himself steadying her hand as a tremor works down her arm. “I was scared,” she says after a moment. “And I had this - this thought. That I wasn’t…that I might leave things behind.”

He stares at her for a moment, before understanding hits him with all the indiscriminate force of a careening freight train.

“I’ve been living my life with all of these compartments,” she continues, seemingly oblivious to the vice squeezing the air out of his lungs. “All of these neat little black and white boxes, and I’ve been ignoring the grey. Because it doesn’t fit, Jake. The grey doesn’t fit. And I’ve never been good at handling things that don’t fit. I just - if I can ignore it, long enough, eventually, it goes away.” She wiggles her fingers in his grip - not enough for him to loosen his own grip, but enough to draw his attention to the fingertips still peeking out at him. “I thought if I ignored this long enough, it would go away.”

He returns his eyes to her face to find her looking at him - looking at him, all of him, piercing right through to his very soul - and his heart shoots directly into his throat.

“It didn’t,” she murmurs.

He clenches his jaw, briefly squeezes his eyes shut, forces himself to inhale and exhale through his nose.

“It’s becoming more and more of a problem,” she continues after a moment. He keeps his eyes closed, focusing on her words until the rest of his surroundings fade away completely and it’s just her hand in his, her voice, and the unforgiving floor against his knees. “And I’ve been thinking - I’ve been dreading this, because I knew I was gonna have to tell you one way or another, and for once in my life I had no idea how you would react. I was so scared - it seems stupid, now.” He snorts involuntarily, dropping his head to press their hands against his forehead, and somewhere to his right he hears her let out a quiet laugh.

“Amy…” he murmurs when she doesn’t immediately continue.

“Hang on,” she says softly, and he nods. “I just want to get the words out. I like you, Jake. A lot. Too much, probably.” Another laugh escapes her chest - this one airier than the one before it. “I don’t expect you to say it back or to feel the same way - I hope you feel the same way,” she adds, and he bites down on the inside of his cheek at the undeniable longing punctuating each word. “But I know it’s been a while, and…you said, that night, that you’d pissed at yourself if something went down and I didn’t know how you felt. And that was all I could think about earlier. How angry I was going to be if you didn’t know.”

She huffs out a breath, fingers rippling against his palms. Slowly, he lowers their hands and opens his eyes; she’s watching him again, pursed lips moving slowly as she nibbles at the inside of her lower lip. He has this absurd desire to pull her lip away from her teeth with his thumb, to gently caress her chin, to cup his hand beneath her jaw and hold her head in place while pressing chaste kisses to her lips -

“You’ve had me for a long time now, Ames,” he admits, surprised at the emotion rasping in his voice. He reaches up with his right hand to gently, gently touch her face, smiling when she turns her head automatically to nuzzle further into his touch. “It’s - only ever been you.”

The smile that lights her face is genuine and soft, small and shy, and Jake finds himself thinking this - this is what I’ve been looking for.

“When you get outta here - when you get better - can I take you to dinner?”

She nods, smile growing, and he gently runs the pad of his thumb over her cheek.

“Are you guys done being gross?” A voice behind him asks.

He cranes his neck around, hands never leaving Amy’s body, to find Rosa leaned against the doorway, a light blue hospital-issued blanket folded over her arm. She’s got one brow arched, a distinct scowl across her features, but there’s an unfamiliar warmth to her gaze that makes Jake want to hug her. “Hi, Rosa,” he says instead, returning his attention to Amy’s face. “You can come in, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Rosa harrumphs but steps over his legs without further comment, unfolding the blanket and draping it over Amy’s legs. Amy’s eyes track Rosa’s movements, a thankful smile briefly splitting her face when Rosa makes eye-contact. “Okay,” Rosa says, “seems like you don’t need me here anymore. I’m gonna head home.” Jake feels a solid thump against his shoulder; Rosa’s looking at him very seriously when he turns to meet her gaze. “Call me if she needs anything, any time. ‘Kay?”

“Thank you, Rosa,” Amy says as Jake nods.

“Get better soon, I hate sparring with Charles.”

Amy laughs, and Rosa cracks a small, genuine smile. She pats Amy’s ankle twice, shoots Jake another nod, and then shuffles back out the door.

“You should get some sleep,” Jake tells Amy softly. She blinks at him slowly, something like serenity softening the features of her face, and he traces his thumb over her forehead, his touch featherlight. “Sleep, Ames, you need it.”

A crease appears between her brows as her throat works against a swallow. “I don’t want to miss anything,” she whispers.

“You won’t,” he assures her, “I promise, you won’t. I’ll be right here the whole time, I’ll be here when you wake up again. Sleep,” he urges her softly, ignoring the rush of pride he feels as the crease between her brows smooths out again. “We’ll keep talking when you wake up.”

“Promise?”

He nods solemnly, lifting her hand to press a kiss against her fingers. “I swear.” he murmurs against her knuckles.

(He keeps his promise, for the record - he’s there when she wakes six hours later, and the next morning, and the morning after that, and the morning after that, and pretty much every morning that follows.)

#brooklyn 99 #brooklyn 99 fanfiction #jake x amy #peraltiago #peraltiago fanfiction #my b99 fics #Anonymous #prompt request

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living-in-the-state-of-dreaming · 5 years ago

Note

Can I have a jealous Yandere Deku with a very oblivious reader and Deku can barely control himself anymore?

Okay so I may have gone a little bit overboard with this ^///^;; but since this request has been sitting in my inbox for far too long I wanted to make up for the delay, plus there’s the fact that I still have not done anything for reaching 200 followers yet. I’m e x t r e m e l y sorry for the delay this however x_x but I hope you enjoy it. ^~^ Thank you for requesting.

Trigger warnings: Drug use, dark thoughts, mind break and a whole lot of angst.

What becomes of the broken-hearted.

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He knew it was wrong, so very, very, very wrong.

So many times he’d told himself that he shouldn’t think or feel such things towards y/n and each time the shameful thoughts, ones no hero should ever think up, came to his mind he would instantly push them aside, letting them rot at the very back of his mind, only to give y/n a reassuring smile when she, being the pure and kind soul that he had come to know her as; noticed and asked if he was alright.

“ Y-yeah I’m fine y/n, please don’t worry about me. “

It would be the answer that he would hear himself give every single time when in reality he wasn’t alright and that kind smile that he had come to love almost stung as he knew it was only out of concern for a friend. How he wished that there was love and affection, even if it was just the smallest amount, behind that smile. The thought of it being there was always something that would make his heart pound and race in his chest, even if it was only a fraction of the caliber of love that he felt towards y/n

Y/n and the rest of class-1A did not know this, as it was something that he wanted to keep to himself, but lately, amidst the notes and drawings of hero related content that filled the pages, there was something else that he had taken to writing down in his notebook. Perhaps it was a little obsessive of him, no it definitely was, he knew that, but information on y/n sat at the back of the notebook, separated from the intel of hero and given its own little space. The information ranged from a variety of things, from y/n’s hobbies, her quirk, her strengths, her weaknesses and her personality, each time he would discover something new about y/n he would write it down with the rest of the information when he was alone. Midoriya didn’t know when he had begun to do this, but the reason for doing so felt...Oddly justified in a sense, as the reason why he had started writing down these little notes and key points on y/n, was the thought that if he learned everything he could about her, then he had a higher chance of winning y/n’s heart.

He had never been the best when it came to confessing his feelings for someone- much less a beautiful girl that he considered to be extremely out of his league; swooning someone with charming words of flattery was likely something more suited to someone else; for people who could easily walk up to a girl with confidence; charm a girl and make them blush while their hearts pounded; whereas he would likely only blush and stumble over his words if he even attempted to do the same thing. However, after working up enough courage to do so he had gone with the option of dropping subtle hints, from, albeit shyly, giving compliments on y/n’s hair, telling y/n how well the clothes she was wearing suited her, to simply refuting y/n any time she talked herself down due to insecurities. This also included inviting her to get ice cream, as it was summer and he knew that y/n’d likely be boiling from the heat, something that did not help the intensive training that would often occur during his and y/n’s free time if it didn’t happen during class.

However, where at first he had barely been able to contain his excitement at the thought of going for ice cream with y/n as thoughts spun around in his head, it had ended much differently from how he had wanted it to go due to how oblivious she turned out to be with things like this and instead y/n had only blinked and gave a big smile as she continued to enjoy the outing, while he wanted nothing more than to slap himself silly right there and there. He wasn’t surprised that the so-called ‘ date ‘ that he had been so excited for had turned out be something that had only been an outing between ‘ friends ‘ and as both he and y/n made their way back to the dorms, Deku could feel his heart deflate more and more with every step that he took, but as disappointment stung and tore at his heart, a frustration settled within him as well; one that came out of his inability and failure of being unable to tell y/n what he was really thinking- what he really wanted. It was something that should have been so simple but here he was stumbling at every turn and continuously running into obstacles; as if the word felt like kicking him in the chest once more for good measure.

He wanted to tell you her so badly, tell her how he truly felt, almost as badly as he wanted to win her beautiful heart but... Like most things- most dreams- there was always an obstacle as one more kick was launched at his chest in the form of this new piece of information that he had learned from Kirishima and his other friends.

Something that left him feeling completely shattered as his heart was left in broken pieces within his chest.

Y/n had a crush on Ka-chan.

Midoriya could feel nothing but numbness at hearing this, and after a brief moment, he quickly realized that he was in shock, the same kind of numbing shock that he had felt when the doctor had said that he would never develop a Quirk of his own. Shortly after he had gotten back to the dorms he had gone straight to his room while giving the reason that he wasn’t feeling very well from something that he’d eaten earlier and because of that he was turning in early. When Iida had mentioned that he could give him something to help remedy it, Izuku had been grateful that he was trying to help but he really just wanted to be alone right now and so, he had politely insisted that he’d be better after getting some rest with a reassuring smile.

The notebook lay open on his lap while his fingers held the pen, taking pen to paper he began to write down what he’d learned, but he could barely write down the words Y/N has a crush on Ka before the pen fell from his hand, landing on the floor with a brief and barely audible sound before it rolled a short distance away from his feet and stopped when it was directly in the middle of the beige carpeted floor. The usually spacious dorm room that he had come to call his home suddenly seemed tiny and the silence that settled sounded nearly deafening as he simply sat there on his bed; notebook still open on his lap, pen still in the middle of the floor; the bangs of his green hair shadowing his leaf green hues; only to widen slightly as his body gave an involuntary flinch at the sound of something suddenly cutting the silence in half if but for a second. His eyes slowly shift to where he had heard the noise, only to narrow in puzzlement at noticing the small wet spot that was now on the page, smudging the ink that made up the beginning of the sentence that he had just written down.

Was he-? Oh- Maybe that’s why his chest felt so tight and why he could feel something wet making their way down his cheeks. Tears had come to be something that he knew quite well after all, due to the hardships that he and the others had to endure, but this...There were no words to describe just how much it hurt and as he realized that he was crying; only more continued to fall as the ones that had welled up in his eyes shortly followed after; as a small sad smile came to his lips, regardless of how he felt too weak to make it genuine or happy.

“ Of course...Of course, she likes Ka-chan...He’s amazing. They both are...Why would someone as amazing as her fall for someone like me..? “

His voice came out weak as the sorrow in his eyes and expression seeped into every word as they left his lips. More tears continued to fall, each one falling on the page but he didn’t care as he raised his free hand up to clutch his chest; as if it would somehow help with the agony that he could feel at that moment and moments after the tears began to fall at a faster pace, Midoriya’s head drooped as the weak smile fell from his expression, the only sounds being his quiet sobs and the sound of tears falling onto the page of the book. However the same could not be said for the screaming that his emotions were doing inside of him as frustration, despair and heartache all blurred together, one that gave space for the resentment that he’d always felt for Kachan. Yes he’d always thought that Kachan was amazing, but he’d also resented him in a way and he’d hated him for how he treated him in school for having dreams of being a hero while being ‘ A quirkless loser ‘ but for him to have been able to win Y/N’s affections so easily while he had been struggling to just confess and show her how he truly felt was something that only added to that resentment as the hatred he’d felt back then sparked again and the anger joined the flurry of emotions inside of him as his gritted and narrowed his eyes, before scowling down to the written and now blurry Ka.

It wasn’t fair...Ever since they were kids Kachan had always been the one with everything, an awesome quirk, friends; a place that he could fit in; whereas he was thrown away, tossed to the side and picked on simply for not being like the others. Kachan- No- Katsuki Bakugo was a bully who was horrible to people, even to his friends- So why did he deserve an angel like Y/N? He was the one who was nice to her, he was the one who had told her specifically that if she ever needed anything that he would be right there for her; even if it was just a shoulder. He was the one that worshiped the very ground she walked on; who hung on every word like they were drops of gold; he was the one that was clearly the better of the two compared to that bully Katsuki Bakugo so why?! Katsuki Bakugo had always had everything! So why was he the one who got Y/N’s affection!??

Did he even know?? Of course, he didn’t- Midoriya knew that the most important thing that mattered to Bakugo was becoming the world's greatest hero, being number one, even surpassing All Might; in fact, he’d made it very clear time and time again that he would crush anyone who got in his way to do so, being number one was all that mattered to him; so, of course, he wouldn’t know that the sweetest and most beautiful person in the world had fallen for him.

Bitter jealousy, resentment, and anger towards the blonde swirled around Midoriya like an all-consuming Typhon and for just a moment, he found himself wishing that he hadn’t held back at the start, even if it was just a little, that night when he and Kachan had fought before giving the fight his all, but then, an idea came to his mind as realization made his sorrowful eyes light up with an idea. Since she liked Kachan, that just meant that he had to surpass Katsuki Bakugo and given as he had already set his mind to do just that long before he’d learned this shattering detail about his angel, it only fueled him with more motivation.

Instantly his thoughts began to work inside of his head like clockwork as ideas and ways to win Y/N’s heart and affection away from Bakugo whirled around in his head. Was it a petty thing to do? Yes, it was, but...At that moment the heartache was gasoline to the thoughts that were welling up inside of his head, and the smoke was so heady he found himself not caring whether it was, or not. He wanted his angel to return his feelings and he’d do it whatever way he had to if it meant protecting her from Kachan who he knew would likely only leave her kind and beautiful heart shattered into a thousand pieces, a feeling that he now knew quite well.

Eyes puffy from the tears that he had spent what must’ve been a few hours shedding, he stands up from his bed after placing the book aside and walks over to the pen that was still on the floor; before bending down and picking it up, standing up straight again and walking back over to his bed and sitting back down. Without looking at the page where he’d written that damnable beginning of a sentence, he tore it from the notebook and scrunched the paper into a ball before tossing it into the nearby bin.

Turning over to a new page, the pen met paper once again as his hand and mind worked in tandem, his eyes were faintly narrowed in concentration and focus as the pen feverishly ran across the page; while quiet once again settled inside of the room, the only sound this time being the movements of the pen as he wrote.

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That morning as he walked into class, he could feel determination coursing through him like electricity through an electrical switch, so much so that he couldn’t help think if this is what Denki’s quirk felt like. He knew it would likely have the others questioning it, but he only shrugged it off. He had one thing on his mind and that was the plan that he had stayed up all night to write and think up; unfortunately, this meant that he felt a little tired from the lack of sleep, but he knew it would be worth it if all went well and as the end of class came he couldn’t have been more relieved. Nervous yes, in fact very nervous but he’d been thinking about it so much that he’d barely be able to focus on anything, which unfortunately earned him a scolding from Mr. Aizawa, whom he apologized to immediately after... Still, he only continued to smile as he made his way down the halls and as optics of leaf green fell on Y/N he could feel his heart stop for just a moment in his chest; before starting once again in the same pounding rhythm that it always would whenever he was around Y/N. Or...Even when he just thought about Y/N.

For a second he found himself stopping as his footsteps came to a halt, leaving him standing there in the middle of the hall before he shook off the nervousness that had begun to settle inside of him and jogged over to her retreating form, easily catching up to her walking pace.

“ Hey Y/N, I’m sorry if this is sudden but are you free right now? “

He knew she was, but he asked anyway, all the while feeling heat rise to his cheeks at being this close to her, the beautiful smile that came to her expression only making his heart skip another beat as she responded with a brief shake of her head.

“ No, not particularly. Why? Did you want to go somewhere? “

Even when he felt his heart flutter once again at how welcoming Y/n was to the idea, he forced himself to stay cool, but at the same time, he couldn’t help the shy smile that came to him as he gave a nod. Reaching into his bag, his gaze drifted to the side for just a brief moment as his hand fished around only to bring out two tickets to the movies, the same one that he knew she’d been wanting to see for an entire month due to her mentioning it in class, even if it at times wasn’t directed at him. The way y/n’s eyes lit up with excitement, shock and joy-filled him with an unmistakable sense of joy at knowing that he had been the cause; whenever y/n got excited was always something that he’d found adorable as whenever she would it was like little fireworks were going off in her eyes as her lips would form into this near childishly innocent smile.

“ I was actually wondering if you wanted to go see this with me. “

As no words came from Y/N the beginnings of panic set into Midoriya.

Oh no. Had he been too shy with the invitation he hadn’t just ruined it had- Just before his thoughts can continue he couldn’t help but stare for just a moment as a lovely shade of pink- was that rose…?- came to y/n’s cheeks, the blush setting his heart ablaze with a hope that he knew would be visible in his eyes as she nodded, the smile still on her expression.

“ I’d love to. “

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He couldn’t believe it. In fact, he still couldn’t from when they arrived at the movie theater, to when they sat down in their seats. It felt so surreal but it also felt romantic, he hadn’t been on a date before but how they had sat down at the very back of the theater, almost as if they were separated from everyone else felt intimate in a way and as he just sat there, eyes looking to the screen, he could barely help the smile that was currently on his lips.

This...This was so...Perfect, being this close to Y/N.

The movie was the furthest from Izuku’s mind as his gaze continued to glance at Y/N every so often and for a moment, his eyes went to her hand as it rested on the armrest of the seat, it was so close to his own that he could almost touch it and at that moment he wanted to; he wanted to take her hand in his and interlock their fingers together or just place his over her own gently and intimately as he’d once seen in a movie, he knew it was likely most considered very cheesy to think of but it was still something that his thoughts were screaming at him to do. Thinking about this for a moment longer, the same thought that he’d had last night repeats in his head once more.

I will win the Y/N’s heart. No matter what.

Gently placing his hand over her own, his gaze fixed on the movie screen before he peeks a glance at Y/N at noticing her eyes on him from the corner of his eye, feeling her eyes on him and as he made out that same rosy pink blush that had earlier come to her cheeks in the dim lighting that was only offered by the movie screen as her expression was nothing short of surprise, he couldn’t help but smile at her in response. How Y/N never moved her hand away from his own only made his heart swell in his chest, he was happy...Beyond happy actually, the events of last night couldn’t be further from his mind. That was...Until the night ended and the words had left Y/N’s lips.

“ I-I’m...Deku I’m so sorry but...I like someone else. “

Happiness was a cruel and heartless mistress at times... He supposed he should’ve expected as much as he’d given the confession with the confidence that he’d felt; even if his cheeks were still dark red from blush, as his head was slightly bowed. Hearing the rumor from Kirishima and the others had felt like a knife had been plunged deep into his heart, but hearing them straight from those lovely lips of Y/N’s own mouth? He could feel his heart once again cracking all over again, just as it had last night.

“Y-You...What..? “

The guilt, remorse, and sympathy that he could hear in y/n’s voice only worsened the blow as eye/colored hues were lowered, successfully avoiding his gaze but just before she could utter out that those two words once more, the words escaped Izuku before he could make an effort to hold them back and at that moment, as he felt something else begin to crack inside of him...He felt no desire to.

“ It’s Kachan isn’t it. “

As shock came over Y/N’s face Izuku knew that she was perfectly justified to make that expression with how he’d spoken the question but instead of apologizing, his bore into her own expectantly as he waited for her to answer. In the brief silence that settled, destroying any sense of peace or romance that could’ve been there beforehand, Izuku found himself hoping that she’d refute his statement, that she’d say that she didn’t like Kachan and instead liked him but some dreams don’t last long and it was only made that much clearer to him as the beginning of her response left her lips

“ How-? “

“ I heard Kirishima and the others mention it. “

Not wanting to hear the question his response came quick. He didn’t want to hear it...He didn’t want to hear how her heart was still pining for Kachan...The mere thought was enough to make him want to scream, it made him sick as the first embers of hatred that had stirred to life from the ashes of the faint glow that had been there at middle school; began to gradually turn into a roaring flame and one that was only getting stronger the moment this moment played out; and the same pain in his chest that he’d felt last night came back to him once more

“ He doesn’t deserve an Angel like you. Y/N, can’t you see? He only cares about becoming number one, y-you don’t matter at all to him! He’ll only leave your heart in pieces. “

The passion and plea that twinged his eyes seeped into every syllable as he spoke, and although he felt guilt and remorse for the pain that flashed over y/n’s expression his lips parted again, but the smile that came to her expression caused him to freeze and all he could, was stare back into y/n’s eyes, eyes that held so much acceptance and sadness...

“ I know..But that’s okay, I don’t mind, I want him to achieve that goal. Even if he doesn’t feel the same way that I do for him, I don’t mind. I just want him to be happy. “

She didn’t mind…? He didn’t understand...Y/n was willing to let herself be left in the dust if it meant Kachan’s happiness? Of course, Izuku understood that, as he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would do the exact same thing for Y/N but now was not one of those times, not when it came to her heart possibly being left in tatters because of Katsuki Bakugo, he couldn’t allow that to happen! Yet...She wouldn’t listen, every word that was coming out of her mouth only clarified just how much she loved Kachan and each syllable gave another slice to his heart; as the tightness only increased and hot tears began to well in his eyes. His lips formed in a shaky line as his eyes narrowed in pain.

“ Why? W-Why can’t you just let me love you..? I-I care about you. N-No I love you...I love you so much..I’d do anything for you, anything you ask and I’d do it without question so why? “ his hand balled up into a fist as he bit into his bottom lip as if to distract himself from the tears he knew were mere seconds away from falling, but it was no use and as his head drooped the tears ran down his cheeks as his voice escaped in a pained cry.

“ Why does it have to be Kachan?!! I’d do anything for you! I’m the one that’s been there for you the most! So why can’t you just love me instead?!! “ each syllable was just as hysteric and pained as the tears streaming down his cheeks, the silence on y’n's end only provoking only more tears.

Why…? Why did it have to be this way? Why couldn’t the plan he’d made just work out but...He supposed...That was just how things were...Right? At this thought, something in him clicks...Yeah...Yeah, it was...Maybe he should’ve just resorted to that method all along... Regardless of how it wasn’t very ‘ Hero ‘ like.

That something that he could feel cracking moments before snaps, and as it does, the numbness that he felt at that moment didn’t allow him to care...It was new...This strange feeling of detachment, but as y/n’s voice spoke out in concern it only sounded like pretty music a requiem of concern that was likely only provoked by his sudden silence.

“ D-Deku? A-Are you okay? “

Lifting his gaze to y/n’s, he only smiled

“ I’m fine Angel. I’m sorry if I startled you by raising my voice so much. “

Skepticism passed through y/n’s eyes before it changed to relief, but Deku’s smile never fades as it only remained on his expression, he could still see the guilt and remorse in her eyes as she stepped closer to him with hesitant steps that reminded him of a hesitant kitten rather than the angel he knew she was, and as she gently and softly wrapped her arms around him in a hug; a spark of happiness flashed through him, but the numbness remained even as one of his hands slipped in and out of his pockets before returning the embrace.

“ Deku- “

Any words that y/n had been about to say died in the wake of the quiet gasp that left her lips, as the needle of the syringe; the same one that he’d taken from the nurse's office was now buried in the side of her y/n’s neck. Keeping it there just long enough for the sleep-inducing drug that was inside of the syringe to be emptied into her body, before gently removing the needle and placing the syringe back inside of his pocket. His embrace around her was loving, gentle and protective yet firm as he supported her own wait with his own as the drug quickly began to take over; the ability to talk fading fast due to drowsiness as the only sounds that she could give at that moment were meek whimpers and short sentences, subsequently reducing y/n’s voice to a meek, sleepy whisper.

“ D-De...Ku..W-What…? “

Even in her hazy state, the fear that he could hear in y/n’s voice was not hard to miss as his hand softly rubbed slow circles on her back in soothing motions; his other gently running over y/n’s soft tresses as he whispered in her ear.

“ Shh, it’s okay Angel. You’re going to be okay. I’m sorry I had to do this...I didn’t want to do this... But it was the only way I could protect you. I love you, Angel...You’ll see that...Eventually. Just sleep for now. I promise I’ll be right here. “

Lifting y/n into his arms as her trembling form went limp due to unconsciousness, Deku’s gaze remained on y/n’s sleeping face, the smile still on his lips as the pure, passionate love that he felt towards Y/N; one that would be seen through every compliment and every smile that he would give her was now joined by something else, an obsession that twisted the once pure emotions into something frightening and twisted.

Yes, he knew it was wrong, but heroes protected people and the people they cared about, and in this case, he was protecting his Angel from those who sought to hurt her beautiful heart...Even if he knew that he didn’t deserve y/n’s heart or her himself. His eyes scan around the area for a brief moment, checking again to see if no one was around before looking back down to his now sleeping Angel. Lowering his lips to her forehead and placing a soft kiss, only to whisper, in a hushed but gentle voice, a gentleness that contradicted the frightening madness that had taken root after something had snapped inside of him.

“ Sleep well, My Angel. “

#Yandere!Deku x Reader #Yandere!Izuku Midoriya x Reader

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inca-oc · 4 years ago

Text

An End

Elaine regained her memories all those years ago, but not her mortality. Irin was completely and painfully mortal. It was a fact they both knew, as well as that everything eventually comes to an end.

TW: Suicide

Elaine's expression was that of deliberate, calculated calmness. Steady breathes were almost unnatural as she inhaled, exhaled, like perfect clockwork. The seconds counted down in her head as she tried to keep herself from hyperventilating. She tried to be strong even if she wanted to be anything but. She wanted to scream, to break something, to do anything to express how angry she was at the circumstances that she knew were unavoidable. She sat quiet instead. Count to four, breath in. Count to four, breath out. It was so quiet she could hardly keep her thoughts straight.

Her hand gently held that of Irin's, the aasimar's body was at this moment so unlike that of the one she had in her youth, but nonetheless it seemed aglow with radiant energy to Elaine. Once strong and full of energy she now lay frail with thin blankets hugging her thin frame. The deep black of her hair was completely silver after decades of aging. Her wrinkled face especially crinkled around her eyes as she weakly smiled, one that Elaine struggled to return. Age had not stolen her beauty from her.

How many weeks had it been since Irin had been able to stand on her own, since she had been strong enough to leave this bed? Elaine kicked herself mentally for failing to take her outside one last time. It was too late for that now.

"I'm so glad that I could spend my life with you," Irin said, the first to break the silence. It had felt once felt so thick, and yet her voice, so quiet it was scarcely even a whisper, cut through it so gently. So kindly. It made Elaine's heart ache even more.

It had been eighty years they had been together now. Eighty short years since she had been reminded of the life she had led before becoming a devil, a life she wanted to resume with Irin. Eighty years since she had been taken from Avernus to live within Faerûn. It had been a struggle in many ways; they had to keep to themselves for much of this time as a devil was unlikely to be welcomed by anyone, and killing anyone who sought to destroy Elaine would only serve to draw more attention to them. It was simply necessity to isolate. That wasn't all bad though as they had lived happy lives together and had traveled so many places, fighting creatures and helping in secret, and eventually settling down together in a home they built themselves. It was everything Irin had wanted, and Elaine was more than happy to have spent every moment of it together. It was just a shame it had to come to an end.

Elaine's wandering memories were brought to a sudden stop as she realized Irin had spoken to her once again, "I'm so sorry that I have to leave you alone."

"It's fine." Elaine's free hand at her side clenched into a fist, painfully. "Irin. It's okay, I promise."

Irin sighed, "It isn't. No, I--" A violent cough overtook her, startling Elaine half to her feet in alarm, but Irin waved her off as best she could. After what felt like far too long, Irin had recovered enough to continue. "I was selfish. I knew you would live longer than me and I did this to you regardless. I'm sorry."

Those last two words were like daggers. It was only a matter of time before her internal battle against her grief would be lost. She all but collapsed back into her chair, and it was then that she felt hot blood drip down to the floor, broken skin stinging painfully. Her hand at her side relaxed with great effort.

"Don't be stupid," she choked out, the hand holding Irin's pressing her skin against her cheek. She wouldn't allow herself to cry, not now. Not when Irin felt guilty enough as it were. "I would gladly do it again. You didn't force me to stay. We both knew, Irin."

"I suppose you're right." She smiled sadly, closing her eyes and exhaling slowly, shakily. It appeared that she too was trying to remain strong. "Please let me be sorry, Elaine. I can tell you're in pain. You're bad at lying when you're upset."

Breath hitched, the clockwork was suddenly interrupted completely. To Elaine, it felt as though her throat completely closed up. She'd thought that she had done an adequate job and had hidden her agony; no, she'd failed, she had hurt Irin with her own pain. Stupid. She was practically suffocating and the pressure sat like rocks on her chest. It took all her strength to keep breathing again. Counting internally. Keep counting.

"No I'm not."

"You are." Again, Irin smiled up at the once-tiefling with half open eyes and squeezed her hand. Elaine could hardly tell she had even done so. She didn't dare squeeze back. Had she been this weak moments ago? "Your feelings are honest. Even when words are not."

Unable to respond, she kept counting.

They stared unmoving into each other's eyes for what seemed like hours, but even an eternity would not have been long enough for Elaine when they again closed. That warmth was all she wanted right now, to keep feeling that warmth.

"I love you."

Elaine felt her eyes burn. "You too." It was all she could manage to get out. She had lost her battle and she couldn't hold back the sobs any longer. Moments later, Elaine knew that Irin had lost her own battle as well.

She was buried beneath a large tree that they had spent countless afternoons sitting under, reading or eating or simply existing together. Elaine hated that sunlight now. The bright light reminded her too much of those happy moments, of the golden color of Irin's eyes, of the glow that she always seemed to have about her very being. The heat that bore unrelentingly upon her reminded her of where Elaine knew she would soon be. She was well aware that she would never again see Irin, for she was far too good a soul for Avernus to take; she was everything Elaine had wished she could be. It was a foolish, impossible wish for a devil who would never escape the clutches of the first circle of hell. She hoped that Irin had not been cursed with this same knowledge before she'd passed. She never would have forgiven herself, she had felt too guilty already.

Akin to a statue, Elaine knelt upon the freshly moved dirt, completely still, the only movement being the slow breathes she took. She placed her hands on the ground: it was warmed from the sun. She had been sitting here far longer than she knew if it was this warm. Perhaps flowers will grow here someday, Elaine thought to herself with a thin smile. Irin would have liked that a lot.

She held her breath, savoring the feeling, the dull pain it brought when her lungs screamed for relief. Exhale. The physical pain subsided.

Elaine had waited long enough. It was time.

"I'm sorry your kindness was wasted on someone like me," she whispered, reaching to her side and taking in her hands a thin blade that placed on her chest with deadly calm, the tip directly over her heart. Her hands were steadier now than they had been all day. "Thank you all the same though." She smiled widely, looking towards the sky. It was blinding. "I hope wherever you are that you're happy. I hope you know how happy I was with you."

She held her breath, and prepared for the pain. She counted to four, one last time.

"Goodbye Irin."

Although their spirits would be forever separate, at least in physical body they would both be together underneath this tree. That was the wish Elaine had now, and of all the wishes she had, it was the only one she had the power to bring true.

#main: irin #main: elaine #writing: irin #writing: elaine #ship: irin #ship: elaine

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zombiesbecrazy · 5 years ago

Text

the beginning of impossible

Summary: Jason and Bruce in a recognizable desert

AO3

Jason couldn’t stand to watch the timer tick down any further and when it clicked down to three seconds he shut his eyes tight and wished that he was somewhere else. Home. Jail. Space. Anywhere but three seconds away from death in a warehouse in the middle of the desert with no one but the woman who sold him out to the Joker beside him. With his last thought, he curled his beaten body around her to try and cover her from the impending blast.

It was what Robin should do, even at the end.

He heard the blast before he felt it, loud and roaring and ringing in his ears and then he was temporarily airborne, before crashing to the ground in a broken mess of agony.

Jason lay there on the ground, struggling to breathe, fire burning through his entire body, pain shooting in sharp waves in a way that he couldn’t identify a part of his body that wasn’t screaming. He focused on it, thriving on it, because as terrible as the agony was it meant that he was alive. If the pain stayed that meant he wasn’t dead and not dead was an absolutely fantastic living status to have after being blown up by the Joker.

It felt like hours ticking by and he dedicated himself to breathing in, holding it, and then exhaling, concentrating on it like his life depended on it. Jason was starting to drift off, giving into the pain when he jolted. Batman was there and Jason felt him before he heard him. Batman’s arms, Bruce’s arms, were wrapping around him tight. He would know the Batsuit anywhere, hard and cool and smelling like Kevlar.

“B’man?” Jason mumbled, but he wasn’t sure if the words came out or his mouth was even listening to his brain.

The arms wrapped around him squeezed and Jason could feel Bruce shaking uncontrollably in his chest and in his shoulders, like he did when he was laughing; those rare occasions where it wasn’t just a chuckle, when it was a full on hard belly laugh, roaring out in sharp barks that echoed through the Cave. Jason couldn’t figure out what Bruce was laughing about. Had he said something funny? He couldn’t remember. While he was trying to figure it out, he must have inadvertently made some sort of sound because just as fast as the pressure had begun, Bruce loosened his hold and pulled back his cowl, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Oh. Oh.

Jason tried to think of what to say, tried to think of a way to put Bruce’s terror at ease, but it was hard to think, hard to focus on anything other than the pain. He gave up trying to find some words to make Bruce smile and just kept his eyes on him.

Bruce had found him. He was safe.

The longer he stared at Bruce, the more Jason realised that something was very wrong because Bruce’s lips were moving, but there wasn’t any sound coming out. He blinked repeatedly, as if it would somehow turn the sound on, but with no luck. “What are you say…” Jason trailed off when he couldn’t hear his own words. He swallowed deeply, licked his blood crusted lips and tried again. “Batman...” The pressure in his chest grew, not the pain, but the horror, as realization started to set in. “Bruce, I can’t hear you.” He couldn’t hear the tone in his words but he knew that it was cracking and rushed. “I can’t hear.’

Jason could see Bruce’s lips moving again, but he couldn’t hear anything beyond a shrill ringing and now that he was aware that something was wrong he quickly started to panic and when he panicked, he rambled. He started apologizing to Bruce for running away and for getting trapped and for not doing his math homework before he left and the ringing in his head was making his brain feel like screaming into the void and he was freaking out more, starting to give in to hiccupping gasps, sobbing as he squeezed his eyes shut again.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and he forced himself to open his eyes, still gasping and why was it suddenly so hard to breath? Bruce took off his gloves and patted Jason on the cheek to try and draw his attention back to him. Jason locked eyes on Bruce and gave a short nod. He could focus. He could be Robin. Bruce pointed at his lips. They moved and Jason shook his head. Bruce pointed at them again, more insistent.

“I can’t hear,” Jason breathes out. Or maybe he yells it, he’s really not sure and that scares him more than the bomb or the Joker had.

Bruce pointed a third time before Jason understood what he was trying to say. Jason knew how to read lips, better than he understood ASL, but in the hysteria of the situation it wasn’t registering. Jason took a deep breath, willed himself to try and calm down, try and ignore the pain and the terror that he couldn’t hear anything and focused on Bruce’s lips. It was a struggle to concentrate and he didn’t catch everything but it was enough.

“… know it hurts but we have to get you out of here. I’m … to take you to the plane and … going to get help. Come on, Jaylad. Let me … you understand.”

“Yeah, B. I gotcha.”

The smallest of smiles crossed Bruce’s face, one that Jason would never have noticed if he hadn’t been so focused on watching Bruce’s lips. “I need to pick … up. It’s going to … a lot.”

Of course it was going to hurt; it already hurt. He thought he was prepared (because how could it possibly get worse?) but the searing pain that shot through his body when Bruce lifted him like nothing he had ever felt before which he fleetingly thought was strange considering he had literally just been exploded. He might be screaming, he wasn’t not entirely sure, but he felt Bruce’s hand on his back, rubbing in circles, trying to soothe him when he finally blacks out from the pain.

Jason woke up slowly, head feeling like its full of rocks and strapped down to a the bed in the back of the Batplane under a heavy blanket, body strangely numb in a way that only meant that he was drugged up to the gills in pain meds. There is a card propped up on the table beside him in Bruce’s neat block letters asking Jason to call for him if he wakes up.

“Bruce,” Jason croaked out and it’s then that he remembers the time between the explosion and waking up on the plane with perfect clarity because he still can’t hear his own words and it all comes rushing back. The ringing is gone, but so is everything else.

By the time Bruce arrives by his side, the tears are silently spilling over. Bruce takes his hand and squeezes it tight before locking eyes on him and silently asks “Hearing?”

Jason shakes his head, not trusting his voice, especially when he can’t hear how it sounds. Bruce’s lips tighten into a thin line. He pulls an auriscope off the table and looks into Jason’s right ear and then his left. Jason can feel him doing something on each side, and thinks he might be snapping his fingers but he can’t be sure and he doesn’t want to turn his head to check because he really doesn’t want to know the answer.

Bruce sits down in the chair beside the bed and faces Jason head on, giving him a clear view of his lips. “We won’t be able to tell if it’s permanent or not until we get back and have you checked out. We’re still about an hour out. Alfred’s remote piloting us home now that you are awake.”

“I don’t know if that’s necessary, B.” Bruce raised an eyebrow and Jason clarified. “Doctors looking at it. Feels pretty permanent.”

“Over half of your bones are broken and I had to do emergency surgery in the field, which I am extremely underqualified for, to stop your lacerated liver from bleeding out.” Bruce takes a moment to look down and collect his thoughts before facing Jason again and his face is pale and eyes are haunted. “I had my hands in your torso and you almost died, so yes, you are getting checked out regardless as to whether you can hear or not.”

Jason sniffs and tries to life his arm to wipe away the tears on his face but finds that he’s too bandaged up to do so. Bruce picked up some gauze and started to dab away the tears carefully.

“I’m sorry, B.” He’s sorry for so many things and he doesn’t know where to start. “I’m not going to be able to be Robin any more. Not if I can’t hear. I’m not going to be any use to you and I...”

“Never say that.” Jason can’t hear him but he can imagine the pitch. Hard and firm and stubborn, the voice that he took with something that isn’t up for debate. “Never say that you aren’t any use to me. You are my son, not a tool in my belt. I am so glad… when I arrived, I was certain you were dead. I thought that I was holding your dead body in my arms.” He shook his head, maybe at Jason but maybe at his own thoughts as well. “I don’t care if you can hear or not right now. I’m just so damn happy that you are alive.” He leaned over and kissed Jason gently on the forehead, and tucked the blanket around him a little tighter. The blanket that upon closer inspection was Bruce’s cape. “It’s going to take you a while to recover, but when you are ready and if you want to get back out there, we’ll figure something out.”

“It’s impossible, Bruce.”

“Never tell me that something is impossible. It’ll just make me work harder to solve the problem.”

“Whatever, Bruce. I’m pretty sure that I know an impossible case when I hear one.” Jason snorted at his own words, making his chest ache. “Or don’t hear one.”

Bruce smiled and squeezed Jason’s hand again and Jason promised himself that he would tell Bruce it was impossible a hundred times if it meant seeing that relieved smile on his father’s face every time.

#whumptober2019 #no.2 #Jason todd #bruce wayne #no one dies in the desert this time

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benscalligraphypen · 5 years ago

Text

Ad Infinitum: I. Mercy

WC: 2,347

Warnings: Mention of death, angst.

Author’s Note:

Hey everyone! This is my first ever piece of fiction. I love to write and I’ve always wanted to write for the characters I love. Throughout all of this madness, I have been so inspired by other authors lately that I decided to finally give it a “go”.

This fic is set in/directly after TROS storyline, but we’re just going to pretend that Ben is alive following the events on Exegol (I get the whole Bendemption plot, but I’m still not over it). Also keep in mind that the reader doesn’t know Ben is Leia/Han’s son. We’re starting out with a semi-long dreamscape, but things will pic up in the next chapter!

Thank you all so much for reading and please let me know what you all think!

Flames engulf your every sense. The crackle of the inferno, harsh to your ears. Lungs burning with every inhale, your body searches - screams for oxygen. In a desperate rush to flee your imminent asphyxiation, you haul your aching limbs from your small cot, legs heavy with sleep. Lack of oxygen and your inability to shake the drowsy haze numbing your instincts, your knees buckle and you tumble towards the cool stone floor. Finally, eyes open, the smoke fills your sight - it blinds and stings. Your lungs expel billowing breaths of smoke and soot - you feel dangerously close to death. With shaky joints, you crawl to the wooden opening, promising sweet release. The architecture around you whines and groans under the pressure of the heat and flames making your rushed escape all the more urgent. With hands and knees raw from the terrain, you manage to crack the door open, hinges giving way with a low and heavy creak.

Shoving the door ajar just enough to slip your tired body through, hands weary, you pull yourself to the cobblestone just outside of the structure. Sudden relief floods your senses as your lungs greedily inhale the pristine night air. You give your shaking arms a rest as you turn to lay on your back. Body soothed by the cool stone, you lay surveying the vast expanse of stars which flood your vision - flames canvasing your view.

You hear it then - distant wailing, cries of agony. With a clear oxygenated mind, you sense danger - apprehension turning fiery nerve endings into dry ice.

Slowly, you flip your fragile body over to scrutinize the landscape before you. Eyes widening, you watch in horror as surrounding huts are swallowed in a fiery blaze. As far as your sight can stretch, blinding waves of orange and red incinerate the grounds. Distantly, you spot the temple, crumbling in fiery confrontation. Within the destruction around you, your eyes spot Yanna, a dear friend. Though a few years younger than you, Yanna is a promising student; much more diligent and much stronger with the force than most her age. A fleeting wave of comfort washes over you until you realize the worst. She lay limp amongst the rubbled remains of her hut. You can’t sense her - force signature seemingly wiped from her body.

She can’t be.

She’s gone.

Looking around, you realize the same fate has met several other force-sensitive pupils as you had acquainted yourself with through the years. Overwhelming grief cascades through your very being. You sit up on tender knees in disbelief - the breath seemingly wiped from your lungs. Uncontrollable tears stream down soot-stained cheeks as the world around you burns. You clutch your ribcage as sobs wrack your body, making you sick with sorrow.

In your moment of hysteria, your skin buzzes, the force making you suddenly hyper aware. Looking up, your eyes adjust to the scene unfolding around you. You sense him. Ben.

Your Ben.

He’s Alive.

Just past the line of huts within your line of sight, you see him. Even in the shadow of night, Ben’s presence perplexes you.

He feels - different.

You sense it. His signature is dark. Ben’s usually languid and smooth form carries a sense of severity you do not recognize. Ben’s movements are crazed, leaden with purpose. He rigidly searches the grounds. You cry out for him a moment before you see it - the unmistakable cerulean blaze of his saber.

Ben’s movements falter; his pause yielding visual and energetic bursts of tension. Your mind pieces together the scene before you just as his gaze finds you. His brow bone, heavy with frustration, anger. Those lips - formed into a dangerous snarl causing your heart to race.

Fear becomes you. Ben’s heavy strides carry him to your frozen form before you have time to react, to hide. Ben’s eyes, illuminated by fire, are red with agony. You feel a tidal wave of emotion emanating from him - fear, betrayal, grief, sadness, anger.

The anger reverberating through him scares you most of all. Fury encapsulates him, reflecting in his irises. Ben’s saber remains ignited and pointed towards your form, his other, clenched in a tight fist.

“Ben -” you manage to whisper, voice failing you. His brow momentarily softens, eyes glossing over, saber lowering a millimeter.

Just as suddenly as you glimpse a sense of humanity, Ben clenches his jaw, shoulders tensing, saber aimed with purpose once again.

“Ben is dead - he was weak,” Ben replies, tears threatening to escape his eyes, cracking his stoic expression.

Ben’s saber, emanating pure unadulterated heat crackles as it threatens certain death with a swift “swish”. You worry your bottom lip between your teeth as fresh tears fall from your eyes - not in fear, but in pain. Ben’s pain, you realize. Ben’s grip on his saber leaves his knuckles impossibly white. You wonder how he hasn’t shattered the hilt.

“What - what happened?”, you whisper once more, teary eyes meeting his own, searching for remnants of his soul. Ben’s eyes explore your face for any sign of betrayal. You feel him prodding at your mind, looking for your next move.

Ben exhales like he had been holding his breath for minutes rather than moments. You observe the same degree of stress in his body; tense, ready to snap.

“Luke Skywalker tried to kill me”, Ben’s jaw clenches as he all but spits out the words. “Everything in my life has been a lie. But not now,” he shakes his head. “It is clear what I must do”. His words send a harsh shudder through your body. Head hung low, your sore knees send gentle tremors throughout your being.

Silence, besides the warm hiss of his saber fills the space between you. Looking up into his eyes, “Ben - I don’t understand. Help me understand,” you plead.

His eyes betray him, shock soaking his features. He hadn’t been prepared to explain himself. His urges were primal - the result of several years of uncertainty, of rejection. He had acted to reclaim himself - assert some semblance of power he felt had always eluded him. Inwardly, he scolds himself. He should have already killed you.

Ben’s expression returns to that of apathy. He had revealed himself for a fleeting moment, and as quickly, had hidden himself away in some abandoned box in his mind. You feel his uncertainty, but are locked out of his conscience as swiftly as he senses your prying.

“I know what I have to do. I must leave this place. I must let the past die,” Ben utters through closed teeth.

Silence again plagues the short distance between you. The gravity of his words now registering in your mind, your soul.

Ben.

Your light.

Your life.

The only boy you had ever loved.

Ben is going to kill you.

The thought registers, seeping like tar through your veins. You hang your head in defeat, awaiting the inevitable slash of his saber. Heavy sobs wrack your tired form, filling the air with grief, with surrender.

You cry and cry, thinking about your most cherished memories.You think of his smile. You think of Ben’s heated gaze filling you with such warmth; you might implode before he even strikes you. You think of the nights he held you so close to his chest you became one with his own heartbeat.

As peace fills your being, Ben whispers, “Come with me”.

You raise your eyes to meet his own - sullen, purposeful, pleading. Your lip trembles, knowing his meaning and knowing that more than anything, you want to follow - to be with him. You try to convince yourself you have the strength to do so. You try to convince yourself that everything will be alright so long as you’re together. He tries too.

You find yourself quaking in the solemn knowledge that you could never give him what he was asking of you. You would never be able to pledge yourself to the dark side of the force - regardless of the pain you feel. Regardless of your soul’s need to be with Ben.

You know that your Ben is gone.

“I - I can’t. I’m sorry,” your voice carries with more strength than you believe you can muster. “You know I can’t. A- and you know I -.”

“I know,” he replies, a stray tear rushing from the corner of his eye. You offer him a small smile, trying to engulf him in the love you feel for him - the love you will always feel for him.

Bracing yourself, you look to the sky, searching the stars for answers to questions you’ve never voiced. Closing your eyes, you feel a tear soothe your blazing skin as you exhale in surrender to your fate.

You feel warm. But not from the burn of Ben’s lightsaber.

You feel enveloped in warmth. Bewildered, you open your eyes to find yourself folded into Ben’s arms, his quivering body rapidly pulling you into reality. Ben had collapsed to his knees before you, binding his body with yours. You notice his saber laying dormant on the ground, inches from his form. Ben’s face burrows itself into the seam where your neck and your shoulder meet, seeking purchase in you. Hot tears fall from his eyes and seep into your skin. Without another thought, you tightly bind your arms around his shoulders, attempting to merge your bodies into one, attempting to piece him back together.

Ben withdraws his face from your body, keeping his arms tightly wound around you. You look up into his glossy eyes as a sense of willful determination - resolve returns.

Ben waves a hand in front of your eyes, “You will speak nothing of this night”.

“I will speak nothing of this night,” you drone, entranced. Ben releases your waist, placing both hands on your shoulders for support.

He pauses. “You will forget this night and you will not follow, or track me.”

“I will forget this night and I will not follow, or track you,” you ramble back, eyes glossed over. Ben pauses once more, staring deep into your eyes, memorizing you.

“You will close yourself off from the force... and you will forget me.”

“I will close myself off from the force and I will forget you” you whisper - obedient, though hesitant.

Ben’s hand waves in front of your eyes once more.

“Sleep,” he utters, just before the world around you fades to black.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

You bolt awake, the bright light of the medic tent temporarily blinding you.

“Kriff,” you quietly curse yourself.

“How long have I been out?” you think.

You had just been organizing reports, charting the aftermath of the last mission gone awry. The pile of paperwork in front of you had the faint reminiscence of drool staining the pages. You inwardly curse as you pull yourself from your desk chair and move to put the files back in their place.

The silence around the tent is almost jarring. There was nearly always some sort of medical emergency to deal with, keeping you busy. Not now though. It had been two days since almost the whole of the Resistance had made its way to Exegol with Rey’s help.

You absentmindedly file, reflecting on the bravery of your colleagues, knowing you could never think to contribute to the cause in that way.

You enjoy being a medic. You enjoy the monotonous day-to-day tasks during times of calm and you live for the thrill and sense of purpose you get from saving lives when duty calls.

Having cleaned your work station for the night, you move through the tent, checking the few patients resting peacefully on their gurneys. You walk past the droid station where you spot several bots charging and the med assistant, Andra, peacefully reading on a datapad.

“ ’Night Andra,” you murmur, slowing as you pass her relaxed form.

“Sheesh, it’s about time you get some rest. Goodnight, (Y/N),” Andra sleepily replies, yawning as she speaks. You chuckle, making your way out of the opening. “Hey!” you turn back expectantly. “You work too hard,” Andra scolds.

You let out a quiet laugh, not sparing a glance behind you, waving a hand in acknowledgement. Leaves and dry dirt crunch under your boots as you make your way to your tent. You cross your arms over your chest, the night air on Ajan Kloss making your walk brisk, but comfortable. The base is quiet, save for the gentle breeze rustling thick jungle leaves. You wish the calm of the night air would engulf you.

You wish.

But this dream. This persistent dream - this nightmare has plagued you for days. Over the past week, this dream has woken you, burdening you with feelings of profound sadness, loneliness, loss.

You can’t pinpoint why this dream feels so real. The only time you had dreamt of this was years ago - merely a teenager’s nightmare.

It all just feels so real.

The fire, the smoke, the sadness, the embrace.

You happen upon your tent as you think of him.

Kriff, he feels so real.

You stumble inside, working your way through the dark with little trouble. You clamber out of your pants, clumsily as ever. You don’t even bother with your sweater - your mind too preoccupied to worry about the worn piece of clothing. Collapsing on your bed, you think of him.

Closing your eyes, you’re met with his - searing brown, seemingly staring into your very core. You shudder at the sheer power and beauty they seem to possess. You map his smattering of freckles, strewn about his narrow face, much like constellations. Oh how your fingers long to trace them. A plush set of lips, soft, pillowy. His long, prominent nose, perfectly tying his features together. His ears, slightly awkward, somehow making him seem more human. You imagine brushing a piece of his silky raven hair behind his ear.

He is a masterpiece.

Huffing one final sigh, you look up at the dim, beige cloth “ceiling” and ponder the origin of your dream. You wonder if perhaps, the boy you keep seeing - Ben, is somehow lost and thinking of you too. His face, much like other nights, becomes the last thing you see as you succumb to the intoxicating pull of sleep.

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spirit-of-the-void · 5 years ago

Text

Echo Chamber (Vergil x Reader Fanfic) Chapter One

Author’s notes: Howdy fellow cryptids! Vergil’s time is here, and we’re starting off slow and steady

Chapter One

There is blood on your face.

The temperature was fresh, warm, the scent...strange. Metallic doesn’t describe it quite right, nor does blood have a particular odor no matter how much your mind claimed it had. Seeing all that deep, profound red created in effect that would never seem to go away. Maybe it was the fact that it was your blood, or maybe it was just how much of it had splattered on your exposed skin. Wearing shorts that day was probably not the best idea, which could be said about a lot of the day’s actions. Mistakes beyond anyone’s control had occurred, things moving too fast and too loud. The pounding of drums had halted, guitar riffs silenced by more screams of fear than one needed to hear on a given day. The tempo rising, above the concert hall rafters and ringing with a sound so profound you would never forget it.

The sounds of death.

Why didn’t you run? The portal had opened right before your eyes, the sight of a demon’s hideous features a stark contrast to the delighted faces of the crowd. The riff on your guitar had halted first, fingers freezing and a cry of alarm ringing through the microphone. Every chance to bolt had come then, when the crowd had tried to scramble, screaming as creature after creature filled the empty space they left. Chasing, claws outstretched and teeth snapping. Security had fired bullet after bullet, but were quickly overpowered by so many writhing bodies of flesh and spikes. Your band had dropped their instruments, the microphone’s loud ring sharp on the ears as each set of feet scrambled to get off the stage, remaining employees leading the way to an entrance they could leave through.

So...why didn’t you run?

The sight of Pepper, tripping on the wire of Boris’ guitar, landing hard on her side just as a creature clawed up to the stage. Brown eyes wide with fear, curls half hanging over her face as the demon started scrambling closer and closer. There was drool dripping from its maw, dozens of beady eyes staring with such a hunger that nothing else seemed comparable. Seeing what the others did to the fans offstage, their bodies mangled and bloodied...save her, you had to save Pepper. No one else was close enough, you were at the end of the line--it could be done, there was just no room for hesitation in any capacity. So you didn’t hesitate.

Slow motion, why did it feel like slow motion? Maybe it was the adrenaline pumping its way through your veins, heart pounding louder than Walter’s drums and spurring you to act. Pepper had screamed, reaching for you just as the creature’s claws extended out, feet scrambling to be free of the cord tangling around them. Surely the stage manager and their crew should have taken care of hazards like that? Sloppy, a mess that could have been avoided, but you were in no place to point the finger of blame. The realization registered then vanished, eyes trained on your friend as you pulled her into a standing position, trying to run before the extended claws hit their mark.

They hit something alright, but not what they were aiming for.

In retrospect, you felt no pain. Which was odd, right? Surely it would have hurt, surely it would have been the worst agony of your life. A doctor told you afterwards that it was the adrenaline pumping through your system, almost like a protective barrier between you and the onslaught of pain. The only indication that something had been wrong was the fact that you had crumbled to the floor, vision spinning and Pepper flung forward toward the others just as they started running to your aid. What...was on your face again? Warm, red, metallic. There was a moment of dazed confusion, eyes gazing at your bandmates as they stared back with horror and screamed. Why were they looking at you like that?

Why couldn’t you get up?

Why was there red liquid on your face?

Your leg felt--what is that sensation?

You couldn’t get up. Weakness came next, sweeping over just as your fingers started to shake. Someone was firing a gun--several someones as a matter of fact. It was all you could hear for whatever reason, like your head was filling with water and roaring like a raging river. Numb, all over. You lost focus on several things, eyes glassy as Kraven and Boris lifted you, screaming your name as they tried to get your body out of the line of fire aimed at the demonic creatures. Everything should have been loud, right? The screams, the bullets, your friends sobbing and wailing for help as they tied something tight around your left leg. What was happening? Stopping the blood, you were told later--this action is what saved your life from blood loss. It was Celine’s belt that had been strapped around your red-soaked thigh, the white color a stark contrast against so much crimson.

“Y/N…!”

Christ, you were so tired. Eyelids drooping, so hard to breathe...why was it so hard to breathe?

“Stay with us--eyes open, look at me…!”

You couldn’t even lift your head, vision swimming as Kraven’s hands grasped your face. Why was he crying? Why was everyone crying?

“Somebody help us…! Please…!”

Your eyes flew open, a gasp leaving your lips and eyes staring at the ceiling of your room.

The air was chilled from the air conditioner, low hum of it a small reminder of reality after something so...jarring. Breathe, I need to breathe--it had been over a year now, hadn’t it? Just over a year. Surely moving past something like this took time, but you weren’t the type to usually let things get you down so terribly. So used to being positive, so used to bouncing back...one step at a time, right? How ironic. A sigh left your lips at the thought, arm slung over to block out the light managing to hit your face despite the curtains being drawn to avoid just that. Sunlight streamed from the windows, peeking through the cracks of your curtains in a defiant manner against the steps you had taken to keep the room dark. No avoiding reality for too long, the day loud and boisterous as always.

You sat up slowly in your bed, pushing the layers of blankets off and shivering at the cold air. It was just one of many steps meant to ground you in the moment, back in the present time instead of the memories plaguing your tired mind. You scooted to the edge of the mattress, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and yawning lightly in the quiet space. Another dream...you were starting to get used to them. This was the third night this week that the memory of that day came back, so clear compared to the time it had happened. Like watching it all from a video screen, one that was clear of the fear and energy that had driven the day’s events. You didn’t appreciate it, not even a little bit. Why couldn’t your head just move on from all that crap? It was making things so hard.

Regardless, you sighed, staring down at your thighs with a strange feeling of numbness. As always. Waking felt so disorienting sometimes, like the dreams you had were nightmares instead of a past event replaying like a cruel reel of film. Seeing the truth presented every morning was just another step in the process, wasn’t it? Acknowledging reality and building yourself up in kind despite how disconnected you felt from your own body. Because those were your thighs, weren’t they? Skin clear and smooth, still warm from sitting under your nest of blankets but slowly becoming chilled with goosebumps. You extended one leg, stretching the muscles of your calf and wiggling your toes experimentally--yeah, they responded to your brain firing off commands, felt real and functioned as they should.

Everything accounted for, on the right side at least. As for the left...well.

Breathe. You will be fine.

You took a slow, measured breath, forcing yourself to acknowledge the lack of flesh on the other side, empty space in place of where your left leg had once been. How could it still feel so strange to look at, even after dealing with it for over a year? Your brain tried to disconnect the image from your head, telling you that it still felt the leg there despite how it was very obviously gone--the demon made sure of that. It’s disgusting claws had ripped it off right above the knee, relentless and unforgiving in its pursuit of flesh and blood. To be honest, you’d rather have lost a leg than died at the very least and luckily that was the case. Surgeries, physical therapy, and several months of recovery later...you were functioning again, making the best of a bad situation, right?

At least...that was what you told yourself. Shaking the mental aspects of everything was a bit much.

You were determined to think otherwise, promising yourself that everything was fine as you pulled the sleeve onto the stump left behind. You were steady, right? Had been your whole life, cheerful and determined despite how some things had worked out. Pursuing music, joining the band, supporting them with every ounce of passion in your body...this was not the type of thing to break you down. But... convincing your stupid cranium of that fact was the hard part, wasn’t it? Another part of the process, one you tried to do as you slipped on the familiar chill of the prosthetic, making sure everything was secure and in place before rising to your feet. Balance found, head clearing, mind...getting there.

Learning how to walk with a new leg had taken some time, but...you had gotten used to it by now. Your steps steadied as you grabbed your phone from the nightstand, eyes carefully passing over the purple of your guitar leaning against a wall in the room. I wish it didn’t hurt to look at something that used to make me so happy. It was of little consequence as your foot padded on the hardwood leading to the stairs, each one taken carefully despite how little of them their were. Everything was like that now...careful. One foot at a time, eyes watching until the landing was met and the kitchen within sight. It was only then that you allowed yourself to glance at the time, phone screen lighting up to show six messages for you to read, and two missed calls.

You winced. Ah. Like clockwork.

The messages were from your bandmates, two missed calls from your manager Mathius. You busied yourself with reading everything as you made coffee, breakfast consisting of a plain bagel with cream cheese and orange marmalade. Making something heavier would have kept you preoccupied longer, but you didn’t really have the motivation for it after having another dream of that day. Find comfort in simplicity for now. Munching quietly, reading the good morning texts from each friend with a hint of wistfulness and...guilt.

It had been so long since you played anything with them...could you even consider yourself a member of Eidolon’s Fall anymore? At least they still seemed to think so.

“Hey kitten. Good morning--unless you sleep in today, then good afternoon. Call me when you get a chance.” From Kraven, lead singer and angelic vocalist. A very wonderful human being, charming in every aspect and one of the most supportive friends in your life.

“Sleep in till noon and risk me coming by to check on you. And If I do, someone is getting a spankin’.” Celine’s message sounded vaguely threatening, punctuated by several kissing emojis and raised hands. Band bass player, and the one you knew the longest besides Boris. Which made sense, since they were siblings.

Boris’ message was next, a cheerful, “Good morning, sugar! How are you feeling?” With several hearts and sparkles. Trying to brighten your day, that was clear. Boris was always a ray of sunshine, you couldn’t help but smile. The two of you had learned how to play guitar together, and duel-played during most songs.

“Yo--just checking in on you, kid. Message me when you can.” Ah, there was the simplistic, gruff concern from Walter. Drummer, easily the oldest in the group just by a few years.

“Howdy killer, give me a call at your earliest convenience. And by that, I mean you’d better call me when you wake up. Worried about you.” Mathius must have texted when you didn’t answer the phone, checking in on you daily to see how everything was going.

Out of everyone, he was the one pushing the most for you to start playing music again--and why wouldn’t he? As the band manager, his job kind of relied on it. You didn’t blame him, but...that callback might not be coming, unfortunate for him. The constant questions and update requests were growing very...very tiring. The other band members were trying to give you space, not wanting to rush your progress or force you out of that comfort zone. They understood...they did. And you loved them for that.

The final message was from Pepper, and the hesitation was obvious. Simple and soft, you could almost read it in her voice.

“How are you doing? I’m here if you wanna talk.”

A sigh left your lips, fingers typing out each reply in kind to their messages. Promising everyone you were fine, challenging Celine to not make threats she wasn’t willing to follow through with. You grabbed a cup of coffee after adding a ton of cream and sugar, making your way to the living room and sitting down in an armchair to call Kraven. Mathius wasn’t getting a call back, but Kraven was your friend and he was easy to talk to. He didn’t feel the need to tiptoe around your feelings and emotions, keeping things straight and to the point while also acknowledging you needed time to recover. Through this whole recovery process, he had been a much needed support and loyal friend, so after another nightmare...he would definitely be the one to confide in.

So you dialed his number, sitting back in the chair and lifting the prosthetic leg to stare at it while the dial tone droned on a few times. It looked as close to a real leg as manufacturers could get, with pants on it wouldn’t even be noticeable--leggings was pushing things, but you had gotten away with it. Technology was advancing every day too, you wouldn’t be shocked if in a few years there was a more streamlined, superior model to try out. Either way...you weren’t sure when you’d feel comfortable enough wearing shorts again. Which sucked, especially considering how many clothes you adored that bared your legs. But...every time you tried to convince yourself to wear them out, something in your head kept shooting it down despite all the reasoning.

Insecurity blows. I should not be insecure—I am a goddess, damn it. My body is a temple.

It was on that thought that Kraven finally picked up the phone, his smooth voice low and familiar, “Up before noon? What a change of pace.”

You rolled your eyes, sipping the coffee loudly and obnoxiously before you replied, “Its eleven thirty, smartass. And for your information, I never really sleep till noon--I wake up at ten and sit looking at memes for two hours.”

“Really? Thought you were avoiding social media.”

That made you wince, sinking down in the armchair as you thought about all the social media accounts you hadn’t posted to in weeks. You loved the small group of fans the band had, but all the worried messages were starting to feel...pressured. Going from “we’re rooting for you and love you” messages to “when will you be coming back? We miss you” messages. The guilt was just too much, and any excuses felt flimsy at best when you typed them out. And honestly, anything you could explain would only discourage people more--telling them that it was hard to play music after that night was just harsh, and adding the fact that you didn’t think you could play another concert was worse.

This blows.

“I don’t need to look at my pages to scout memes,” You quipped with a huff, gripping the coffee cup in one hand and balancing the phone on your shoulder, “And for your information, I posted something a couple weeks ago.”

If rolling eyes had a sound, that was what Kraven made in response to your statement, “And what a post it was! A picture of Celine’s cat, zero updates on your condition--how stimulating.”

He’s in a jackass mood today.

“Rude, Catsby is a very good boy,” You protested, staring at the empty cup of coffee in your hand before setting it on a nearby table, “You’re going right for my eyebrows already, slim? Are you and Boris fighting or something?”

That made Kraven snort a laugh, you both knowing full well that the two haven’t fought a single day since they started dating each other. Going on five or six years now, they completed each other in the best way and agreed on everything. It was almost disgustingly sweet, and you were a strange mix of happy for them and wistful about not ever having a love like that. Maybe someday, but you doubted it would be any time soon with how things had gone. Your head was still messed up from trauma, and until you did something about it there would be no dating anyone. Hell, even while in the band relationships had just paled in comparison to your passion for music, so thinking about romance felt...odd. It was definitely the depression talking, which you didn’t like.

Regardless...Kraven was talking again.

“We never fight--and for your information, I’m cranky because Mathius is up my ass,” Kraven complained, tone edging toward annoyance and anger, “And not in the fun ‘we need lubricants’ way.”

Ah. That made sense. As technical band leader, Kraven must have been taking on the brunt of the manager’s pushing and prodding.

Which made you feel...guilty.

“Sorry…” You murmured, resting your chin on your knee and staring at a nearby wall, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” The vocalist firmly protested, sounding incredibly displeased at your glum tone as he continued, “You haven’t done anything wrong and I won’t have you feeling bad for it--Matt has always been the biggest dickhead in the west, and he’s just breathing down our necks for a new album ‘cause he thinks this year break is a bad thing. Some bands have taken longer so he can eat my ass--and not in the fun way.”

That made you smile a bit, just a tiny one. Kraven always had a way with words.

You pushed your hair over one shoulder, idly braiding some of the ends as a small gust of air pushed out of your lungs, “Yeah, well...he is right in a way. I should be trying more. But…” Hesitation bubbled forth, lodging the words in your throat as the night’s events came back. Blood, red, the sight of your fans in the front row mangled and…

Breathing exercises, dummy. Stop thinking about that stuff.

You swallowed it down a bit, the food and coffee on your stomach not settling well as you murmured, “I had another nightmare last night. Another...y’know.”

And he did. There was a pause on the other end of your call, Kraven’s breath slightly audible as he took in the tiny voice you used, the fear bleeding through the calm facade you tried to keep up at all times. With Kraven and the others...you could only afford to be vulnerable so much, at least in your opinion. So many of them had come from bad situations, and your life had eventually found the most stability of them all after your grandmother passed away.

You didn’t meet the woman until your teenage years, growing up alongside Boris and Celine in an orphanage, but she raised you after that and left behind a will in your name. What else could be done considering you were the only family she had outside of even older aunts and scattered cousins? You didn’t think there were any relatives that would be there to take you after your own parents skipped out to do god knew what, but the elder woman had found you somehow.

Her daughter, your mother, wasn’t on speaking terms with either of you, so...that stability was given to you and you alone.

The group needed someone strong, steadfast, someone to keep them built up and motivated. That had always been your best trait, the ability to keep your chin up and help the others find their inspiration when they needed it. A motivator by heart and by choice. That hadn’t changed, had it? They still need you, but you just…

It’s hard.

“That night again?” Kraven murmured, voice low and soothing as you tried to gather your emotions, “Have you taken your meds? Called the therapist?”

Yes and yes. You weren’t foolish when it came to taking care of your mental health--no one wanted to get back to being happy and ready to play music more than you.

“Of course.”

Kraven released a puff of air-- you could almost imagine him furrowing those brows and nibbling on his nails. The usual thinking expression your friend always wore in times like these. Whatever advice he decided to give, you knew it was coming from a place of kindness and caring, and generally the best advice to follow when it was needed. The vocalist had been a part of that memory, after all--his face was still fresh in your mind, one of the only times you had seen someone as steadfast as Kraven shed tears of any kind. But he was also the only one to bounce back first, putting plans of action into place and becoming the steadfast one when you could not. The others took a lot of time to pick themselves back up after that day--hell, you were positive Pepper still hadn’t come back from the events.

It was part of the reason why you were reluctant to go back to band practice, to play anything at all. The insecurity was one thing, living through the guilt from all your bandmates was another. Each one of them was trying to shoulder the blame of what happened on their own shoulders, which definitely didn’t fly by you. Seeing their looks of guilt and despair when you showed the prosthetic for the first time was...rough. Another piece of the puzzle as to why you only wore pants now, not wanting to make things worse. It wasn’t their fault, they had tried so hard to pick things up and make everything normal. But the mixture of trauma, nightmares, and that lack of your passion made quite the cocktail, and no one knew how to fix it.

But...everyone was trying, and that warmed you more than anything else.

“I think...you need a change of pace, kitten,” Kraven finally settled on his words, popping you back into reality in an instant, “Or maybe a safe way to face your fears. Have you maybe considered visiting Redgrave for a day, just to get over the residual fear?”

The very mention of it made you cringe, slinking down into the armchair with your shoulders hunched. It had been in Redgrave City when that concert had happened--a small venue, but in the worst place at the worst time. You learned later that the reason demons appeared at all was due to a mysterious structure--a tree, according to some--appearing on the edge of the city. That tree was gone now, inexplicably dying and collapsing after a months time and leaving the city to clean up and recover. Your band had been lucky that they were far enough away not to be sucked off all their life essence, those closest to the behemoth dying after attacks from strange roots. A year’s time made a big difference, some even gaining the courage to move back and salvage a life in the rubble and decay. But...you didn’t know if you could.

Your throat felt dry despite the coffee you had sucked down, prosthetic leg seeming like a heavy reminder at the very mention of Redgrave city, “I...I don’t know if I can do that, I…” You stood up slowly from the chair, fingers tight on your cellphone as you went to get more coffee from the kitchen, “What if there are more demon attacks? I don’t really feel comfortable with dying.”

Kraven snorted, “You and me both, kitten. But Redgrave only gets attacks closer to where that tree was, and even then I hear a demon hunting business has been taking care of all that.”

A demon hunting business? People had businesses like that? Is that normal?

You frowned, pouring out another cup of coffee and dumping a metric fuck ton of creamer into it, “That’s a thing? Thought the military took care of all that kind of stuff.”

The rain of bullets from that night had not been lost on you, the sound was defending despite how muffled it had been by your swimming head. What were the qualifications to be a demon hunter? Did priests do that sort of thing? The only aspects of hunting demons your mind could think of was holy water and like...salt. Bible thumping nonsense, the sort of material you’d find in a cheesy horror movie they replay on movie channels at three am. You didn’t buy into all that nonsense, but if this was an official organization then who were you to argue it? The world was certainly becoming such a strange place, especially since the fall of the tree. Demon attacks had been a thing of rumors before that day, something you had only heard of and not experienced. It sucked that it couldn’t remain that way.

Kraven snorted at your disbelieving tone, the sound of him typing away on a keyboard following immediately after, “I just heard about it recently myself--Walter and I were discussing hiring a demon hunting group if we ever...well, when we go on tour again.”

The way the vocalist corrected himself, firmness to his tone...it made you feel guilty, one hand resting on the edge of your kitchen counter and gripping tightly. He had far more faith in you than deserved--no, you corrected yourself, eyes closing and a careful breath sucked through your nostrils. You would bounce back from this, you were better than this kind of negativity.

“It’s absolutely wild--the business is called Devil May Cry, can you imagine?” Kraven sounded bemused, a loud cackle sounding from your ringtone as the link popped into your messages, “Bloody fuck, you still have that set up as my contact sound? Halloween was months ago.”

“First of all, our band is named Eidolon’s Fall, Kray. We have no room to judge what other people name their stuff,” Not that he chose the name, nor did you for that matter. That honor went to Boris, who decided to base it on the name of his first dungeons and dragons character. Cliche, but fun--You shrugged, bringing the mug to your lips and sipping loudly, “As for the ringtone, I like it too much to change it. Give me something funnier and I may consider.”

“I’ll work on that.”

He sighed, but you ignored it, tapping on the link and blinking at the article that popped up on your screen. Telling of a business called Devil May Cry, members of said business seen traveling to and from Redgrave on an almost daily basis. They had played a big part in the clean-up as well, and were apparently now notorious for “odd jobs” and “demon hunting” due to the increase and normalcy of the creatures in everyday life. What a weird thing to capitalize on, finding a living in taking down monsters and cleaning up after the messes they made. You couldn’t formulate what kind of person would willingly hunt demons, but your mind continued to cling onto priests and things of a holy nature. Silly, but it wasn’t going away anytime soon.

“Weird,” You commented, sipping more of the sweet, creamy liquid with a thoughtful expression on your face, “I’m jealous, Devil May Cry sounds like a really cool band name--like something an emo pop band would have. Or synth metal.”

Kraven chuckled, the sound warm and comforting from the phone receiver, “Boris would hate it--remember his face when Walter suggested the name ‘Hells Fury’? We would have hit peak cliche, I almost vomited.”

The memory made you smile warmly, the day very clear and welcome in your memory. It felt like such a lifetime away now, everyone younger and brighter then. Still learning how to maneuver through life, through music and everything that came with it. The band wasn’t famous per se, but it was popular in Redgrave and the surrounding areas, a small following remaining dedicated and steadfast since the first album. I love remembering those days, everyone was so...happy. You fought a sigh, carding a hand through your silken locks while the warmth faded away. That prosthetic leg was a heavy reminder, one that would never leave no matter how much you tried. A minor setback--we can keep walking forward.

You looked at the article again, tapping on a few links to see where they took you. The business didn’t have a website, but it did lead to an add in the local paper--very simplistic, old school. Who the hell actually took the time to read newspapers anymore when everything was so digital? The last human being you actually saw with a paper in hand was your grandmother, and she had passed when you were twenty years old. You shook your head, sipping the last mouthful of caffeinated garbage while reading just what the article said--Looking to hire a secretary. If interested please call the number below or visit our headquarters on the edge of Capulet.

Underneath was listed a number and address, the whole thing incredible short and barely noticeable. Like whoever put it in the paper didn’t really care if someone saw. You felt a brow raise, a bit of interest sparking as you read over it again.

“Says they’re looking for employees,” You commented idly, setting your empty cup in a nearby sink and turning off the coffee pot, “A secretary, but the ad is super tiny.”

“Really?” Kraven paused, the silence ticking on for a few moments as you gathered the phone again. When he continued, it sounded like he had thought of something brilliant, “Why don’t you apply, kitten?”

You blinked, stopping in the doorway and staring at your phone incredulously. Sometimes it was impossible to tell if your friend was joking or being serious, but...he seemed entirely sincere in his suggestion, downright proud of himself for thinking it up. Meanwhile, you were wondering if he had lost every marble in his head.

“Is Celine in control of the group brain cell again?” Your reply was drier than a dessert, yet dripping with sarcasm as you leaned against the door frame, “And here I thought you didn’t loan it out for anything but special occasions.”

“Glad to hear your comedy is still as sharp as ever,” Kraven didn’t sound amused despite his comment, which was a shame. You were on a roll this morning, and he was having none of it, “I’m being serious--hear me out a bit. Working there on the side for a few months might give you some inspiration, yeah? A change of pace, some time out of the house...plus what better way to move past a fear of demons than hanging out with some people who hunt them for the hell of it?”

Hesitation became your close companion once more, bouncing around your cranium like a computer screen saver. Once upon a time, you might have been absolutely jazzed to meet some real life demon hunters if only for the musical inspiration alone. Because, christ, what a job to have. Unfortunately, such circumstances didn’t exist inside you anymore, especially considering how close to Redgrave Capulet was. Not to mention the danger facing said demon hunters on a daily basis--what was stopping demons from wanting to attack where they set up base? Could demons even form thoughts that coherent, hold grudges? Your ignorance was definitely showing, but you doubted there was a manual or guide on demons anywhere that wasn’t quoting from the bible or those really shitty horror movies again.

“I...don’t know about that, Kray,” You hedged, nibbling anxiously on your nails despite how hard you kept trying to break said habit, “Working at a demon hunting business seems like a really good way to get killed by demons.”

“As a secretary? In a building far away from all the fighting?”

He was trying to poke holes in your logic--damn him.

An annoyed sigh left you lips, accompanied by a spike of aggravation, “I’m being serious, Kraven. I bet demons target places like that, and I just...I…”

Why can’t I just admit it?

Say it. Say that you’re too scared to risk that.

But...what if he’s right? This fear isn’t going away with you sitting at home moping about.

Kraven released a slow exhale, as if he somehow sensed exactly what your mind was doing. There was some jostling of his cell phone for a second, like he was repositioning himself while those wise thoughts gathered together. What were you supposed to do in this situation anymore? Recovery was so close, so tantalizingly close to your fingertips yet always out of reach. You wanted to go back to how things were before, to be positive and cheerful...happy. I was a cheerful person, damn it. I still am. Convincing yourself felt so hard now, like a weight resting on your shoulders and constantly whacking against the back of your skull like a nagging child. You found yourself looking at the prosthetic leg again, wondering why it was so difficult to accept despite all the hard work you had done.

You had nothing against prosthetic limbs--you could walk! You could still play your music, thank god. With time and effort, dancing could return too, maybe even running. And yet...maybe it wasn’t the leg itself bothering you--it was all the memories it contained, the trauma, the blood, the months of agony. Every other terrible event you had shrugged from your shoulders like dust, brushing it off and walking forward with your head held high. There were five other people there to support you, after all. But this time...things felt different, and no matter what you did that sensation wasn’t going away any time soon.

You wanted things to change. You wanted to get better.

“I know, kitten. I know it’s hard, and you don’t have to do anything that pushes you too far out of your comfort zone,” Kraven replied softly, soothingly. Reverting back to his gentle side at the sound of how distressed you had become, “But...sitting in that house isn’t helping you, is it? The therapy is only doing so much, and forcing the music won’t help. We...we miss you a lot, I just wanna help you break past this wall of fear in any way I can.”

Damn him for being right. As much as you loved your grandmother’s former home...it was rife with reminders of your own failure. Every piece of clothing you used to wear, every instrument and notepad you used for music and song writing. Even then, holding your phone close and staring across the living room you spotted one of the band’s CDs sitting on the coffee table. An old one, the cover showing each of you smiling and crowded in for a silly group photo when things were...better. More naive. When did seeing something that once made you so happy start to sting this much?

It wasn’t right. You hated feeling like that.

“...Okay.” You mumbled in response, sliding down against the wall and plopping on the living room carpet with a low thud. What was the harm in just stopping by, right? Even if you didn’t take the job, even if things seemed too strange you could at least say there was an attempt, ask some advice from the demon hunters themselves? Besides, if...when the band went on tour again after all this madness, having special bodyguards would be wonderful.

I must have lost my mind.

“Okay?” Kraven sounded confused, tone questioning at the heavy sigh you released.

“Yeah,” The hesitation still showed in your tone, but the exhaustion was slipping through as well. The culmination of months sitting in the house moping, of ignoring the instruments and dodging hangouts with the band. New excuses each time, all equally scummy, “I’ll check the place out, you dork ass loser. Hell, I have nothing going on today--even if I don’t take the job, maybe talking to some demon hunters will help? I’ll give them our business card.”

You still had fifty of them tucked into your wallet at all times. Mathius made sure of that, drilling it into your skulls that marketing was more important than anything else. Which you didn’t give a damn about--getting close to the cluster of fans Eidolon’s Fall already had was at the top of your priorities before all the tragedy started.

Regardless.

“...!” Kraven sounded surprised by your reluctant agreement, a gusty breath crackling through the microphone. You heard him start typing again, more than likely messaging the other band members about the situation and looking up things about Devil May Cry, “Do you want me to drive you there, kitten? I’ve got nothing going on today, Boris and I can--”

You rolled your eyes, slowly rising from the floor with a wince of pain. Getting up was a lot harder than getting down, that was for sure, “Don’t worry about it--I saw Boris posting about your date yesterday, the one you have planned for this afternoon? I can still drive fine enough on my own, you two have fun, damn it.”

There was no hiding things from you. Despite avoiding your own notifications and messages, stalking over your bandmates’ pages to see how they were doing was still valid and healthy. Maybe.

Fueled by boredom? Definitely.

Kraven cursed at your words, muttering under his breath angrily, “That flighty little--”

“Hey,” You chidded him lightly, “Don’t be too mad at the boy, he’s easily excited and he isn’t a psychic.”

If he was, maybe things might have worked out a bit differently. Minus one missing leg, and with better security at the concert.

Kraven let out a gusty sigh, anger draining easy enough with just a little bit of reason. Besides, he couldn’t stay mad at Boris for any length of time for anything, “I know I know...If you’re sure it’s fine, just keep me posted at the very least. Message me when you get there and let me know how everything goes, okay?”

“Yes sir.”

You nodded despite the fact that he wasn’t in the room to see it, gripping the phone just a little tighter in your fingers. As teasing as you tried to sound, the anxiety was still there and ever present. Sure, this was a nice step in a new direction, an opportunity to learn some useful things and make strides toward recovery. But that little voice of alarm at the back of your head would not shut up, and it was starting to grow aggravating. You were tired of moping, tired of sitting around waiting for your head to fix itself damn it. This is not who I am, this is not like me. What the hell was the point of letting something like this beat you, especially after all the other bad shit you dragged yourself and the others out of? Screw that.

So you stood, swallowing several layers of worry and residual fear as you said as steadily as possible to Kraven, “I’ll catch you later, slim--make sure to give Boris a kiss for me.”

I miss him, I miss all of you. But...I can’t come back to music yet, not until my head is on straight.

Kraven let out a low breath, his tone warm and soothing when he replied to you, “Of course, kitten. Keep me posted, please.”

“Of course. Love you.”

“As we love you, Y/N.”

You hung up with a tap of your finger, leaning against a nearby wall again to gather your courage as the remaining traces of his affectionate tone rang out. Silence was far less welcome, and you came to realize it was a lot easier to commit to things when Kraven was there to be your hype man, his steady voice like a beacon through the doubt. But...it was a lot harder when he wasn’t actually talking. If only it was that easy to get your musical motivation and confidence back--sitting in a room to jam while the band boosted your energy sounded like the ideal scenario, but alas...they had tried that. Positive influence just wasn’t putting a dent in the fear, which made you mad in an odd way. Prickling on the edges of aggravation and frustration.

The feeling persisted as you made your way up the small flight of stairs, flicking on the bedroom light and staring at your room. Lined with boxes on the far corner, the hidden contents of your various instruments and books making life a little less pressured when you got up in the morning. That purple guitar, however, remained propped against the wall--the only reminder you allowed. It’s smooth, purple surface made your eyes linger for a moment, hands remembering the feeling of holding it when music flowed into speakers and pounded through the air. The last time you held it...the guitar had felt so heavy, like a stranger. Especially after months of not playing due to physical therapy and stress.

If I tried to play now, I bet I’d be rusty.

“Why am I like this?” You muttered as you passed it by, heading into your closet to grab an outfit for the day. A pair of leggings, ones that hid the prosthetic well enough and a pair of boots that stopped at the knee. Tops were a lot easier, a simple tank top and jacket picked out and slung on before you headed back down to find your keys. Being fully dressed provided some semblance of normalcy, like a veil over the events that transpired a year ago. Legs looking normal, but each step still a little heavy on the left side. Standing too long would make you ache, and the stump needed time to breathe so you reminded yourself to do that when needed.

But that was of little consequence, at least when the anxiety got rolling again. The thoughts were loud when you grabbed your keys, pausing at the front door and leaning your head against the hardwood. You just had to stop by, right? Head into Devil May Cry and ask about the job, get a feel for it and see if they would be willing to talk a bit about demons as well. It all sounded so simple when Kraven was reassuring it, but...what now? How did you work through this many layers of bullshit?

By opening the door, and stepping outside.

And from there...we take our chances, don’t we?

Positivity in the face of trauma, right? At least that’s what you convinced yourself, squeezing the keys in your grasp before pushing open the door.

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Tagged: @cantcopewithlosingv @bnha201826 @lilbighuman @dylan-o-yumm @veenus-ow @totes-ma-yogurt @pop-vicky-love @meliapis @kindgomhearts378 @kupoopo @slaanessh @pixiedust-and-some-believe @agalaxyfarawayy @v-loves-alicia-dmc5 @nightshadow4713 @sycophantize @nyxsiren @raven-huntress @slightlylunatic @efiicitia

#devil may cry #vergil devil may cry #Vergil Sparda #Vergil x reader #vergil x you #fanfic #slow burn #chapter one #echo chamber #devil may cry 5

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pyroandtheprincess · 5 years ago

Text

Years and years ago...

Back when chapter 539 came out, aka the chapter we found out all the dragon slayers disappeared and Lucy still thinks she failed at saving Natsu (but he is really in that realm in the sky with Acnolgia), my angsty self was intrigued and inspired. In the moments after reading this chapter, I started thinking about how the next one would play out, following these moments, and how I thought the story would ultimately conclude. Moral of this narrative, I basically came up with an entire “alternate ending” to Fairy Tail (that’s extremely NaLu heavy... can you blame me?), but I only wrote the first chapter because writing is so hard lmao. I found it sitting in my drafts, reread it and thought, “hey, let’s not let this just sit here and rot!” So, I’m sharing it now. If people are curious about this story, maybe I’ll continue it? No guarantees. But regardless, I hope you enjoy it, even though I haven’t touched it in years... please be nice. There are probably a lot of inaccuracies with the story too, but hey, what can you do? I also didn’t feel like actually proof reading lmao. Okay, I’ll shut up now. All these wonderful characters belong to the legendary Hiro Mashima. Peace and blessings everyone and happy reading!!

Chapter 1:

They trudge forward slowly, heads hanging low. The only sounds to be heard through the deserted alley way are the quiet sobs of the blue exceed clinging to Lucy’s chest. The trauma is still fresh, and each of the dazed travelers are still wracking their brains to make sense of what just occurred.

Natsu has, well, vanished. One moment the fire breathing wizard was there and in the next he was gone.

A soft breeze, rustles Lucy’s bangs, making them stick to the tears that spill from her eyes.

It was her fault. She thought she had been able to save him. Endured a darkness that burned her, an ache she could still feel deep with in the pit of her stomach. She wrote down every adventure, every laugh, every single moment she remembered and shared with Natsu. But, it wasn't enough. She would, no, could never forgive herself for this.

Suddenly, the trio comes into ear shot of what seems like, for lack of a better word, panic. A solemn looking Gray instantly catches Lucy’s eyes, and not a moment later they take off running toward the commotion.

“He’s gone!” A woman’s voice screams, “He vanished into thin air!” She sounds desperate and terrified. Gray’s stomach drops, he recognizes the voice.

“Levy! Relax, just-”

“No Jet, no!" Levy's small, but stern, finger points straight between his eyes, "I just got him b-back!” Her voice cracks, and girl crumples to the ground. She shakes so violently that Jet and Droy have to sink too in order to hold her still as she sobs, "He's left me again, I can't.. I can't... W-where? Where did you go Gajeel?!”

“Lauxus?! Lauxus!” Freed is screaming too, eyes wide and head whipping around wildly in search along with the other members of the Thunder Legion whom seem just as frantic.

“Where did they go? Where could they possibly have gone?” Cana’s voice shakes with fear as Gildarts holds her sturdy, but the look on his face is one full of terror. The dragon slayers' disappearance has shaken them all.

“What’s going on he-?!" As Gray skids to a stop, he collides with something, or rather, someone collides with him.

"Gray-sama!" Juvia squeezes her arms around his torso hard enough for all of the wind to rush right out of him, "Juvia is so happy to see you alive and well... Juvia is so happy." At the sound of her sniffling, he relaxes in her grip. Wrapping an arm around her waist and resting a hand behind her head, he mutters her name in a relieved whisper.

"Gray, Lucy, Happy!" Mira starts toward the newcomers, “I’m so glad to see you're alright." She holds Lucy and Happy for a brief moment before stepping back, "Is Natsu not with you?"

Happy's choked sob was enough to give them all the answer they need, but Gray speaks up regardless, "He vanished... we turned around and he was just gone."

"I see, so that gives us reason to believe all of the dragon slayers have gone missing somehow."

"All of them?" Gray questions.

Lisanna nods,"Laxus and Gajeel suddenly disappeared before our eyes. We didn't have time to even blink before-!"

"Poof." Elfman finishes for his younger sister, and holds her and Evergreen tighter to his sides.

"If the others are gone too, that means Natsu didn't disappear because of Zeref! Lucy you did save him!" Happy chimes in turning to Lucy with a watery smile.

But, Lucy's eyes are shaded over, and Happy begins to noice how she has been mysteriously and uncharacteristically quiet during this whole interaction.

"Lucy...?" Happy questions, leaning in closer to get a better look at her face. Suddenly her head snaps up, but her face is almost polar opposite to what was anticipated.

"Piri-piri!" She exclaims cheerfully. This catchphrase could only mean one thing, and everyone's thoughts are proved right when Lucy suddenly turns to a puff of smoke and two figures emerge from it. "Piri-piri!" Gemini repeat as they twirl around in glee, "Lucy will be so pleased to find out Natsu is alive!" One of them sings, "Piri-piri yes, yes! But I bet she will want to beat him up herself!" The other one giggles and they laugh together as they continue to dance around.

While they continue their celebration, everyone else in the surrounding group are flabbergasted. A now floating in place Happy's jaw dropped expression summarizes it all. "W-wait-?"

"Lucy-?"

"Asked us to take her place while she figured things out!" Gemini admits cheerfully. “But, now our work here is done!” Without any further explanation the celestial spirits return to the spirit world in a flash.

The silence following creates a tension that could be cut with a knife. But it’s quickly broken by an aggravated groan, the ice wizard is furious.

Exasperated, Gray runs a hand through his hair, “When was she able to-“

“When she stumbled off looking sick to her stomach...” the exceeds eyes meet Gray’s and they realize exactly what had transpired.

That sneaky little star girl, what has she gotten herself into?!

"That means-" Levy, who has stopped her shaking, begins. Although, she bites her tongue. Her best friend must be suffering even more heart ache than she is at the moment. She thinks Natsu is gone without a trace, no leads. She can empathize with her.

"Do we think-" Gray starts but Cana finishes, "Achnologia is behind this?"

The look across everyone's faces reads the that they also came to that dark conclusion.

"Lucy thinks Zeref has something to do with Natsu leaving though!" Happy exclaims rising slightly higher in the sky and turning to face the entire group, "I'd bet 100 fish that she left for the guild!"

"Lucy put herself in so much danger and through so much agony saving him by rewriting that damned book-" Gray explains to the group only to be cut off once again.

"She did what?!" Levy exclaims, suddenly rising to her feet.

“Yeah, this weird pattern started to cover her entire body! It kinda looked like when Gray uses ice demon magic!” Happy adds.

Levy’s hand slowly rises to cover her mouth, eyes wider than if she had seen a ghost. Just as she’s about to speak, a raspy familiar voice rises from behind the large group.

"Lucy has so much heart, so much spirit.”

"Master!" The group exclaims in unison and they turn to surround him as he continues to speak.

"I have no doubt in my mind she will do anything to save Natsu, even if it may cost her every thing." Porciclucia dabs water on his face as everyone else looks between each other.

"I'M GOING TO PROTECT NATSU, NO MATTER THE COST!" An image of earlier events passes through Happy's mind and the fur on his back sticks up.

“Happy,” Levy makes her way to the exceed, and places a hand on his shoulder. Her eyes are deathly serious as she continues, “If Lucy has been exposed to Zeref’s magic, she could be in real danger.” She looks up to Gray, “I need to know exactly what went down when Lucy opened that book.”

“If Lucy is in danger, we have to go find her!” Happy speaks frantically, flying up to address the group once more

“It’s too late for that!” Someone yells from behind the group. Everyone instantly looks up to see Loke leaning on to his knees, panting heavily.

“Loke-“

He lifts his head, looking distraught, “Lucy’s vanished.”

#nalu #fairy tail #lucy heartfilia #natsu dragneel #ft #fairy tail nalu #ft spoilers #hiro mashima #gruvia #galevy

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