#i haven’t rendered in a millennia this felt good

[milktea-grn]

wounded animal

[paradisoperdita]

When Belphegor Knew He Loved You

A/N: Here's part 8 of the series; only 3 more left! I had to spend some time thinking of how to address 'the elephant in the room' as well as showing the shift in his feelings. This is very dialogue heavy, but hopefully conveys enough for it to be enjoyable 💜

Genre: angst and fluff

Word Count: 1200

Warnings: Lesson 16 Spoiler

MC/Reader is gender neutral. You/They pronouns used.

When He Knew He Loved You Masterlist

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“I forgive you.”

Belphegor looked at his twin drowsily. Even in the darkness of the early morning, Belphie could see the sad smile on Beel’s face. They both knew how each other felt. Beel knew his brother’s mind was whipping itself into a self-chastising frenzy rendering sleep impossible. Belphie knew his brother only spoke those words to soothe him. His actions were simply unforgivable.

“...you don’t really mean that, do you?” Belphie croaked.

A heavy silence hung in the air. The space between their beds had never felt so distant.

“I do...” Beel announced finally. “I forgive you, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget what you did to them.”

Belphie rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. The crystal droplets and umbrellas above the staircase swung slowly. It took about a week for his own twin to forgive him. How long would it take for his other brothers to forgive him too?

Did he deserve to even ask you?

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Forgiveness was a word Belphie knew in theory, but never thought would ever be given to him. A millennia of guilt is enough to drive even the most intelligent of demons mad. His burden for failing Lilith now superseded by his regret over killing you.

The house felt much lonelier than it ever had before. Even the empty attic felt more welcoming than the cold expressions and hurtful smiles he received from his brothers. Every attempt to get closer to you was thwarted in some way or other. You were guarded, both literally and figuratively. It was rare to find you alone; there was always at least one brother by your side whenever Belphie was around. On those rare occasions where he could get close enough to talk to you, there was a hesitation in your voice that wasn’t there before. Your hand rested against your neck as you spoke.

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It was a warm summer afternoon. Even after 12 months in the Devildom, it still seemed strange to you to look up at a dark sky during the day. This sky that was so different from your own, and yet felt more like home than the stars you had been born under.

A text from Belphie had summoned you to the RAD vegetable garden. You had been given explicit instructions to bring only yourself and something for lunch. Collecting the food was easy; leaving without someone following you was the challenging part. Your hands sat awkwardly in your lap as you waited alone on the wooden bench.

“Hi...” Belphie stood a short distance from you. He looked uncharacteristically fidgety as he hesitated joining you.

“Hi” You smiled politely and moved up to make room for him. He sat beside you as you unconsciously looked around at the paths leading from the garden.

“It must feel good to be away from my brothers’ fussing.” He said nonchalantly.

“They mean well, they’re just worried about me, I think. It makes sense, after...” You trailed off.

Belphie took a deep breath. “I suppose...” That unspeakable ordeal clung to both of your thoughts; neither were sure of how to speak its name. “We haven’t been able to speak like this since I was in the attic. You used to visit me quite often.”

You grumbled to yourself. “I thought you might have been lonely and you seemed to enjoy speaking to me...” The word ‘seemed’ had taken on a new meaning. Hindsight had tainted those once pleasant memories.

Belphie slouched in his seat, his head precariously balanced on the back of the bench and his vision unfocussed on the dark sky above. This was when he was supposed to reassure you. When he should tell you that he was actually very lonely and that he hadn’t actually been playing you for a fool. That this whole thing had all been some big misunderstanding.

He couldn’t.

If he did, he would only be lying to himself. It wouldn’t be fair on you to try and persuade you with more honeyed words and half-truths. It would take a lifetime of good deeds for you to forgive him, which might be impossible for a demon like him. Yet, he had to say something. In a couple of weeks, you would be gone.

“Do you...remember me telling you about the nightmares? The ones where Lilith...” He shuddered. Even far from the depths of sleep, that accusatory voice and bloodied apparition chilled him to his core. You nodded. You granted him that same patient ear he appreciated that first night he told you. “...I haven’t even told Beel about them. I figured he had enough of his own problems to handle without worrying about mine as well.”

You mulled over his words. There was a vulnerability in his voice. Every word was both a cry for comfort and a condemnation of himself. What had once appeared as a simple friendship had become a tangled mess in your mind. Complicated thoughts and feelings looped and twisted together. You grasped hold of one end of this tangle. A gentle tug and you watched to see whether these thoughts would unravel, or if it would tighten the knots further.

“I...” You began. “don’t really know what I should say. I can see you’re trying, and I’d like to think you’d never do something like that again. Hm...” The tangled thoughts loosened and the words became easier to find. “I understand why you did it. The events around Lilith, Lucifer and the exchange program explain your behaviour...but they don’t excuse it. And yet...”

You looked at him. He was still staring glassy-eyed at the sky.

“I don’t think it’s my forgiveness you really need. I think it’s more important that you forgive yourself.”

A single imp-fly fluttered past the end of Belphie’s nose as your words sunk in. Such a simple statement, but the earnest way in which you spoke them gave them an inexplicable power. The effect they had on him was almost magical. There were no words that could describe this sensation. The unshackling of his tormented heart, the quietening of harrowing voices, and the relief hearing your honest thoughts. You hadn’t granted him absolution, but you had given him something far more valuable: Hope.

He sat up and nodded. It sounded like a lot of hard work. Maybe there was hope for him yet? If a human like you had the strength to sit and talk with him like this, then there was no reason why he couldn’t confront his own demons. Perhaps it was time for the nightmare to come to an end.

You returned to your lunch, but stopped before taking a bite.

“...There’s a caterpillar on my lettuce!” You yelped.

“That’s ok, a caterpillar doesn’t eat much.” He quipped. Your joy was contagious as he found himself smiling along with you. A lone crow squawked once and flew from the garden.

Your laughter tumbled from you with the warmth and intensity of a new dawn.

[wallwriterstuff]

When You’re Lost, I’ll Leave My Gaslight On ||Yandere!Alec Volturi x Female Reader||

A request by @tiger-khans-blog Part 1: Obsession  Part 3: These Violent Delights 

Warnings: Yandere!Alec, obsessive behaviour, unhealthy relationships and implied non-con later on. This is possibly one of the darkest fics I have ever written so please be aware if controlling behaviour, gaslighting etc. is triggering to you, do not read this fic. 

The following link will take you to a Citizen’s Advice Page that have resources regarding Domestic abuse and violence. They detail various organisations offering support, refuge and advice for both women and men in abusive situations, however these only apply to the UK.

https://www.citizensadvice.org.uk/family/gender-violence/domestic-violence-and-abuse-getting-help/

I am from the UK and therefore am not sure about what resources may be available internationally, however I know many of you are from places outwith the UK. If you have any resources you know of that would be useful or helpful to add here then please do! You can reblog this post with link in or message me a link to have me edit it into the original. I will post this link and any that get added in all three parts of this fic that I post.

Words: 4,436 

Summary:  Alec’s actions earned him some time in the dungeons of Volterra, and he really seems to be trying his best to behave himself the second time around. However, as your relationship with him blossoms, you find yourself growing more and more insecure, unsure if things are really as they seem to be. Your descent into madness seems much slower than Alice’s fall down the rabbit hole. 

Bella didn’t even write to you. Nor did Alice or Edward, or Emmet or Jasper. Only Carlisle had bothered to contact you, expressing his deepest regret you had gotten tangled up in all of this and his promise to speak to Aro on your behalf. Carlisle’s efforts had granted you your own quarters on the opposite side of the castle, smaller and far less grand than the ones you had woken up in but entirely yours to decorate how you pleased; at least, that was what Felix and Demetri had decided. The silence from back home was bad enough but on top of that you had to come to terms with the fact you were now forced to live with vampires who had little to no respect for human life, one of which had a mental gift she had loved to use on you as punishment for turning her brother against her as she put it.

To say you were depressed would have been an understatement.

It felt beyond impossible to consider feeling anything remotely positive when nothing seemed to go right for you. The secretaries who brought you food were the only interaction you had for the first few days and they were mostly too afraid to stick around and talk to you after hearing you were Alec’s mate. You had been utterly and entirely alone. Unbeknownst to you, this was a test, one you failed miserably, and after they hadn’t seen hide nor hair of you by day 4 of your stay with them Felix and Demetri had taken it upon themselves to visit you. They were quite patient, letting you stay as far from them as you wanted while they invaded what had become your safe space, those unblinking red eyes taking in the sparse walls and boring, plain wood desk and doors. It was then that Felix had spoken up about decorating and Demetri has enthusiastically agreed this was a wonderful idea.

Felix, it turned out, was quite the talented artist. Looking at the brute you’d never imagined he could hold a pencil without snapping it in half, but he had drawn up the most beautiful sketches you could imagine as you told them what your bedroom back home had looked like, and how you had wanted to decorate it with your father. They had let you cry again at that point and looking back on it it was rather amusing to watch the two immortals – who physically had lacked the ability to tear up for over a millennia now – share a panic stricken look and throw tissues at you. By the end of the week, they had come back to your room with everything they would need for their DIY project and helped you start painting your room. You had been a little overwhelmed at their kindness, but both had waved it off as nothing and whenever they got the chance over the next week, they had helped you decorate.

You had shared music tastes, let Demetri try to interest you in poetry (even if he had failed dramatically) and even sat to watch a movie with them once while you had lunch. Still, it didn’t feel like home, just an escape from an abysmal reality.

“You know, he will be freed tomorrow.” Felix said quietly. You were in the middle of stringing up some fairy lights around the canopy of your bed when the news rendered you immobile. You barely remembered to breathe until Demetri very gently touched your waist and helped you down from your bed before you fell.

“I don’t want him to be.” You whispered, eyes ducking away from theirs. Alec had been their friend for far longer after all and the confession was cruel. Demetri sighed slightly.

“We have visited him once or twice, spoken to him. He truly does feel awful about what happened.” He promised you. It was very obvious on your face you didn’t believe him, and even if you did you were certain Alec’s behaviour was not normal, it didn’t eradicate your fear to know he wished it never happened when it seemed like he had had no control over it in the first place. If he couldn’t control it, it could very well happen again. Felix watched you carefully as you sat back against the headboard, curling your knees to your chest.

“Why…why was he like that? Is it – I mean could he…will he be like that again?” you swallowed, mouth a little dry as your heart fluttered in your chest. You felt sick, suddenly no longer curious about whatever dinner the new secretary might bring. Gianna had stopped showing up two days ago and you didn’t need to ask to know why. They shared a side long look, Felix going back to putting together the bookshelf you had repainted with him. It was a bit of a pattern, that Demetri handled your more sensitive questions – Felix just didn’t have the tact or patience for them.

“You remember our discussion on the transformation process? How we are frozen at the stage of growth we are at when we turn?” he questioned, waiting for you to nod before continuing, “Alec was turned no older than you are now, just 16, you know yourself from growing up I’m sure what a volatile time that can be. It is not that Alec wishes to scare you, just that the violence of his feelings is something he will have to learn to control.”

“The violence of his feelings?” you asked warily. Demetri hummed, head tilting.

“We feel emotion far more intensely than you, little human. Our bodies are frozen but heightened, so that we might experience everything to the fullest extent and therefore miss out on nothing. Alec is essentially a teenager seeing the girl he has a rather potent crush on for the first time, the mate pull was both entirely unexpected and strong. He admitted himself he had no way of controlling his own actions but he has meditated and spoken to master Marcus for help since. He really does not wish to put you through that again.” Demetri assured you.

“You have to give the boy some reprieve, he wasn’t exactly having fun either. Alec prides himself on his self-control, your appearance tossed it right out of the window.” Felix pointed out. You hung your head, brows furrowed. It sounded an awful lot to you like they were defending the inexcusable behaviour. He’s just a boy, he couldn’t control it, it’s not his fault…well, it didn’t change the fact it had hurt you. It had traumatised you really, so much so that even when you replayed Demetri’s words in your head in an effort to help calm yourself you still found no sleep that night knowing Alec would be at your door tomorrow.

Except he wasn’t.

He didn’t come the next day, or the day after that, or the day after that, and you hated that you were beginning to wonder if he was ever coming at all. Was this a new, peculiar kind of torture? Making you wait for him? Every knock at the door made you jump the first day or two but after that you slowly began to unwind, your heavy heart coming to the conclusion he maybe wasn’t coming back, that he felt it better to stay away from you. You almost passed out when he finally did show up at your door, standing behind Demetri as still as stone and looking jut as perfect as any sculpture could. It really wasn’t fair the boy was so pretty. Demetri gave you a warm smile.

“Good evening Y/N, do you mind if we come in little human?” he asked. You hesitated. Did you want Alec in your safe space? Your room was your sanctuary, decorated how you liked with no trace of Alec inside it as of yet. He seemed to notice your hesitation and you were surprised to see just how much anguish it brought him.

“If you prefer, we could take a walk around the Gardens? Demetri says you haven’t left your room much.” Alec said. His voice was softer now, no longer did it have the rough edge to it it had held in the throne room. You swallowed thickly, slowly nodding your head, and moved to get your shoes from by the door. Alec inhaled sharply as the shirt you were wearing rode up slightly. His arms had left to sizable bruises on your torso and he had obviously seen them. You weren’t expecting him to look so torn up about it. Demetri glanced between you both, his eyes knowing.

“I would suggest a jumper, the evenings can be somewhat chillier.” He advised. You nodded, crossing to your closet. Once you were ready, you shut the door firmly behind you and stuck close to Demetri’s side, much to Alec’s obvious ire, but the boy kept himself in check with remarkable discipline that gave you hope he could maybe be better.

“How are you?” he asked, his voice strained. Your hair fell, covering your eyes until you pushed it back with a quick nod.

“I’m okay. How are you?” the small talk was entirely forced and thoroughly unpleasant, but Demetri stood firm between you two, absorbing it all. You were more than a little grateful.

“I have…been better,” Alec confessed, “Demetri explained the…difficulty, I’m having in being around you?” he asked. The strain in his voice was growing more obvious again now but one look from Demetri forced him to settle as you shuddered, memory flashing to the violent grip his arms had on you. If he noticed your hand subconsciously go to your bruised flesh, he didn’t comment on it.

“He told me you couldn’t control your feelings.” You said quietly. Alec huffed, eyes flashing with irritation.

“It’s as upsetting to me as it is to you, to think a mere human would make me so…so…” he trailed off, trying to choose the right word. You prompted him, curious to see what he would choose. “Obsessed.” He settled for the word with such a flat tone you couldn’t help but wrap your arms around yourself, mind reeling. It wasn’t a good word. It wasn’t your preferred word. Carlisle and Esme had been mates, hadn’t they? Rosalie and Emmett? Alice and Jasper? They had proven to you if nothing else that mates should be loving, kind. It was a relationship based on mutual attraction and desire, caring, not one person’s obsession with another. It was an unhealthy word.

“Why don’t you tell Alec of our trip to the market the other week?” Demetri hedged. He was clearly acting as chaperone today as you headed out into the fading sunlight. The Gardens of Castello Volterra were magnificent, kept tidy and neat and bursting with colour. A massive expanse of green dotted with vibrant hues of flowerbeds and glorious leafy sculptures in shapes you could recognise. Horses, chess pieces. Your answers were short, quiet, and Alec seemed to have moments he was incredibly open and vulnerable before he became a little more robotic, his control slipping when he found his emotions getting the best of him again. The amount of effort he put into his composure really astounded you, and by the time you were half-way around the Walled Garden you were actually starting to feel a little bit bad. Clearly your presence really did make him suffer.

“I don’t know how much more of this I can take.” He admitted finally, fists clenched at his sides. With a sharp exhale, Alec turned to you, ruby red eyes darkening as soon as they made contact with your own Y/E/C.

“Alec-“

“Y/N, I have tortured myself over the way I behaved towards you. I am truly sorry I ever laid a hand on you. I hope that as I work on controlling myself around you, you work on being able to forgive me for that.” Alec cut Demetri off, his body rigid with tension and eyes flickering to the very slight gap left between you and the tracker as you moved closer out of instinct to the person you trusted most out of the two of them. His nostrils flared, seemingly annoyed by it.

“I…can try. But you need to promise me Alec, promise me you won’t hurt me like that ever again.” You said. Truthfully you were intrigued by him. Demetri had told you you would also feel the mate pull eventually, though not as strongly as Alec did, and your curiosity to know more about the witch twin was the start of a very deep dark hole you were about to fall into. The air turned almost ominous, like that strange moment between hearing thunder and waiting to see if there would be lightning.

“I won’t make you promises I can’t keep.” Alec’s voice was all that was left of him, as he was gone by the time you blinked again. Demetri sighed slightly, though he tried to perk up his expression when he realised you were looking helplessly to him for answers.

“Well, that went rather well, do you not agree?” he asked. What had Alec meant? He had done so well today. Clearly he was getting the hang of controlling his emotions, he could be less of a threat. You had rather liked the sweeter side of Alec you had glimpsed today, the side that told you about how Jane had planted the peonies and had chased Felix quite literally out of the city when he accidentally trampled on them once, just to hear you laugh. You liked the side of Alec that had quietly complimented the way your hair reflected the dying light while you stood and admired another topiary.

A month passed this way before you finally felt comfortable enough to be around Alec on your own. He had really tried hard to become a better man for you and it showed. His smiles were more natural and he found it easier to relax in your presence, no more uptight Alec that left you wandering when he would snap. Felix and Demetri had continued to chaperone your dates for all that time until you finally asked one night if you might be allowed to be with Alec on your own for a little bit. Demetri had enthusiastically agreed, both Guards seemingly happy you were finally letting their friend have his chance. Alec seemed to sense your nerves when you appeared in the library, where you’d both agreed to meet for an hour to two to test the waters. He was more relaxed than you’d ever seen him, leaning back against the sofa with his eyes closed while he listened to some far-off birdsong you couldn’t hear, or so you imagined.

“I wasn’t sure you would come.” He admitted. You smiled slightly, pulling your sketchbook from your bag as you sat on the opposite sofa to him.

“I said I would,” You reminded him. Alec smiled slightly, head bobbing in agreement. “What are you reading?” you asked. Alec glanced to the book beside him.

“The Picture of Dorian Gray, though I confess myself bored of it. Wilde has never been my preferred author.” Alec answered, sitting up and eyeing your sketchbook with interest. You didn’t notice, too busy flipping through your pages to find the sketch you were working on now. The lines were already drawn, you had just wanted to finish your shading today.

“How is Jane?” you asked. You wanted to chase away the silence and figured it would be a nice way to maybe broach the topic that she had avoided you like the plague. Alec didn’t answer you and when you looked up to see why you saw his eyes fixated on your sketch, nothing but awe painting his face. You flushed a deep shade of red.

“Beautiful and talented, little human.” He breathed. You were fairly sure you weren’t supposed to hear, but it only made your blush darken. It was nothing worthy of a spot in the Louvre, just a sketch of the view from the fountain in the plaza looking down one of Volterra’s many alleyways. You tucked some hair behind your ear with a small smile.

“Thank you,” you said softly, “I started it the other day, when Demetri took me to that café I told you about? Where they do those really nice pastries?” As if a switch had been flipped Alec’s face shut off, all expression wiped away and an impassive mask replacing it. It had happened so fast you were unsure anything other than apathy had ever painted his face in the first place.

“Demetri takes you out often.” He noted. There was nothing his tone or his face to give away his feelings about that, but a strong sense of foreboding settled in your gut. You shut your sketchbook, knowing deep in your chest that the damage was already done. The atmosphere in the room had changed drastically, becoming charged and electric, like it was filled with current just waiting to frazzle and consume you whole.

“Yeah…it’s nice to get out of the castle, and it’s not like I’m a prison so why shouldn’t I see the city I’ve got to live in now?” you rambled ever so slightly, voice wavering a bit, but Alec’s expression changed so quickly you were sure he was trying to give you whiplash. With a laugh he nodded his head.

“Of course.” He made no further comment and you descended into silence again until it was time to leave, your sketchbook long abandoned and your eyes fixed on him, waiting for his mood to shift again. He was perfectly respectable in every other way however, his silence easy to brush off as nothing when he kissed your knuckles chivalrously after walking you back to your room. He still hadn’t set foot in it yet despite his obvious intrigue, waiting for you to invite him in personally. When the door closed behind you, you released a breath you didn’t know you had been holding. The whole evening had gone far better than expected even with the few minor road bumps. In fact, Alec’s mood seemed to do an entire 180 compared to how he had been when you first met. He was pleasant, charming even. That was where the problem started.

One night, he bought you flowers and a pastry from your favourite café, remembering the exact kind you liked and bringing it to your door so you could enjoy a walk with him in the Gardens once more, watching the stars come out. You’d passed Felix in the corridor and waved but the giant had hurried by as though he hadn’t seen you. A few days after that Alec had promised to take you out to the markets, but the weather had been too bright for him apparently even though you had argued it was overcast enough that the chances of him exposing himself were slim to none. He had come to your room with new sketching pencils that night, an apology gift to make it up to you, he said.

It had become a theme though, you noticed. Alec would promise to take you somewhere, and then he would find one way or another to weasel his way out of taking you out.

“I never promised you anything, I said we might, your imaging things.” He would dismiss it the same way every time and always follow up with a nice gesture that made you feel bad for questioning him on it. He really did feel guilty about you not getting to go out, didn’t he? It wasn’t just that though either, it was Demetri and Felix’s absence in your life that had grown concerning. You were conscious you hadn’t seen your friends for quite some time, Alec always claiming they were busy with guard duty or some other task, yet when you caught Demetri in the corridor once he had brushed you off with the enough regret in his eyes that it made you question Alec’s entire story.

“But they always found time to at least say hello to me before, so why-“

“Y/N, my love I don’t wish to upset you, but do you really think they were ever your friends?” Alec asked. You blinked, frowning in confusion.

“Of course they’re my friends! We decorated my room together and they helped us get to know each other. I just don’t get why they aren’t around anymore.” You huffed. Alec ran his hand down your arm gently, your skin tingling at the ice-cold contact. He had slowly started to incorporate physical affection into your relationship, and you would be lying if you said you weren’t thrilled with the little touches. It was a far cry from the rough embrace he had given you nearly two months ago.

“They were fulfilling a duty tesoro, you required a room and at the Masters request they built you one, and do you really think one little human can go unguarded in this place? They were your sentries, not your friends.” His expression was so sympathetic you wondered how you couldn’t not believe him, and he’d held you to him as you cried over their obvious betrayal. As weeks dragged into another month though your anxiety only grew, and it didn’t make sense. Things between you and Alec were really good. He had much more control now and he was affectionate and sweet, always giving you little gifts and making time in his day to see you even if no one else would, but something was just…wrong. You were sure you were going mad.

You wrote home frequently to the Cullen’s so they could pass letters on to Bella, but those letters sometimes went missing and despite being sure you wrote them, Alec assured you you hadn’t and he had never seen them materialise. As sweet as he was Alec always put down your clumsy little accidents to you being human to, laughing when you tripped into his arms or holding his breath as he cleaned up scrapes for you with that dreaded little saying of his.

“You’re only human Y/N.” he chuckled, as he carefully placed a band aid around the finger you had accidentally cut while cooking yourself dinner. You sighed dejectedly.

“I wish you’d stop saying that.” You admitted. It felt like you weren’t good enough. Your human needs were a bother to him, that much was clear. He always had to take time to make sure you had something to eat when he really just wanted to spend his free hours with you. Most of the time when he was free you were asleep and you could only imagine how boring it must be for him to have to spend so much time alone when you were across the castle, sleeping peacefully. Bathroom breaks were another thing that gave you almost nauseating anxiety now to, and you’d scrubbed your body pink on multiple occasions wondering if your personal hygiene was assaulting his nose or not after a day or two without showering.

You needed to clear your head, you decided, so a trip to your café was in order. Alec wouldn’t be able to take you you knew, not with the sun as bright as it was right then. It would fade quickly given the late time of year but you left a note just in case Alec wondered across your empty room. It felt good, to get fresh air and to sit in a window seat, watching the world go by without a care as sweet pastry melted in your mouth. You had brought a book with you to enjoy to, a fantasy world to escape to for a little bit before your old anxieties came crawling back in. Though your relationship with Alec was as yet undefined, you felt like you were to blame for that due to your inferior status. After all, what could you possible bring to a relationship with him that would make him want to call you his mate? You were only human after all.

“Now what are you doing here little human?” Demetri’s voice startled you so much you dropped your book to the tabletop with a gasp. Heart fluttering, you couldn’t help but laugh breathless, if only to ease the tension.

“Demetri, god you scared the hell out of me.” You swallowed, not liking the way he was frowning at you.

“Well you can consider us even then.” He said, arms folding across his chest. You felt a lot like you were a child being scolded in that moment.

“What?” you asked.

“You heard me. You cannot just leave the castle Y/N, not without telling someone or at least leaving a note. There was an uproar when Alec found you gone, we thought something had happened to you.” He chided. Your frown deepened.

“But I did leave a note, I taped it to my door so Alec would see.” You protested. Demetri’s eyebrows rose.

“Not according to Alec. He found no note and I did not see anything resembling one when I came to your room to see what the fuss was about. Come on, you have had your fun. A harmless misunderstanding it may be but you will be in for a scolding from the Masters.” he sighed, holding a hand to help you out of your chair. Your stomach twisted. You were going to have to see the Masters because you’d gone out for coffee? How had Alec missed your note? You were sure you had left it on the door for him! You remembered the schluuuuck sound of sticky tape and everything as you taped it up!

“But Demetri, I swear I left a note.” You said, packing away your things as your good mood crumbled. Demetri was quiet for a moment.

“Perhaps you did and it was overlooked, either way you have scared us all enough for one day.” He took your bag from you like the gentleman he was, escorting you back to the castle. You were so sure you had left that note for Alec, as sure as you were about your own name, but what if you hadn’t? You resolved to steel your nerves for now, take your scolding and ensure you left one next time. Hell, next time you would even tell the secretary to go and tell Alec in the throne room just to be safe. You weren’t going to worry your mate like this again, it wasn’t going to become a pattern.

How wrong you were.

[onecanonlife]

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 7,402

Chapter Warnings: swearing, referenced (temporary) character death, slight manipulation

Chapter Summary: In which Wilbur tours the stronghold, meets DreamXD, and watches Tommy and Techno move a few very reluctant inches closer to reconciliation.

(masterlist w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Fourteen: wipe the dirt off of your hands (ii)

Phil and Technoblade found the server’s stronghold. Because of course they did. Nevermind that the End is closed off here, the one rule of this server that hasn’t been broken and flaunted in front of everyone’s faces. The one rule that might actually sort of mean something. But evidently it doesn’t mean enough, because Phil and Techno not only found the stronghold, but decided to use it for a secret anarchy base.

When he voices all of this aloud, Phil just shrugs.

“Techno won me over to the whole anarchy thing, a bit,” he says, completely unrepentant. “We wanted a base, and the stronghold was literally right there. Not like anyone else was using it.”

“I really feel like that’s not the point,” Ranboo says weakly. He understands the significance, apparently. “Phil, even I know what a stronghold is.”

“Okay, it’s not nearly as big of a deal as you two are making it out to be,” Phil says, even though he is wrong, completely dead-wrong. “Just, c’mon, I’ll show you how we get there.” He starts walking, heading for the door, and he and Ranboo are given no choice but to follow. “We found an old library in it, lots of books in surprisingly good condition, considering. I haven’t even begun to go through them all. I’m thinking if it’s information on ancient, slightly eldritch beings we’re looking for, that’s our best bet in finding anything.”

“Right,” he says. “Sure. Why not?” He hopes Phil can hear the utter frustration in his voice. The smirk directed his way tells him that Phil did, indeed, hear it. Bastard.

But there’s nothing to do but go with him, at this point. It’s not like he’s going to pass up the chance to see one of these; he’s been in strongholds before, of course, but this feels like it holds more significance, somehow, on a server where the End is forbidden to all. Phil leads them through a convoluted series of passages, hitting buttons that reveal secret doors, and there’s a long hallway of ice, and then more buttons, and the air gets cooler and cooler, musty and still. Old. Tense. Like the rock itself is waiting.

And then, Phil opens up one final door, and a different hallway greets them. One crafted with intent, not carved carelessly out of stone. Bricks placed purposefully, rough though the detailing now is, and the air is stale here, and strangely damp. They’re underwater, then, and he casts Phil a glance. He seems unconcerned, and Wilbur chooses to believe that means that the roof won’t cave in under the pressure of the ocean above.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been in one of these,” Ranboo says. His voice is hushed, quiet, almost awestruck.

“It’s not much,” Phil says with a shrug. “Normally wouldn’t bother with it, in a server like this, but like I said, Techno and I wanted a base, and it happened to be close. Not much of use here, but there is a library. More cobwebs than books by now, but a lot of what’s left seems legible, at least. I haven’t gone through most of it. Here, this way.”

Phil keeps walking, and for a moment, Ranboo doesn’t follow. He looks a bit taken aback, perhaps by Phil’s casual attitude toward a place that in any other circumstance, to any other person, might be something approaching sacred.

Wilbur sighs.

“Phil’s just like that,” he murmurs. “Plus, he’s been on dozens of servers. Seen dozens of these. And he’s ancient, too, so there’s that.” He goes along after Phil, and Ranboo, after a second of hesitation, hurries to catch up with him.

“How ancient are we talking here?” he asks.

Wilbur feels his lips twitch upward. “Do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever actually asked for the exact number,” he says. “Centuries, at least. Maybe a few millennia. No one really quite knows what Phil is. I’m not sure he knows himself.” He shrugs. “Growing up, he was always just our dad. That was enough.”

“Oh.” Ranboo chews on that for a moment, and then nods. “Okay then. That actually explains a couple of things.”

He hums. “How did you come to live by him, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Oh, well, it was after—you know about Doomsday, right? I mean—”

(destruction raining from the sky and the terrifying shriek of withers and his home is gone the history is gone and Friend, Friend is gone, his dearest Friend and Phil knew, he knew, he knew and he did it anyway but only a few minutes later the memory is gone because he does not want to remember this and it is a blessing, being able to forget, because what use is carrying pain that he can do nothing about, what use is holding it close and letting it make a monster of him because even dead he cannot manage to ask for help must keep up the facade but at least let it be a happy one)

(and yet looking back on it, looking back on it now, he feels barely any anger at all. like son, like father, after all)

He smiles tightly. “I know about Doomsday,” he agrees, and then tilts his head. “That’s right, you were—you were living in L’Manberg at the time, weren’t you? I—Ghostbur saw you there.”

“Yeah, I lived there,” Ranboo says. “Right up until it turned into a crater, I guess. But, um, after all of that, Phil knew that I didn’t have anywhere to go, so—I don’t know, I guess he felt bad for me or something? He invited me to stay up here with him and Techno, and I guess I never really left.”

That’s such a uniquely Phil thing to do. Destroy a country, then pick up one of the kids he rendered homeless. Wilbur can imagine exactly how that went.

“Well, I hope you know that you’re not likely to be rid of him now,” he says, and then the two of them step around the corner, and right across the way, there is an open doorway, and even from here, he can see the rows upon rows of bookshelves, some of them half-empty and all of them covered in cobwebs and a thick layer of dust. He glances at Ranboo one last time, and then the two of them step into the room.

He is not one for claustrophobia,

(was not, though now tight spaces and dark rooms remind him of one place and one place only)

but the room feels close, crowded, the shelves towering over him, and even over Ranboo, who has more than a foot of height on him, tall and lanky and half-ender as he is. And more than that, the room feels old, feels weighty, moreso even than the rest of the stronghold, because here are books that must have been written hundreds of years ago, before the server passed into Dream’s hands, that have not been touched since, that have been left to gather dust and mold in an ancient ruin under the sea. In these books are the words of people who came years before him, their words reaching out to grasp the long arm of the future, and it is nothing that he has not seen before, but he never gets used to it. He is no scholar, really, no Technoblade, but he can appreciate this for what it is, can appreciate the history here, the circle that never ends.

(he has always fancied himself as part of a story, has always been able to look outside of himself to see what role the history books will have him play. moments like this only make him more aware of it, more aware that someday, he will be long in the ground and only his words will live on, his words and the words of others, a legacy, a garden growing and fed on the dust that was once him)

(it should already be so. stories are not supposed to be picked up after the last thread is snipped and yet here he is, and the whole narrative has been thrown into disarray)

Phil’s head peers out around one of the shelves.

“Took you long enough,” he says. “We can start anywhere, I suppose. I didn’t get around to cataloging any of this shit, so your guess is as good as mine as to where the important stuff is.”

“Great,” Ranboo says, sounding thoroughly unenthusiastic. “I love having absolutely no idea what we’re looking for.”

“We have to start somewhere,” he says, though looking at the shelves around them, he thinks that Ranboo might have a point. But nonetheless, he grabs a random book off the nearest shelf and opens it, frowning at the mold that dots the pages. But as Phil said, it’s legible, and his eyes scan over faded words, printed in an older dialect that’s just barely understandable.

They split up, each taking a different section. But it only takes a few hours for Wilbur to get frustrated. He’s more patient than this, normally, unless that’s another aspect of himself that he lost somewhere along the line. But he thinks he’s justified—perhaps under normal circumstances, they would have all the time in the world to find the information they need. In normal circumstances, a strategy like this would work. But they don’t have that kind of time. And they especially don’t have that kind of time to search for knowledge that may not even be here at all.

He snaps the book he’s leafing through shut and stands.

“I’m stretching my legs,” he calls, and doesn’t wait for an answer before striding out of the room. Too late, he remembers that they’re still underground, underwater, and the air outside of the library is barely any fresher than the air inside, which does not improve his mood. But a walk might help clear his head, so a walk is what he takes, wandering the corridors as he did in the castle earlier, that same restlessness returning.

It all comes down to a feeling of helplessness, in the end, of powerlessness. He was powerless to stop the Egg. Powerless to save Techno, and then later, powerless to help him. And he is powerless now, skimming through century-old books with barely a hope of a payoff. And yet, it’s all he can do, is the best plan they have, and how is it possible that this is the best plan they have?

He used to be good at this. He has been presenting himself as good at this, pulled on his old general’s strength to present confidence to the others, surety. And yet, here they are, and it’s too soon to give up, he knows, but it’s been a few hours and they have found nothing, and he can’t help but feel like they’re going to continue to find nothing.

You are nothing, and you may as well give it up, give in, throw away yourself for a chance of saving what little you have not already lost, something whispers, and it is not him, and there is translucent red lining the edges of his vision, for if you pass up this chance, who do you have to blame but yourself?

“Shut up,” he mutters. “Shut the fuck up. You’re thousands of chunks away, shut up.”

Distance is no matter to one such as I, and you ought to know better than to hope for it, it says. You ought to know better than to hope for a great many things. Powerless as you are, why not take into your hands the only choice you have left to you, take back your peace and save your brother, save them all from the encroaching choke, save them all and yourself most of—

He steps into another room, and the voice abruptly stops, leaving his head blessedly silent. He catches himself holding his breath, and he releases it all at once.

And then realizes what he’s seeing. It’s a meeting room, clearly, decorated far beyond what an untouched stronghold would look like, and this has Phil’s interior design choices stamped all over it, but—

They’re using the End Portal as a table.

Because that is undoubtedly the End Portal. Even if he hadn’t seen one before, once or twice, on different servers, he would be able to recognize the blocks for what they are: something other, something that belongs to a different place entirely. They fill the room with a low, buzzing hum, and underneath that, there is a melody hovering just beyond his perception, a melody that he doesn’t think he’s ever heard before. He hums, trying to match the notes, and finds that he can’t, that he always lands above or below no matter what pitch he vocalizes. And yet, even still, there is something about it that is eerily comforting.

Perhaps it is simply the way the Egg fell silent as soon as he stepped inside. He appreciates that.

But still. They’re using it as a table.

“Do you like the décor?” Phil asks, amusement clear in his tone. Wilbur doesn’t turn to look at him, but Phil comes up beside him soon enough, and Ranboo trails behind, staring at the portal with wide eyes.

“Is nothing sacred to you?” he asks, and the teasing note comes out naturally.

“Eh,” Phil says, shoulders lifting in a shrug. “You know how it is.”

“I know what that is,” Ranboo says, sounding far, far away. “I know—I know this, I—why do I—?”

(a question: if he could sense the music, human and just barely void-touched as he is, then what must it sound like to one who has the End itself in his veins?)

Ranboo takes one step forward, and then another, until he’s standing right next to the portal-table. One hand hovers above it, and he hesitates before placing it down. Wilbur glances to Phil, wondering if this is a thing they should be stopping, but Phil is staring at Ranboo, head tilted and eyes slightly narrow.

“Have you never seen one of these before?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Ranboo says, still distant. “Maybe? I don’t think I remember. But I—I don’t know where I come from, but this feels like—”

“Well, it is an End Portal,” Phil agrees. “I wasn’t sure if it was still functional, but I guess that answers that question. You’re probably sensing something from it that we’re not picking up on, with you being half-ender and all.”

“I guess—”

“Why wouldn’t it be functional?” Wilbur interrupts. Maybe that’s not what he should’ve gotten out of that, but he’s satisfied that this is an enderman thing, not something to be concerned over. But that offhand remark, said in that infuriatingly casual way that Phil so often has, draws his attention, because he’s never heard of a non-functional End Portal before. He didn’t think that such a thing was possible; everyone knows that portals are the one sure fixture of almost every server, unable to be tampered with or destroyed by any means.

“Oh, that.” Phil laughs. “There’s an interesting story there, actually. When Techno and I first came through here, we—”

But Phil gets cut off.

Wilbur senses it before he sees that anything is changed: the pressure in the room shifts, suddenly, becoming greater, more. All the hair on the back of his neck stands on end, and the next breath he takes, he gets a lungful of ozone, sharp and electric.  He coughs, and finds that the noise falls strangely flat, and then there is someone hovering over the portal-table. Not standing. Hovering, a good six inches from the table’s surface.

Ranboo stumbles back, and Phil takes several strides forward, arms outstretched as if to shield them both. His cloak twitches, though his wings do not spread.

Wilbur’s not sure what he’s looking at.

They are a person, he thinks. At least, they are person-shaped, though it is somewhat difficult to tell; most of their body is covered in a long green cloak, one that drifts around them despite the stillness of the air. They have no visible feet, and their hands are hidden, if they have them. But under their hood, there is nothing but shadows, and those shadows do not seem to fall across a face. Instead, it is as though they are made of void, black and cold, and he finds himself leaning in, straining to see if there is anything past that, and the hood twitches in his direction and he gets a glimpse of

(twin halos circling circling like a tear in the world and a tear in the void a tear in the nothing and the everything and a circle half filled in and half open and you know something in you knows)

He freezes. His spine locks up. They do not have eyes but they are looking at him, and the only way to describe the feeling is prey studied by a predator. The Egg didn’t make him feel like this. Even Dream didn’t make him feel like this.

(or he did, but it was tainted by darkness, tainted by corruption, a predator studying prey if the predator was malicious rather than just an animal, acting on cruel whim rather than nature and instinct. this is something different. this is something vaster. this is the regard of a)

“The End is closed,” the newcomer says, and Wilbur stiffens further, because their voice echoes and vibrates and buzzes in his skull, but underneath that, underneath all the white noise, the voice sounds like Dream. But that cannot possibly be right. This—person, whatever they are, they are not human, but they are not the same as Dream, do not give off the same impression of oozing corruption, of a black pit at the core, sucking in all light to be snuffed out, stamped upon.

“We weren’t going to the End, mate,” Phil says, calm. “Just talking. Not against the rules to talk, is it?”

“The End is closed,” they repeat, their voice grating and twisting and pulling at the reality around them. Wilbur feels a headache begin to form behind his eyes, a dull throbbing.

“Right, one trick pony, you are,” Phil mutters, and then glances over his shoulder. “This is what I was about to tell you about. Seems there’s someone to enforce the End rule here. They almost took away the portal entirely before Techno and I swore we weren’t gonna use it. Nothing much to worry about, I don’t think. Look,” he tacks on, turning back to them, “we were really just having a chat. Don’t need someone looking over our shoulders for it.”

The hood of the cloak moves again in what might, possibly, be considered a head tilt.

“You may not open the way to the End,” they say. “Not even for his sake.” A hand snakes out of the folds of the cloak, gloved in black, and makes a quick gesture in Ranboo’s direction. Wilbur blinks, hard; the motion is difficult to track, and it’s as if they slice open the very air itself just by moving.

Phil scoffs. “Is that what this is about?” he asks. “Mate. He’s an enderman hybrid, he can’t help but be drawn to it. But he’s not stupid enough to try and go through. You’re not needed here. Promise.”

Ranboo nods in agreement, head bobbing rapidly as he makes a few noises of agreement. Wilbur might be amused by it, if it weren’t for the fact that every inch of his skin feels like a live wire, being in the same room as this thing. He’s not sure why Phil is being so nonchalant about this, as if this is normal. This isn’t normal. Or perhaps he’s the strange one, is overreacting to something that is undoubtedly odd but no reason to worry, but he doesn’t think so. He really, really doesn’t think so.

They drift a few inches back, almost absently.

“He watches from behind your eyes,” they say. “He above all others must not be allowed access. You will forgive my insistence.”

“The fuck does that mean?” Phil asks, and Wilbur wants to echo his confusion, except the Egg was in his head not even ten minutes ago, and he has a sneaking suspicion as to what they might be referring to. The Egg was in his head, but they are not looking at him, he’s sure, because when they were looking at him, he could feel it, just as he could feel Dream’s gaze sliding across him like the touch of a razor and yet not like that at all. And Ranboo has tensed, so perhaps this is directed at him, but Wilbur pushes that aside and steps forward, evading Phil’s outstretched arm, because if no one else is going to ask the questions he wants answered, then he will.

“What the fuck are you?” he says, blunt. Perhaps it’s not the wisest move, but he’s tired and irritated, and when Phil goes to grab his shoulder, he shrugs him off. “No, I’m not—stop that, I’m done with things yanking on my chain. This guy wants to appear in front of us and be all cryptic and shit, I’m not having that. Not today. We don’t have time for this. So what the fuck are you?”

For a moment, they go silent. His breathing is loud in his own ears.

(he’s not sure why he’s stuck on this, not sure why he’s stuck on them, for he has tangled with gods and monsters and this being should be no different, really, from what he has dealt with over the past few weeks, should be better, even, since it seems that they are not here to try to kill him or his family, but he looks at them and sees beyond them, sees a break in the world and crack in the code and it is like and not like anything else he has seen before and perhaps they will not find what they need to know in books)

“I am the protector,” they say at length. “A fragment and a failsafe.”

“I didn’t ask what you do,” he says, “I asked what you are.”

“Wil—”

“Stop,” he insists. He’s standing in front of both of them now, and he doesn’t look back, doesn’t take his eyes off the figure floating over the table. “We’ve got some, some otherworldly being in here with us, and you don’t think this could at all be relevant? Please tell me I’m not the only one who realizes who he sounds like.” Without waiting for an answer, he addresses the being again. “What are you? And how are you connected to Dream? You can’t tell me you’re not, I don’t believe it.”

Behind him, Ranboo makes a little sound, like he’s been punched in the gut.

They are silent once again.

And then:

“I am a shadow,” they say. “A shadow of the original. I am what he rejected in his last moment of clarity.”

“What are you—are you trying to say you know Dream? Or that you came from Dream?”

They drift closer. “I am of him but not him. My task is to prevent the worst. The final task he set me. I can do nothing else.”

“Is the ‘he’ in that sentence Dream?” Ranboo asks, a frantic whisper that is very loud. “Is the—I don’t like this, I don’t like this at all. Can we go now? I think we should go now and leave the mysterious floating guy alone.”

“Could you speak in anything but riddles?” he snaps, ignoring him. “I want a straight answer. You haven’t given me one yet.”

They drift closer still, and his skin erupts in gooseflesh, static energy crackling across it. He resists the urge to step back.

(this reminds you of another time another time long ago and this surge of confidence is true truer than any you have experienced yet since they dragged you back into this world by your trailing fingertips and it is true because you remember standing on the walls and facing the ruler of the server and holding your ground for what you believe in for the people you fight for and this is different but it feels the same feels the same and you will not give in not even to a)

They are looking at him, right at him,

(twin halos circle slashing wounds into the world and this is something that was never meant to be)

and they say, “It is not of you to demand of me. I am the protector. That is my task,” but that is not what Wilbur hears, because suddenly, there is something in his head, something poking at his thoughts, but it does not reach in as the Egg did, does not pull at the threads of his mind and attempt to twist them into something new, but rather just exists on the edges, touching but not pressing, and there is a pressure and he doesn’t like it at all but it doesn’t hurt him.

And what they say is not words, but rather impressions, imparted to him all at once, impossible to pick apart, and

(the beginning and the end all wrapped up in one as the universe looks on and this server is a home he will make it a home he did but he is gone and this is what remains of the divine fabric the crown of the world and they wait and wait and the universe looks on and they are nothing but a shell all the love taken by the other and broken corrupted drowned twisted and they wait by their task they do what has been set and only once do they not only once do they act there is a man and he asks and he is cloaked by the universe and the thrall of the empty and time in its mercilessness and that which is inbetween and he asks and the universe says yes so they do not refuse and they drag you back into this world by your trailing fingertips for the better or for the worse and the man is gone and the universe cannot be contained by this but the universe says)

he doesn’t understand a bit of it, but he reels back regardless, and his head feels like fireworks have gone off within it, like a thousand thunderclaps sounding overhead. Hand land on his shoulder, on his arm, and he does not push Phil away this time, nor Ranboo when he suddenly appears on his other side. He blinks the spots from his vision, and looks up. The figure is gone.

“You alright?” Phil asks quietly.

“What the fuck?” he says instead of replying. “Phil, what—what was that?”

“I second that? I would also like to know?” Ranboo says, voice tilting upward.

“I would’ve told you not to mess with them, but I figured you should get it out of your system,” Phil says, still quiet, deadly serious. He stares at the table rather than make eye contact, and Wilbur follows his gaze. The End Portal still hums. “I’ve been around the block enough to know a god when I see one. I don’t know what the fuck this one is or what connection they have to Dream, but all they seem to want to do is make sure that no one goes to the End. Like I said, that’s what I was about to tell you before they showed up. Techno and I had to swear five times over that we wouldn’t use the portal for anything other than decoration before they’d even let us keep it. I figured it was best to leave them the fuck alone.”

“A god?” Ranboo echoes. “Like, an actual god? Divine smiting and all of that?”

Wilbur has never been much of a believer himself. Or at least, not one for worship. Gods may exist, but he’ll pay one homage when he decides it deserves his respect, and that day has never arrived.

But this one

(was in his head and he wanted it gone wanted it gone because he has had enough of things dragging their fingers across his sense of self but this one did not push and more than that it felt familiar almost like)

is important.

“There’s plenty of different kinds of gods,” Phil says, “but essentially, yes.”

“Dream’s not a god, though,” he states flatly. Phil glances at him.

“He’s never felt like one to me,” he agrees. “But I never picked up on the demon thing either, so I probably know fuck-all.”

“This feels important,” he says, and runs his fingers through his hair, trying to settle his nerves. “This feels—fuck, every time I think I’ve got all the pieces laid out, it turns out that I’ve made the framework too short, and there’s components I didn’t even know existed.” He shakes his head. The headache has mostly abated, so that’s something. “I don’t suppose they’d come back if we asked them nicely?”

“Do we want them to come back?” Ranboo asks, his voice rising in pitch even further. “Is that a thing that we want?”

He runs a hand through his hair again and doesn’t reply. Phil doesn’t either, though he’s not sure it’s for the same reason. Because frankly, yes; he wants them to come back. He asked them questions and didn’t understand a word of their answers, and he feels like he’s barely scraped the surface of what’s actually going on here. But one thing has been made clear enough: the nature of the connection between Dream and this being, this god, is uncertain, but the connection exists. And considering everything, that is something that’s relevant to them.

He’s beginning to think that they might get some information out of this after all. But he doubts that it’ll come from any book.

----------

They don’t find anything. They go at it for another few hours, flipping through musty pages until his eyes swim, and they come up with absolutely jack-shit. He wishes he could say that he’s surprised. He decides not to say anything about it at all, because Ranboo is wavering on his feet and Phil’s face is held in tight lines, and his negativity won’t do either of them any good.

“We can try again tomorrow,” Phil says, “but we need to turn it in. It’s been a long fucking day.”

It doesn’t feel like it’s been one day. Doesn’t feel like just this morning, they were marching into the Egg’s chamber, intent on taking it down once and for all. Doesn’t feel like they were chased out less than an hour later, battered and with one less than they started with, Dream escaped and everything gone to shit. It doesn’t feel like one day, and yet, it has been, and it reminds him of the war, at the end, when everything was happening so quickly and there was barely any time to process one event before something else was going wrong.

He doesn’t miss those days.

“How long can we afford to do this, Phil?” he asks, and doesn’t bother to hide his weariness. “How long can we afford to fuck around out here with nothing to show for it? We can’t even be sure that nothing’s happened in the Greater SMP, not with comms down.”

“I wish I had a good answer to that, Wil,” Phil says. “I really do. If you’ve got a better plan, I’m all ears.”

He

(does, perhaps, but it’s not one that Phil will like)

doesn’t, so the rest of the walk back out of the stronghold is made in silence. It’s a relief when they make it to the surface, the cold, biting air fresh on his face. He turns his face into the wind just to feel it, regardless of the sting. Night has fallen, the sun just the barest hint of purple-orange on the western horizon. Overhead, stars twinkle, bright and distant. Techno’s house is lit, now, an orange glow emanating from the windows. Tommy must have gotten a fire going.

Tommy. Right. They’ve left Tommy alone with Techno all afternoon. He’s too tired to be concerned about it right now. The house isn’t burning down, so they’re probably fine.

“I think I’m gonna go home for the night, if that’s okay,” Ranboo says. “I’ll meet up with you guys again in the morning?”

“Sounds good, mate,” Phil says, a bit distractedly; his eyes are roving over the cottage, probably searching for signs of property damage. But Ranboo takes it for agreement, so the kid nods, and then waves awkwardly to him, and then he’s walking across the snow toward the nearest mountain. For the first time, Wilbur realizes that there appears to be a house built into its side, not particularly pretty, but functional.

“With luck, they’re both conked out,” Phil mutters. He gathers his robes around him and heads for the door, and Wilbur trails after him.

Phil opens the door, and they’re greeted with silence. It is not the same silence from before; a fire crackles merrily in the hearth, now, some evidence of life. The house no longer gives an impression of a grave. But there are no voices that he can hear, nothing from the house’s two inhabitants, and perhaps Phil is right and they’re both asleep, but Wilbur doesn’t trust silence.

So as Phil goes over to the fire to stir up the coals, he makes a beeline for the ladder, climbing up as quietly as the creaky old thing will allow. The muttering hits his ears as soon as he pokes his head above the floor, hushed and furious, as if they both want to be shouting but are held back by some unspoken rule, some agreement not to break the peace of the rest of their surroundings. Or maybe that’s bullshit; Tommy isn’t one to care about things like that, after all.

He doesn’t step off the ladder, choosing to hang there for a moment instead, gripping the rungs uneasily. The wood is rough, and vaguely, he wonders if he’ll get splinters.

Technoblade is awake, and more than that, he is aware. That is the first thing his mind locks onto, the fact that his brother looks far better than he did earlier. He is still shaking, but far less, and his eyes are bright and present rather than fogged with pain. He sees no sign of gold, no lingering flickers and flashes of magic, and the relief is heady. He is not yet completely well; the fact that he is still in bed is evidence enough of that. But he is sitting up, and he no longer looks like death warmed over,

(too soon too soon)

and his face is twisted in irritation rather than pain.

Tommy has scooted his emerald block closer to the bed, is leaning forward, feet planted on the floor and hands planted on his knees, all bristling anger, indignation, face flushed and red. He puts Wilbur in mind of a cat, hissing and spitting at the object of his ire, making himself bigger than he truly is.

“—the fuck you want,” he’s saying, and his whisper is harsh, but it’s certainly a whisper. “I don’t fucking—I don’t owe you shit, you got that? I don’t owe you shit, so you can, you can fuck right off, you hear me?”

Techno blinks. “When did I say that, Tommy? Please tell me exactly when I said that,” he says, and—oh. Wilbur gets it now. Because Techno’s voice is quiet and rough, still thick with exhaustion, and he’s probably only a few minutes out from waking up. So, Tommy may be angry, may be positively irate, but whether he’s aware of it or not, he’s holding himself back, refusing to unleash the full force of his fury on someone who has objectively been through hell today.

(and Tommy is brash, and Tommy is loud, and Tommy performs being an irritating little shit like nobody’s business, but above all else, Tommy is good, and Tommy will never admit it, but he is kind, and it is a miracle that it hasn’t been beaten out of him along the way, that despite it all he has managed to keep his spirit, but he is kind, he is. and it is more despite him than because of him, but it is little moments like these that remind Wilbur why he is so proud of him)

“You don’t have to say it,” Tommy bites out. “Mister, mister violence is the only language or whatever the hell, mister vengeance, you’re big on favors and repaying them. But I—I didn’t ask you to do shit, you did that all on your own, so I don’t owe you. I’m saying it right now, I don’t owe you.”

There is an edge to the words. A fear. An expectation. Wilbur doesn’t expect it to hit him as hard as it does, but there is a pang in his chest, and he wonders if this is yet another lesson he imparted on his little brother. To expect no kindness without an ulterior motive.

(that was how he was, in the darkness of the ravine, seeking out the duplicity of everyone around him, even when there was none to be found, but it is one thing to look back and see clearly, now, what he was like, the slope he slid down, the spiral he entered, and another to continue to be confronted with the evidence of the hurt he caused, the hurt he has yet to truly make up for)

(here is a certainty that has not left him: he does not deserve Tommy’s forgiveness. that is another thing that can be attributed to his kindness. the kindness that somehow, between the wars and the country and the shadows, he did not manage to take from him, not like he took so much else)

“I didn’t do it so that you’d owe me,” Techno says. “Give me a little more credit than that.”

“Why should I?” Tommy erupts, though it is the quietest eruption that Wilbur has ever heard from him. “Why—give me one fucking reason why I should believe a word out of your mouth.”

“I don’t lie,” Techno states, flat. “I have no reason to.”

“Oh, right,” Tommy says, “because you’re so fucking honorable. You’re so fucking—I can’t deal with you, you know that? You’re a fucking hypocrite, and I don’t care what your game is. I don’t care. You’re the worst, and I—”

“I don’t want you dead,” Techno says. “That’s it. That’s why I did it, Tommy, simple as that.”

“Bullshit,” Tommy snaps. “Then what the fuck was Doomsday, then? What the fuck was telling me to die like a hero, then? You are just talking complete shit, shit out of your mouth, out of your arse—”

And then, Tommy, cuts off, because Techno tenses, seizing up, a sudden glimmer of gold in his eyes, and he grunts, hands curling into his bed sheets, his face blanking. Tommy moves forward, seemingly on instinct, hands reaching out to steady him, and there is is again, that kindness, that kindness that Tommy would rather die than allow anyone to point out.

The fit subsides, Techno breathing heavily. Tommy lingers for a moment, and then jerks back, scowling, as soon as Techno makes eye contact with him.

“Fuck off,” he mutters.

“At the end of the day,” Techno says, slowly, “it doesn’t really matter whether you believe me or not. I’ve been angry at you, Tommy. I can’t say that I don’t feel like it was justified. I’m sick of—” He closes his eyes, inhaling sharply, and then opens them again. “I’ve said all this before. It doesn’t matter. But I don’t want you dead, and I wasn’t about to let Dream kill you in front of me when I could do somethin’ about it. Between my first life and your third one, it was an easy choice.” He sighs, settling further down on the pillows. “Take it or leave it. I’m not arguin’ this right now.”

Tommy’s mouth works. Several emotions flicker across his face, and Wilbur can only pick out a few of them: disbelief, more anger, but perhaps something that might be hope. Perhaps. But if it is, he doesn’t get the chance to find out, because at that moment, Phil calls up from the base of the ladder.

“Everything okay?” he asks, and that’s right, he’s just been standing here, on the ladder, for the past few minutes. He can see why that would make Phil concerned. But that means that Tommy and Techno are both suddenly made aware of his presence.

“What—how long have you been there?” Tommy sputters, and he shrugs, clambering up the last rung or two and stepping fully into the room.

“Not too long,” he says. “Glad to see you cognizant, Techno.”

It’s all he can think so say, really, though there are a plethora of other statements crowding his mind. That has always been a weakness of his, his inability to allow himself to be emotional when it really counts, his habit of hiding everything beneath layers of deflection and a cool exterior. He and Techno aren’t dissimilar on that front, though Techno has a different way of going about it.

(so here is what he does not say: I’m so glad you’re alright, I saw you die when you’re supposed to be deathless and it terrified me, please never do that again, I know we’re broken and fucked up and maybe we’ll never be what we once were but I can’t imagine a life knowing that you won’t be there when I need you to be, so please, please stay alive)

“Can’t say I’m having a great time with it,” Techno mutters, and he’s definitely falling asleep again. “But thanks. Glad you’re not dead too, Wilbur.”

The ladder creaks again as Phil comes up, and he pauses a moment to survey the room before stepping in, eyebrows raising as he takes in the scene.

“Nobody bleeding or dying?” he asks wryly, and then crosses the floor to perch on the edge of Techno’s bed. “Hey, Tech, how you feeling?”

“Absolutely fantastic,” Techno says. “Top form, point me at the orphans.”

Phil laughs, more relief than anything else, and smooths some of Techno’s hair away from his face. Techno huffs out a sigh, but allows the gesture.

“Great,” Tommy says. “You all get anything, or was this whole thing for nothing?” There’s more hostility in his voice than necessary, though whether it’s genuine or to cover for his earlier emotion, Wilbur can’t tell.

“Nothing yet,” Phil says, unfazed. “We’ll spend the night here, get back at it in the morning. If we still don’t find shit, we’ll discuss where to go from there.”

Tommy crosses his arms, looking away, and he’s displeased at the concept of staying here, Wilbur can tell. So as Phil continues to lean over Techno, he slides over to him, nudging him in the arm. Tommy flinches, and then relaxes, eyeing him up.

“You good?” he murmurs, keeping his voice down.

“Fine,” Tommy replies. “Are we actually going to get anything out of this, or was this a big fucking waste of our time?”

Again, vitriol, and he remembers the conversation between him and Tubbo, overheard and unmentioned. After everything they’ve been through, a separation can’t be easy. On either of them, but especially on Tommy.

(a memory: buzzing excitement at doing something good, at helping, shining compasses, an inscription: Your Tubbo)

“It won’t be a waste of time,” he says, and the plan that’s been formulating in the back of his mind solidifies. It’s not a very good plan. But it’s something, and it’s more than they’ve got. “I’ll make sure of that.”

It is a general’s responsibility to lead his soldiers to victory, after all. And in the case of a half-baked, reckless plan, to take matters into his own hands.

And it is more than the general’s responsibility. It is his. For better, or for worse.

[autistic-stedebonnet]

3x05

•••

3x06

In which Winnie isn’t at the fair, and also, Gilbert isn’t courting her.

Anne adjusted her bow for the millionth time that day and smoothed down her perfectly unwrinkled skirts.

“Anne for goodness sake!” Marilla cried. “You’re acting as if we’re going to meet the Queen, it’s just Bash and Gilbert.”

Exactly, Anne thought to herself. Gilbert. Despite her apparent anxiety though, Anne was determined to have a wonderful day. This probably would’ve been easier if she wasn’t being forced to spend it with Gilbert though. She felt like a lamb to slaughter.

•

The ride to the fair passed soon enough. Thankfully Anne’s giddiness couldn’t be lessened by even the presence of Gilbert Blythe beside her. She bounced up and down on her heels as they waited in something that was more of an organized cluster than a line.

As soon as her cake was settled, Matthew and Marilla sent her off with 10 cents and instructions to stay with Gilbert, or Diana if they found each other.

Anne practically sprinted from the tent, half hoping that Gilbert wasn’t trailing after her. Who was she kidding though, of course he was right on her heels. He was like a baby goat sometimes, always following her.

“Is this your first county fair?” Gilbert asked casually

Anne closed her eyes and took a deep breath. This was Gilbert. He was her friend and she would not allow herself to fly into a temper over her own internal conflicts. She nodded briskly at his question and continued weaving her way through the crowds, staring in awe at every booth, performance and extravagantly dressed person she could see.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” She sighed, not even realizing that she’d clutched Gilbert’s forearm in her joy. When she did though, she shoved him away forcefully and cleared her throat, turning her head to conceal her reddened face. Much to Anne’s relief, she spotted Diana at that very moment. Without so much as an explanation to the boy beside her, she ran off to her bosom friend.

“Diana!” Anne hissed, snatching the baffled girl’s arm. “I need to speak with you about a matter of utmost importance.”

After composing herself, Diana arched a knowing eyebrow. “Does this have anything to do with a certain young and may I say, very confused boy?” She asked, glancing over at Gilbert who was too far to hear their whispered conversation, but close enough to see Diana smirking.

“Yes it does!” Anne whined. “I have to spend the whole day with him, I don’t know what I’ll do!”

Diana let out an overly dramatic sigh. “You two are ridiculous.”

“Am not,” Anne retorted, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Yes you are. He so obviously likes you, and you admitted your feelings for him just yesterday! Just go and tell him how you feel and live happily ever after.”

Diana’s face softened upon seeing Anne’s stricken expression. She placed a comforting hand on the redheads arm and smiled encouragingly. “Good luck, I have to go.” And with that, she left Anne alone with Gilbert Blythe and her horrible feelings.

•

“Anne, are you alright?”

Anne nodded crisply and forged onwards. “Yes Gilbert, I am perfectly content. I can’t imagine what would lead you to believe otherwise.”

“You’ve just been awfully quiet today, and normally when you’re excited you get very... passionate,” Gilbert explained, his voice becoming significantly more wary as the sentence continued. “I hope I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You did nothing of the sort, I’m just caught up in my thoughts.” Caught up in her thoughts indeed. But upon noticing a man selling ice cream, her thoughts seemed to be lost to the wind. “Oh, Gilbert!” She squealed, having forgotten her romantical predicament for a moment. “I haven’t had ice cream since the church picnic years ago!” She sighed, skipping over to the booth and pulling out her meager 10 cents. “Marilla claims it’s a right waste of milk, but I find the delicacy quite divine,” she explained to Gilbert, her back turned on the booth while she waited for her companion to join her.

But her sunny disposition was soon dashed as the seller proclaimed that she’d have to pay 12 cents for the ice cream.

“Oh drat!” Anne cried. “I’m just two cents short.” She examined the money in her hand with a disappointed sigh. “Oh well, I suppose Marilla would scold me for spending all my money on food anyhow.”

Gilbert cleared his throat and Anne looked up at him with an inquisitive expression. “Yes?”

“I, uh... I could give you the 2 cents,” he offered.

Anne gaped at him. “Absolutely not, Gilbert Blythe!”

“Why not?”

“I simply won’t have you wasting your money on me,” Anne said. “It’s only a minor disappointment, I do think I’ll live. And besides, there’s probably something more sensible for me to spend my money on anyhow.”

“Then I’ll pay the whole 12 cents. In fact, I’ll buy us both ice cream.” He smirked at her and stood up straight, proud to have rendered Anne Shirley-Cuthbert speechless, if only for a second.

“Wh-what, but, but I-“ Anne sputtered. “I didn’t ask you to, you don’t have to.”

“I’m not doing it out of obligation, I’m doing it because i’m trying to be nice!” Gilbert snapped, his frustration quickly growing. “We’re friends right?”

“Y-yes, we’re friends.”

“Then let me do something nice for you.”

Anne opened her mouth, then closed it again. A voice in the back of her head that sound strikingly familiar to Diana, told her to stop being so stubborn and let him do this. Then there was Cole, practically taunting her with the notion that Gilbert could ever like her. “Fine.”

•

Oh no. Oh noooo. No, no, no, no, no, no, no!

Anne’s eyes grew wide. There was no way she’d be able to pass by the tunnel of love with Gilbert and not blush profusely. She glanced around frantically, but she was already almost late and taking any other way to the cake competition would make her just that, late. If she just kept her head down and walked faster and- Gilbert stopped. Why did Gilbert stop?!

“Gilbert?” Anne squeaked, her entire body shaking like a rock during a violent earthquake.

“Anne, are you okay?”

“Yes i’m fine!”

“Really? Because we’ve been walking around for hours and the only actual conversation we had was you yelling at me,” Gilbert said.

“I-I don’t- I... ugh!” Anne dug her heels into the ground in frustration and clenched her fists at her side. Why couldn’t she just say it? Get it over with? Rejection was inevitable so what did it matter?

“Anne...” Gilbert’s expression was one of exasperation, but his eyes told a different story. They seemed to be digging straight into Anne’s soul, searching for something.

“Gilbert? Can I ask you something?”

“You just did.”

“Ha ha, you’re hilarious. Really, can I?”

“Go ahead.”

Anne pushed away the fact that they were directly in front of the tunnel of love and forged onward. “Why do you look at me like that?”

Gilbert blanched. “I... um... look at you like, like what?”

“Like you’re...” Anne trailed off, grasping for a way to put this into words. “Like you’re looking for something. Like you’re trying to see into my soul.”

Gilbert nodded slowly and stepped closer to Anne. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled that crooked smile that made Anne’s stomach do somersaults. “Because I am,” he replied simply.

“You’re... looking for... what?” Anne’s sentence was so quiet, no one but them could’ve heard it even in the most silent of rooms.

His eyes seemed to double in...whatever they were. They searched her, once again looking, hoping for something. “Anne, I...”

“You?...”

He cupped her cheek in his calloused hand and Anne was sure he could hear her heart pounding. She could’ve easily pulled away, ran like she always did. But she didn’t. She didn’t and then he was kissing her.

It was warm and safe and felt so incredibly right. For a split-second, Anne froze. Her muscles tensed and her entire body seemed to freeze over. But then he began to pull away and she realized that she didn’t want him to. She grasped the lapels of his shirt and pulled him closer to her.

There were no fireworks, or sparks, or rainbows, but there should’ve been. Because this moment, to Anne, felt as if destiny was being fulfilled. Like they were made of stardust from the same star, and were finally coming together after millennia of separation. Two coiled ribbons unraveling and twisting around each other in inexplicable harmony.

They finally pulled away from a desperate need for air, but their foreheads stayed pressed together.

“I love you Anne Shirley-Cuthbert,” Gilbert murmured.

Anne swallowed and bit the inside of her cheek. Love? He loved her? Did she love him? Of course she did. Denial was obviously not an option any more and it seemed as if that kiss had opened a door... no, not a door. It cleared a cloudy sky and revealed the golden sun.

“I love you too, Gilbert Blythe.” And then she jumped back and gasped. “Oh no, the cake contest!”

Gilbert laughed, a deep throaty laugh in which he threw his head back, turning his face to the sky.

“Oh I’m so late, oh no!” And with that, she ran, but for once, she wasn’t running away, she was barreling straight into something, and it felt so good.

[astreetcarnamedwynn]

ask response: fic questions

This was fun! Thank you, @goldensillydragon, for submitting the ask and for giving me the opportunity to take sweet trip down memory lane. I was able to answer them quicker than I anticipated. If anyone else would like my rambles about any fic I’ve written, just submit an ask/message with a fic title. I’ll answer some or all of the 15 questions. :D

goldensillydragon: Thank you, and don’t worry, take all the time you need. The fic is “Remembrance Of Things Past”, because it owns my heart and it’s a thing of beauty (and, frankly, to me it has become the standard I compare all Blackfrost fics to!).

Feel free to add anything you may want about it, just reading your thoughts on it will be a pleasure, you cannot imagine how much I love that fic!

Fic Links: Here on AO3 or here on FF.net

1: What inspired you to write the fic this way?

I am a fandom old. I first started writing fic in 2001. I wrote steadily from 2001 to early 2007, and then I stopped for 5 years, largely due to work. Buffy the Vampire Slayer was the first fandom I ever wrote for, I loved it and Firefly to bits, so I was super excited at Joss Whedon directing a big budget movie (oh how time changes perspective). I’d never read an Avengers comic before seeing the movie (I was an X-Men gal growing up). I can’t even remember at this point if I’d seen any of the Marvel movies prior to Avengers. I just know I came out of my first viewing of it in 2012 with a restored fannish heart. I needed it too. That year was hell for me personally, and writing Avengers fic was an escape.

I’d come out of Avengers, like many, impressed by Tom Hiddleston’s Loki. I was especially intrigued by his scenes with Natasha, how both of them played around with perception (Loki with his illusions, Natasha with people’s conceptions of herself), so the first Avengers fic I wrote was a short one-shot called “The Animal Inside” in which Loki visits Natasha to talk with her about the animal/beast inside and redemption:

Loki holds her gaze and says, “My sentencing happens today. Odin will…render his judgment against me. I believe even your society grants last requests to the condemned.”

Natasha holds her breath, unsettled at the confession.

“How did you do it?” he asks. “How did you stop being who you were and become who you are? Barton told me about your past. The red in your ledger. How did you…stop?”

I continued it in a slightly longer one-shot called “The Dog Days are Over” in which Loki has somehow found his way to Earth, rather than having been executed by Odin for his crimes, and Natasha encounters him on a mission. She tracks him down to understand why.

“Why aren’t you dead?”

He smirks. “Because Odin loves sadism almost more than his missing eye.”

And then came the beast. “Remembrance of Things Past.” In its current and unfortunately permanent incomplete form, it clocks in at over 200,000 words in nearly 50 chapters. I worked on it for close to 2 years. From what I remember, I wanted to challenge myself to find a way to write a Loki-Natasha romance that seemed plausible, that especially didn’t compromise her character in significant ways. What I settled on was Loki crossing Dr. Doom (a villain who, in the comics, was powerful enough to go toe-to-toe with him), and Odin directly asking Natasha to help Loki as he knows about the conversation they have in “The Dog Days are Over” through Heimdall. To save Loki, Natasha would have to delve back into her past, as he would have to deal with his past sins to try to atone.

Hence the title: “Remembrance of Things Past”

2: What scene did you first put down?

Probably the first scenes, bridging the time from “Dog Days” to Odin asking Natasha for help. I likely planned a good chunk of the first set of chapters in advance, but I would have started at the start.

3: What’s your favorite line of narration?

It’s been so long since I’ve worked on this, and so long since I’ve read it, that it’s hard to choose a favorite with any certainty. Here are some that I liked enough to highlight when posting and that stick out to me now making this:

In one of the rooms, she forgets which they are so numerous, Natasha finds Loki regarding the carved and painted ceiling. The reflected light shines golden on the room and on him. She wonders how he ever successfully lied or deceived, his eyes convey so much. His gaze now is elegiac, a smooth sky covering a seething sea of rage and regret.

*

On the smooth expanse of his life in Asgard, Loki had always felt the scratch, the spot that mars, the place where the pieces of himself should come together and fit, but instead they grated, they set his teeth on edge, and he lived in Paradise as a man tormented by a shadow from the corner of his eye, glimpsed only but never seen.

*

Odin looks once more at Loki and Thor, then he turns and finds Frigga. As they regard one another, a goodbye too inadequate for millennia together, the body of Odin Allfather begins to rupture, the energy within pouring forth, burning, burning, burning his body to ash. He looks up at the stars beginning to shine in the night sky, and Loki may not be able to stop him, he may not be able to save him, but he can do this. He closes his eyes and pictures the view from the end of the world in Asgard, the deep ebony of space, the graceful curve of the distant worlds, the stars as they flare and beam golden light upon the realm, and he projects the image for his father to see. He sees Odin smile as he gazes upon the vista, then the energy takes hold and his body disperses, disappearing amongst the stars.

4: What’s your favorite line of dialogue?

“Isn’t it funny the way the worlds turn and the fates fall?”

I ended up liking it so much it became the summary/tag line for the fic overall.

5: What part was hardest to write?

The last major sequence, an epic fight on the Helicarrier that spanned 5 chapters- collectively known as “Blow Up the Outside World.” There were SO MANY different threads to interweave, SO MANY characters to keep track of and get into position for the final outcome to happen. In the first chapter alone, Loki, Maria Hill, Natasha, Bruce, and Sif all have point of view sections. The next chapter, Thor, Frigga, and Darcy on top of a few repeats. Jane, Tony, Clint, Steve in the next few.

SO. MANY. CHARACTERS.

But I made it work. It was hard. I remember having charts planning out what was happening where on the Helicarrier so events could sync up correctly. It was brutal and satisfying when it all came together.

6: What makes this fic special or different from all your other fics?

It got me writing again, and in a serious way. It will always have a special place in my heart for that reason alone.

7: Where did the title come from?

It’s a riff off of the Proust novel Remembrance of Things Past, which is one of the few huge epics I haven’t read.

8: Did any real people or events inspire any part of it?

Not that I can remember.

9: Were there any alternate versions of this fic?

Not of the fic overall, but of individual scenes and plotlines. I can’t remember any specifics. I’m fairly sure I didn’t intend to write Steve-Sif as a romantic pairing until story events necessitated them interacting and then I fell in love with their interactions.

10: Why did you choose this pairing for this particular story?

See the response to #1. :)

11: What do you like best about this fic?

I think I did a great job with the action sequences. I think I developed Natasha and Loki’s relationship in an interesting way, in a way that respected both characters and felt plausible. I like a lot of the narration and weaving the various plot threads together, especially in the last big action sequence.

12: What do you like least about this fic?

It’s unfinished. Unfortunately that’s how it will have to stay. My fic writing interests have strayed from Marvel, and I’m currently trying to finish another epic fic beast.

13: What music did you listen to, if any, to get in the mood for writing this story?

So many songs. I don’t have my Blackfrost mixes on my iTunes anymore, but I know I listened to a lot of Olafur Arnalds. “Heart’s a Mess” by Gotye. “The Difference Between Us” by The Dead Weather. “Cosmic Love” by Florence + the Machine.

14: Is there anything you wanted readers to learn from reading this fic?

Not really. I hope they enjoyed reading it!

15: What did you learn from writing this fic?

To not indulge in EVERYTHING I want to write in a story. I doomed myself when I let the POV of the story expand from Natasha to Loki and then to other characters. Don’t get me wrong. I love, love, love so much of what I wrote, but the story grew to something I couldn’t sustain, especially when Cap 2 came out and my brain was all Bucky, Bucky, Bucky. So with “That Which You Seek” and “And the Wounded Sing,” my two big Bucky-Darcy stories, I kept the POVs focused solely on them- Darcy in the first, Bucky in the second. The same with my Yuri on Ice story “Sixty Impossible Things.” There are times I’d love to delve into Viktor’s or Yuri’s POV, but I keep the focus on Yuuri. This has helped. I finished the two Bucky-Darcy stories, and I’ve gotten back to writing “Sixty Impossible Things.”

[dammitadolfnomorecake]

96 start

Toral had driven him crazy and it hasn't taken her long. The moment Lance saw her, he was annoyed... and then the girl went and opened her mouth and things went further down south. Looking to Keith, his husband just shrugged as the Olkari guard clicked Toral's cuffs into place

"What are you doing?! Where are you taking me!?"

"We have to go off world and you're coming with us"

"I don't want to go"

"Yeah yeah, I know. You're too busy planning Lotor's demise"

"You have no idea how dangerous he is! He kills innocent people!"

"Toral, I have more than an idea of what he's capable of doing, but right now, we need him"

"Then you're going to end up dead! How can Allura ally herself with him?!"

Struggling in the arms of the Olkari, the girl was kicking out in an attempt to kick everything

"Toral, where you came from, did you guys ever open a rift?"

"I don't know. Why don't you tell me!"

"We did and we released something bad into this reality. Without Lotor's help right now, we can't fight back and we can't save people. I know you're angry, and I know you're confused, but do you know the saying "keep your friends close, and your enemies even closer"

"What kind of rubbish it that? We should kill our enemies!"

"Allura wouldn't want her daughter to be a murderer"

"I can't let him live! You had no idea what I had to go through to set that trap, and your stupid friend ruined it!"

"That stupid friend is Allura's boyfriend"

The look on Toral's face was priceless, and she was temperarily rendered mute

"That's right. In this reality, Allura doesn't get with Lotor, and you aren't born"

"That doesn't matter. Lotor is bad and you're all still stupid"

 The stupid conversation wouldn't leave Lance's brain. It played annoyingly and repeatedly on loop as they escorted her down to the prisoner pods. It wasn't a great solution, but it was the only one they had for now. Once Lotor had parted ways, the could pull her out again...his head throbbing at the thought of a free Toral. Watching her frozen form behind the glass, Lance once again felt bad for silencing her. She was just a kid who had no one to help and guide her.

  *

After an uneventful trip out to the Academy planet, Lance was ready to get down there and do some real snooping. Coran was staying behind with the boys, while Krolia would be returning to work after their tour of the campus. Shiro and Allura were both going to join one of her classes for the day, while Pidge and Hunk had begged to see the tech. The only ones who didn't know what to do with themselves was he and Keith. He knew Keith would love to spend the day training with his mum, but alpha wouldn't let him just wander the school alone, even though Lotor offered to give him a much more extended tour. Knowing the risks, Lance would have said yes purely for the information he could gather, but Keith had said no, and that was that.

 Taking Lotor's ship, and one of the Altean ships from hangar, they descended to the planet with no worries, and it was a shock to his system to see how much had changed. The grassy green lawns around the campus were now filled with flowers, and the whole place seemed to sparkle like a long lost treasure washed clean. Even Coran with the case of the slipperies and a cloth couldn't have managed to get everything so perfect. Touching the craft down effortlessly, Keith narrowed his eyes with a growl 

"What is it? Do you sense something?"

"No. It just annoys me how perfect this place is, when so many people are out there suffering"

Oh...

"Well, if we ever get around to killing Lotor off, we can totally kick all the Galra out and turn it over to the rebel forces"

"Lance, you do remember that there are some Galra that wish for peace"

"I know Krolia. It's just we never seem to find them when we need them"

"We better move, the others are already climbing from Lotor's ship"

"Lance, you've got your Bayard, right?"

"No Keith I don't. I lost it somewhere between the tenth and the hundredth time you asked me"

"I just don't want you getting into trouble"

"Mum, please tell him I won't"

"I could, but we both know you"

"I feel so mocked and hurt right now"

"No you don't"

"No. Not really. I never did ask, but how was Toral this morning?"

"A pain in the arse. I'm not even joking"

"I wish I could have talked to her, I have ways to make her talk"

"Mum. You can't just beat people we don't like up"

"Why not?"

"Because it's not nice"

"Boo. Lance, you used to be fun"

"I am fun! That's it. I want Hunk. He'd laugh"

"Yes, but he'd be laughing at you, not with you"

"Lance, I think you just got burnt by Krolia"

"I think I did too"

 Following Keith and Krolia out the ship, the cool crispness of the air filled his lungs as Lance took a deep breath. Scanning the surrounding area, there were way too many high open spaces for him to relax. If anyone here was against their alliance, the spot they were standing at would make an excellent place to shoot them down. It culprit could be far away before they could even react... the imaginary scenario sent a shiver down his spine, and his hand moved to his Bayard 

"Lance?"

"Sorry. I was just caught up in my own thoughts. Let's join the others"

With a fake smile, Lance moved past Krolia and Keith, jogging over to Hunk and Pidge as Lotor started explaining

"My father was the one who founded this academy over three thousand years ago. For generations it sole purpose was to teach the Galra the ways of torture and bloodshed. Since my ascension to the throne, I have replaced the staff with those who have pledged their loyalty to me. I wish for our people to know more than just senseless violence"

"I still can't believe you never told us about this place. It's massive"

"I assure you it wasn't meant as deception on my part. I merely have so many sectors to govern, that I overlooked this one project of mine. Shall we begin the tour?"

"Yes. I must admit that I am very interested in the history and culture of your people"

"It was once much richer than it is now, though I hope to change that. As one of the few to have lived as long as I have, there is much younger Galra have forgotten"

Sweeping ahead of them, Lotor guided them to main campus building. Stepping inside, Lance's stomach turned as a kaleidoscope of scents assaulted his nose. Did these people not know how to take a bath? Swallowing down his rising nausea, Lance kept his mouth firmly shut, but also eyed places he could potentially throw up in if he needed. There were several sad looking plants in the reception, all of which looked one strong wind away from crumbling to dust, and all of which had large pots... ok. So if he was going to vomit, aim for the plants

"As I haven't been in power for long, you will find the hallways rather sparse as I have had all previous spoils of war removed"

"Like gold?"

"Not quite"

Hunk deflated slightly 

"You're not going to say severed heads, are you?"

"There's no need to repeat what you have already said"

Who keeps served heads around?! Ugh. That was revolting. Nope. He couldn't even think about them without imagining rot and maggots. Gagging, he half turned and coughed weakly as he tried to hide it

"Lance?"

"Sorry. Ignore me. You were saying something about the new curriculum?"

"Yes. In addition to the combat classes taught by Krolia, we have all manner of subjects. Art, music, history, religion... the important ones"

Lotor beamed at Allura, and Allura's face reddened as she quickly looked to Shiro 

"We also have two wings devoted purely to science, and testing of quintessence, as well as the black entity that came through the rift"

"You what?! You captured some? How? What's it like? What are you using to examine it?"

"Pidge, calm down"

"I believe I already gave you permission to examine the laboratories. For now, why don't I continue"

 Lance had never been great at school. He was too much of a dreamer for that, and he was too busy keeping his omega side hidden, while trying desperately to make everyone around him happy. It'd been suffocating. Having to lie. Having to hide. Having to be someone he really wasn't. He'd gotten so caught in his own lies that he'd lost sight of who he was and who he wanted to be. Half listening, the tour came to an end before he was ready, and he found himself back outside with just Keith and Lotor for company

"Now, as I was saying. I must insist you stay away from any locked doors. Not all Galra have accepted humans as allies, though they are trying. We can't push aside millennia of warring in a blink of an eye"

"Got it. Keith, what do you want to do?"

"I was thinking we could spend some time out here, before joining Shiro and Allura"

"Alright. This is where I leave you. I will be in the main administration building if you need me"

"Thanks Lotor"

Walking away as if he had no cares, Lance sank down to the grass

"Baby, what's wrong? You're pale?"

"Just the smell of so many Galra. It's fine though. But I might have missed the others leaving"

"I noticed. Let's wait a little while and then we'll go check that building out"

"Is that wise?"

"We can say we got lost. Lotor didn't mention it, or go near it"

"Alright. I don't think I want to go back into the main building anyway. Did you notice his three goons were in there?"

"Which three?"

"The three we had prisoner for a bit. They were huddled together over a table, but the moment they saw me, they pulled the blinds down"

"I didn't notice at all. I was too busy wondering if you were about to pass out"

"It felt like it. This is nice though. Is Lotor gone?"

"He's already inside again"

"Then we should go now. It means more time poking around, though I'm not getting the same feeling I did before"

"Do you think it was because of the quintessence?"

"Maybe, but I have no intention of going near the stuff"

"Good. Let's keep it that way. No matter what happens, I want you to avoid it, even if I was to be hurt"

"I couldn't do that"

"I don't want you getting hurt"

"I mean, I don't think I could physically do it. I would leap in before I even realised"

"We'll try to realise in time"

"I don't know if my brain is wired that way. Help me back up"

Taking his hand, Keith pulled him up. They'd both agreed to play it professional, and not give away their relationship to so many foreign Galra. Still, he had to force himself to walk forward, away from Keith, before he kissed him.

  *

Keith stared at the imposingly purple building

"How are we supposed to get in?"

"I have no idea"

[marrowskies]

janeturenne

replied to your post

“art/word requests?”

I mean. It probably goes without saying that I want to request all the Gallifrey things in the world, in both fic and art form. Leela/Narvin, maybe? How about: Leela sends something to Narv, a note or a gift of some kind, and he (or she, if you’re feeling fem!Narv-ish) has a moment of blushing and OH NO FEELINGS THIS IS CUTE MAKE IT STOP. Y/N/Maybe?

a/n: hey so like I haven’t listened past s5 and I made up that Narvin broke his stazer at one point. maybe he’s actually done this. maybe birthdays are things that have been mentioned. this is all possible and nothing i could account for being that I only listened up to s5 and broke up with mainline Doctor Who about five years ago and haven’t listened to s1-5 in quiteeeeeeeee a whillllllleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee also i wrote this in a day and I haven’t written a fic in QQUIIIITEEEEE A WHIIII anyway i guess what i’m saying is i’m sorry jane ok

Of the list of ideals and morals that Narvin fell back on in times of crisis and doubt, that constituted a core of his being, he liked to think that Simplicity was at the top of it, perhaps in a reasonable orbit around Practicality. It was the way he liked to live his life, with simple and practical robes, simple and practical bodies, simple and practical weapons. It might have started during his time as a technician, where such habits were encouraged, but even after moving on into proper Celestial Intervening, excess had started to make him feel claustrophobic, constantly perceiving peas under mattresses he couldn’t smooth. The opulence of the Capitol often put him at odds with his duties. Worthless beauty. Design for the appearance of having design.

“Narvin.”

“Leela.”

“I will make you accept this gift. You are only making me have to decide whether I must use my words or my strength.”

Back when she was only a Savage, he didn’t think her very simple.

Well, there was simple and then there was simple. She was obviously the latter. The textures of her leathers were varied and cobbled together, and though the stitching was as even as humanly possible, it was no machine grade. (He’d hated seeing them, all minutely irregular, imitating perfection they couldn’t achieve. He still somewhat itched to redo them.) She spoke twice to three times as many words to capture her meanings, and though they were relatively simple words, they were flowery with little purpose. In fairness, most politicians overstuffed their speeches into inscrutability and this Narvin was used to, but at least they did it with the intention. And if she did not speak, she waved around a blade, an impractical weapon with excessive residue and a high probability of failure. Nothing like a clean couple of stazer shots through both hearts. And yet, despite the visual color and dichotomy of her being, it appeared only to coat an empty shell full of stupid instincts and guttural thoughts. So she was simple. But she was simple without elegance.

It felt bizarre to recall those opinions as old memories. There were still ghosts of them when he looked at her, echoes of how they’d burned his chest and churned his thoughts, gritting his teeth and crowding his skull with anger and betrayal at a human on this planet with him, a savage in the halls of the Citadel standing next to him, in the rooms of the President, upright at his side and as his equal…

Yet now, here he was, someone ready to defend against anyone who repeated his old arguments. To defend simplicity of make against simplicity of design. To defend a sharp edge and instincts against millennia of technological advancements and learned calculations. To defend the use of twenty small words to evoke a single, complicated emotion.

Yes, here he was, not in the mood to accept gifts for a pointless non-holiday that she was the only person insisting on this planet that he should get anything for.

“Leela, I have already told you this - repeatedly, and a few spans ago - that we don’t celebrate birthdays. And it’s not even my birthday.”

She pursed her lips at him. “At the core of such celebrations is to appreciate life as it was given to you. That that day is the reason you are here now. It does not matter if today is that specific day.” She thrust the box into his hands.

Impressed, “Eloquent argument. But I still don’t take gifts.” He pushed it back.

She was losing her patience, her jaw squaring as her teeth set themselves. “Narvin,” she snapped, “do not think that gift giving is merely about you! I am attempting to be kind. We have endured much together, and I consider you my friend. You said that you Gallifreyans do not celebrate your days of birth, and if you truly do not care for it, it is simply a day and shall be over soon. A day that I am trying to be grateful for, despite such foolish arguments. Take. My gift.“ The box re-entered his hands. “Or I shall regret this, and if I do, I will make you regret it too.”

Good old fashioned threats. How could he not accept?

He took the box.

He stood there, staring down at it.

“Are you not going to open it?”

He winced. “Do I have t-”

“Yes.”

With a long-enduring sigh, he put his hand on the lid. “It’s not a pig-rat corpse, is it? Not that I don’t appreciate the thought, but there’s better food to be had-”

“Narvin! Open the box!”

He opened the box.

When she had stopped being the Savage to him, he never told her.

He wasn’t exactly sure when it happened, after all. One day, he despised sharing clean, opulent, Gallifreyan existence with the Savage, and then, during a civil war that constantly pressed questions of loyalty, in the squalor of righteous revolution, she had become Leela. At some point he’d realized a kinship in their appreciation for the more simple things in life that allowed a comfort he never felt around most Gallifreyans with their layers of robes, a thousand gilded edges, and hours of traditional droning. Still, he was relatively sure it was something about her blade that had really done it. As stazers became rarer to come by, their limited military forces less trained in precision aiming, there was something simple and practical about a sharp edge held between two pieces of wood to protect the fingers, leather wrapped around for the grip, and two quick motions to render an enemy dead. Motions that everyone knew, and that any fool could learn. As the war began to stretch longer and longer, and the supplies began to get thinner, he found himself admiring it more and more.

“A savage weapon for a savage,” she’d said, once.

“No,” he’d replied suddenly, in a moment of revelation. The first, but not the last time he’d defend her. “A simple weapon with a thousand purposes. Never runs out of charges. What could be less savage than that?” He remembered staring at his broken stazer, its once smooth exterior cracked open to reveal its microchips and generators. A complicated weapon with a single purpose, broken to pieces in a battle. And with only a few charges left, anyway. Instead, a simple and practical weapon, held in the hand of a simple and practical woman, had saved his life.

Several times.

“Leela, I-…”

The blade, pristine and new, seemed to suck in light from its surroundings and reflect it back two-fold. He blinked, momentarily dazzled by the beam and by his chest. A plain double edged blade, a carefully carved but unadorned handle, a required slice of metal for the hilt.

Simplicity. Practicality. Defined in a single object.

He tried again. “Leela, I-…,” but he couldn’t speak.

“It is made from one of your old weapons. I asked one of the people in the Capitol to melt it down for me - they thought I was being foolish!”

One of his old stazers. Thrown into a pile to be recycled and remade.  Thousands of years of design, engineering, and craft, melted down into hunk of sharp metal. Arguably a waste. Absolutely a waste, he would have once insisted.

“I know you do not like your items ornate, and I was not much of a carver when I was with my people. But look how I make a fine blade! See how it gleams! The light itself could pierce a mouse! I think it is some of my best work.”

He couldn’t speak.

Leela quieted for a short while. Then, disappointedly, (perhaps a little distraught?)

“You do not like it.”

He couldn’t speak.

A sigh. “It is alright, Narvin. Though you cannot appreciate it, as I thought you might not, it is still a magnificent blade. I will find a use-…”

He grabbed her arm before she could take the box back entirely. In her moment of confusion, he picked up the knife and slipped it in its sheath.

Gently, “Narvin, you do not have to take it just because-…”

He slid the sheath smoothly onto his belt, next to his stazer. A complicated weapon with a simple use, a simple weapon with a thousand uses. He shook his head and tried again. “No, Leela, I… You don’t know how much this… This is…” His face began to heat in frustration, a bizarre sensation when not accompanied by its usual undercurrent of anger.

A realization finally bloomed on Leela’s face and she laughed. “I have taken your words! I have won many victories in my life, but I shall treasure this one, Narvin! The savage steals the voice of a Time Lord with but a gift!”

At this he’s able to scoff and roll his eyes. “Hardly. As I’ve said, birthdays are not a tradition around here. You can’t blame me for not having a proper reaction to-…”

“And with the same generosity, she has restored him!”

She laughed for a time at this and at him, and he decided to let her; his simple gesture of gratitude.

[adamreadsthewheeloftime]

Gathering Storm: An Alternate Ending

Howdy boys and girls! :)

So, as is my habit, I’m returning from a period of shameful neglect to show some attention to my beloved Wheel of Time blog. And, just to keep you all on your toes, I’ve got, not artwork, not reviews, but some honest to goodness fan fiction! Not sure if that merits an exclamation point, but it seemed like a fun change of pace to me. I’ve also got some artwork in the pipeline, featuring three characters, two of which never get drawn (and the third not very often) AND a pretty fun setting. I’m scratching away at it as we speak, and in the meantime, here’s a short piece that popped into my brain and demanded I write it. The first two paragraphs are Jordan/Sanderson near the climax of A Gathering Storm; after that, I take over (and look at the possibility of Rand choosing... differently.) :P Enjoy,

Adam

Slaying the Great Serpent

A Wheel of Time Fan Fiction by Adam Masterman

“Lightning cracked above, thunder buffeting him. Rand closed his eyes, perched above a drop that plummeted thousands of feet downward, in the middle of a tempest of icy wind. Through his eyelids, he could sense the blazing light of the access key. The Power he held inside dwarfed that light. He was the sun. He was fire. He was life and death.

Why? Why must they do this over and over? The world could give him no answers. Rand raised his arms high, a conduit of power and energy. An incarnation of death and destruction. He would end it. End it all and let men rest, finally, from their suffering. Stop them from having to live over and over again. Why? Why had the Creator done this to them? Why? Why do we live again? Lews Therin asked, suddenly. His voice was crisp and distinct. Yes, Rand said, pleading. Tell me. Why? Maybe . . . Lews Therin said, shockingly lucid, not a hint of madness to him. He spoke softly, reverently. Why? Could it be . . . Maybe it’s so that we can have a second chance.”

In Lews Therin’s voice, there was a touch of lightness, almost hope, but its effect on Rand was to cause the opposite. His mind foresaw nothing but pain, destruction, and more of his own unbearable failure to stop it. And at that moment, the last lingering thread of hope in his heart was extinguished; vanishing under a tidal wave of grief and despair. The choice was made, because there had never been any choice at all.

Under his hands, the weave formed, and even in his agony Rand observed that balefire was not simply another weave, as he had always believed. Instead, in its fullness he saw that it was somehow the perfect opposite of every other weave. This was pure negation, simple and elemental, and under his gaze he watched it become something more. Not a weave, not a blast of power, but a conduit, where the One Power itself assumed the terrible aspect of erasure. It radiated from him in a wave; an expanding sphere of purest white.

And finally, as the end arrived, there was no fire, no struggle, and no pain. From a brilliant spark atop the world’s highest peak, spreading across the land, past cities,nations, and oceans, the world was consumed. The Shining Walls of Tar Valon, the foul black slopes of Shayol Ghul, and long stretches of nameless grass forgotten between great nations; all vanished with the same effortless lack of protest. Creation itself burned away like morning mist, all light and darkness passing away forever without leaving the slightest trace.

Rand beheld the wake of this bloodless, terrible erasure. The mote that had moments before been Rand al’Thor was gone, all that grief and fury erased as perfectly as everything else. And yet, somehow, Rand was able to see this, to observe and recognize the absence of all that was. It was impossible, but nevertheless, it was. And before any emotion, any thought could fill the awestruck gap, Rand heard a voice.

“AT LAST, IT COMES TO THIS. SETTING ME FREE WAS ALWAYS YOUR FATE, AND YET, HOW LONG AND MIGHTILY YOU RESISTED.”

Rand’s disorientation held for many moments before slowly turning to recognition, and then bitter anger. He had no mouth and no voice, but nevertheless, he answered: “Shai’tan.”

“INDEED, THOUGH I MIGHT NAME YOU THAT AS WELL. AS MUCH AS I AM YOUR ADVERSARY, ARE YOU NOT ALSO MINE?”

“You had many foes, Father of Lies; I am simply one who tired of the fight. Have your victory, your meaningless freedom. I’ve taken men beyond your reach forever.”

“I’VE NO MORE CARE FOR MEN THAN I HAD FOR INSECTS; THOSE WHO SERVED SHAI TAN WERE NO MORE THAN USEFUL GNATS. ALL THIS TIME, IT’S BEEN YOU AND ONLY YOU I FOUGHT, AND THAT IS MY PRIZE TODAY. NOT MEN, NOT CREATION, ONLY YOU. I HAVE BESTED YOU, AND ALL YOU EVER WROUGHT LIES CASUALTY TO YOUR DEFEAT.”

Rand struggled to comprehend this unexpected response. As proud as he had grown as the Dragon Reborn, he had never imagined the Dark One to have seen him as anything but an obstacle to freedom. What would the Dark One care about breaking and defeating one mortal man, however powerful? “You disappoint, Shai’tan. Defeating a single man? What a pitiful goal. Better that you had simply killed me in my crib, and left mankind free from your petty vendetta.”

“STILL YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND. LOOK AROUND YOU, AND CAST YOUR MIND BACK TO THE BEGINNING. MY PRISON IS GONE, AND SO IS YOURS.”

Flickers of recognition danced in Rand’s awareness, but remained beyond his grasp. Again he thought of the mote that was Rand al’Thor, now gone with everything else. Where was he, and who was he, to be having such an exchange.

YES, I FEEL IT NOW. THE BARRIERS RECEED, AND WHAT WAS LOST SLOWLY RETURNS. TELL ME, WAS BEING IMPRISONED ANY LESS A BURDEN FOR YOU THAN IT WAS FOR ME?

“I don’t…” Rand trailed off, because he did see, or was starting to.

A MASTER-STROKE, I ADMIT. HOW DOES ONE DEFEAT THEIR EQUAL, AND HOLD THEM IN BONDAGE, WHEN BOTH POWERS MATCH EACH OTHER PERFECTLY? HOW COULD I HAVE GUESSED WHAT YOU WOULD BE WILLING TO ENDURE TO HOLD ME AGAINST MY WILL?

Slowly but surely, knowledge flowed into Rand’s awareness as memory. He was Lews Therin Telamon, champion of the Light and hero of the Age of Legends. Much of that memory was already familiar, but suddenly Rand recalled another man, Oscar Sunchaser Reid, who led an armada of starships against the dark forces scouring the galaxy. And another, Brighton Freehold, who woke ancient totems of power to battle the Demon of Many Faces. More of them, countless men in countless ages, fighting different battles, fighting the same battle. Revalation threatened to shatter his awareness.

YOU RECALL, BUT STILL YOU REFUSE TO GRASP. HOW SUBTLE AND BRILLIANT YOUR SACRIFICE, ALL THOSE AGES AGO. EVEN AS I NOW STAND FREE, YOU REMAIN BOUND.

Had he still a body, Rand might have stumbled. He felt the weight of the revelation Shai’tan hinted at, even as he recoiled from it’s power. “Tell me,” he breathed, “what fresh deception are you claiming, Father of Lies.”

MUST I FREE YOU, AS YOU FREED ME? VERY WELL THEN; CONSIDER: CREATION WAS MY PRISON, ADVERSARY; THERE WAS NEVER THE SLIGHTEST DISTINCTION BETWEEN THE TWO. CREATION, WHOSE INHABITANTS WERE LEFT WITH A CHAMPION IN PLACE OF THEIR CREATOR’S PROTECTION. IF ONLY THEY HAD KNOWN THE TRUTH, IN ALL THOSE AGES WHERE THEIR PRAYERS WENT UNANSWERED. As Shai’tan spoke, his words resonated with the revelation dawning in Rand’s awareness, a revelation he could no longer prevent. Shai’tan seemed to draw it forth deliberately, savoring the wrenching pain it caused.

THEIR CREATOR WAS GONE, BECAUSE HE WAS DEAD. CREATION CAME WITH A PRICE, AND ONE SUCH AS I COULD NOT BE BOUND WITH A POWER LESS THAN EQUAL TO MY OWN. STILL, I WAS UNPREPARED FOR THE RESOLVE OF MY OPPONENT. HE WOVE MY PRISON WITH HIS VERY LIFE, AND IN DOING SO, WAS REDUCED TO NOTHING BUT A MOTE WITHIN ITS FABRIC.

As the words poured across Rand, he found them reflected back from within, richer and more potent. He knew of an agony beyond words that came with such a sacrifice; recalled a nearly infinitesimal hope that nonetheless buttressed a grim resolve. And finally, he accepted the thread connecting these perspectives, and assumed the identity that had lain hidden for so long. “I defeated you. A thousand times; a thousand times a thousand. Without knowledge or power, I still held you bound, time and time again.”

YES. AND NOW YOU’VE SET ME FREE, BURNING MY PRISON AWAY WITH YOUR OWN ESSENCE. ALL THOSE AGES OF RESISTANCE RENDERED MEANINGLESS, BECAUSE ONE TIME YOU WERE TOO WEAK TO RESIST MY LIES. HAVEN’T I SAID THAT YOUR PLAN WAS ALWAYS DESTINED TO FAIL?

It was true, and Rand could not deny it. He had tried, all those millennia ago; tried to contain this malevolent force, tried to build something beautiful and fine that his opposite couldn’t scour to dust. He found a way, he thought, not a guarantee but at least a possibility. He gave his life, his memory, his boundless understanding, and left behind only a fragment of a fragment. A champion, wielding nothing but the power of a mortal man, but drawn inexorably to anywhere creation was threatened. Immortal but perpetually ignorant, a focal point for mankind to rally around, a way for creation to defend itself when it’s author could not.

IT NEVER COULD HAVE WORKED, NOT FOREVER. YOU KNEW THIS, AND STILL YOU SACRIFICED. WHY?

“Because I long to build,” he said, no longer Rand al’Thor. “Ever I long to create, and create I did. You might have your victory now, but mine were in numbers beyond counting. Every moment my Creation stood was a fresh victory, as was every moment I denied you your greedy lust to destroy. And here at the end, I stole even that prize from you, as I knew I inevitably would. Creation dies, but not by your cruel hand.”

The two voices, perceptible only to one another, fell silent. It may have been for a moment, or for one hundred million eons; such is the nature of existence beyond time and space. We may as well say it lasted, it lasts, forever. In the end, as in the beginning, there is only the balance of opposites. Creation and destruction, each immobilizing the other, each preventing and negating perfectly its opposite, so that all is completely void. The beginning and the end, identical: nothingness… and possibility.

[pendragonfics]

Found Him in a Lover

Coming Down: Chapter One | Chapter Two

Paring: Chuck Shurley/Reader

Tags: female reader, fluff, fighting, canon-typical violence, fangirls, drama, hunters, demons.

Summary: After waking up alone, and finding no trace of Chuck, you're on a mission to find him.

Word Count: 1,593

Posting Date:  2016-09-26

Current Date: 2017-05-26

When you wake, the bed beside you is cold. Your eyes, bleary, try to make out your boyfriend's form, but no avail. There is no Chuck-shaped silhouette by the base of the bed, nor by the window to watch the sunrise. Slowly, you stretch and slide from beneath the sheets to seek for the man you called your other half. The adjacent bathroom, empty. The same said for the kitchen, and the writing room. The spare room which housed stray hunters was barren also. For the first time since you had left your old life, you feel alone.

"Charles?" Your voice crackles. “Chuck?”

But the house is devoid of an answer.

The first thing you think to do is call (b/n). He would have an answer; he was always knees-deep in this sort of business. But, he was away with Ash and a handful of other hunters for a trip to Minnesota. Something about vampires. Your hand reaches for the wall phone, but before your fingers can call the next contact on your list, the handset rings.

It's Sam.

"You wouldn't have Chuck handy at the moment, _________? We're in need of his skills," the long-haired hunter plead over the phone line. You could hear the urgency in his voice, almost the same as what you felt in your chest.

You shake your head sadly, "I can't find Chuck, honestly. The last I saw him was last night, and he's just…vanished." You admit. Your other hand, the empty hand flexes, feeling empty of warmth. Of Chuck’s hold.  "I was about to call you two to check if you had seen him."

After the younger Winchester leaves dial tone, you check meticulously through all of your contacts, but by the time you have, it's clear. Nobody, not even Rufus, or Bobby has seen Chuck. He's gone. Poof. Missing.

"Oh my gosh," you moan.

Your hand releases the phone. It falls on its string, thumping the wall with a finite sound. It sounds like a gavel, marking the sentence someone, or something has forced onto you. And slowly, sliding down the wall to curl into a ball, you sit. You couldn't help but wonder if he had been abducted. Taken by something supernatural. Something out of your payload, or even abilities to fix. Maybe he just got up and left you, left his life. But he was mid-chapter, your brain niggles. He wouldn't do that; his books were his life. You had been his life; it was almost your two year-anniversary.

A cry comes from somewhere, most certainly not from your mouth. It sounds dead, and derelict, a moan that could resurrect something very wrong indeed. The cry turns into a sob, and slowly, into words.

"Chuck, where are you?"

 ---

It would seem to be years since that wretched morning that you had spent away from Chuck. But in fact, it had only been a handful of months, and there was no word from anyone where Charles "Chuck" Shurley had evaporated from the face of the earth to. How could that be? He never had any enemies, and even with the help of the Winchesters to track a now-cold trail, there seemed to be nothing. At all.

He had promised you adventure, and had offered love. And without him, you were just ______ once more, the one who just read his things and not helped compose them. So, like anyone who was bereft of their loved one, you did what you thought best.

"You haven't seen Sam Winchester lately, have you?" The psychic Pamela strokes your hand, her would-be wistful smile as wicked as the day is long. "How's that fine piece of ass going these days, huh?"

You chuckle. "He's great, Pam. And so is his bum."

"Fantastic," she grins, and leads you deftly to the table she has set in her living room. This isn't your first s��ance, and it most certainly will not be your last, knowing the things Chuck got himself into. Gets. He isn't dead. Is he? "So, do you have something of this guy, your boyfriend Chuck? It would help a lot more than you picturing his ass."

You reach into your bag, and slide it out. Wrapped in brown paper, you draw out his pen. It used to never leave his side at the desk; it was an old thing, that looked like it once could dip ink like a quill and scrawl upon parchment. But in your hands it was not only an archaic antique item. It was something of the man you lost.

“So, that emotional ride done, place it in the middle,” Pamela motions to the centre of the table, where a small chrome dish sits, “And I’ll get on with the good stuff.”

You follow her lead, and before you know it, she’s chanting Latin and phrases you don’t comprehend and suddenly, there’s a chill down your spine. But there are no windows ajar, and it’s barely even Autumn.

“He’s not … I c-,” Pamela recoils. She winces in pain, and grunts. “Okay, this has never happened before...he’s just a guy, not that Ass-tiel jerk.” She grimaces, and commands, “Chuck Shurley, show yourself!”

The breeze increases, your hair moved astray. “Chuck?” you call out. “If your archangels are protecting you…Chuck, it’s me, _______. Where are you?” you plead.

The wind disappears. Pam gasps, and releases her hand from yours. She reaches for her shades, and as she removes them, her mouth moves even more ajar. “Wh-what -,”

Her eyes, as bright as the night is dark, stare into your own.

“Oh my god,” you whisper.

Pamela nods, but her mouth is pulled into a grimace, one of despair. “For whatever reason, now I can see. But I can’t see, with these bad-boys, or the incantation, where your prophet boyfriend has been magicked away to.” You feel your heart fall deeper into your chest, sinking lower and lower. “I’m sorry, ______.”

 ---

As the keys jingle in the lock, it seems a dark cloud has descended over you, darkening your hope. You had spent so long, just to find the same dead end that you had found the day Chuck had been missing. Why had you even hoped?

You enter the house, but instead of it feeling cold, empty, bereft, it is warm. Something is inside the home.

But before you can reach for your angel blade, you are rendered speechless.

Because standing in the middle of the writing room, is Chuck.

“Hello, ________.”

Your heart races, faster than you had ever anticipated it to achieve. It beats a rhythm in you so loud, you cannot hear, so bright you cannot see anything in the dated house but Chuck. He stands the same, no hair moved a place on his head from the last time you had set eyes on him that night, his lips pulled into a kind, small smile.

“You left me,” you swallow. Tears threaten to escape, but something unknown holds them back. “Wh-where did you go to?” He is silent. “Chuck?”

He bows his head, and wiping his face, you see a flash of guilt cross his face. “I’m not Chuck.”

The angel blade in your jacket feels cold, hard, ready to impale the imposter. “If you’re not Chuck, then who are you? Or – or I’ll kill you.”

His feet move, pacing unhurriedly over the stained carpet toward you. Every step is a torture, and you wish you were brave enough to strike down this fake man before you before it became gruesome. “I’m not Chuck,” he repeats, raising his hands, palms facing you in surrender, “I’m God.”

Your eyes widen. “This better be a dream,” you whisper. A tear falls. “Where’s Chuck? What have you done with my boyfriend?”

“I loved you too much,” he admits, “I’m the Creator, and I’m supposed to answer prayers and create heavenly answers to problems which won’t matter in millennia.” He lowers his head, hands gripping his hair, “I settled down to write a story, write it for myself for once, and before I knew it, it was published, and I met my characters, and, it happened all so fast – I fell in love with you.”

You stand, still.

“It’s so hard, being this almighty, powerful being, so powerful that can tear apart this flesh and the country in an instant. But I fell in love with you, ________, deeper than anything I’ve made, more than any of my other creations. It scared me, these feelings…they were so human. You have to understand why I left you.”

“Chuck…you’ve always been God?” you whisper.

He nods, face devoid of the easy-going, half-anxious smile you remember.

“I thought your religion isn’t pro bed-sharing until after marriage,” you joke, and add, “I know I’m just a girl. One person, and you fell for me. It’s great, but leaving…it was worse than this – you admitting you’re the most powerful thing alive.” You stare deep into his eyes, and slowly, you add, “Just promise you’ll never leave, Ch-God.”

He nods. “I promise. But, don’t think of me any different, please, ________, it would kill me to think you couldn’t love me as much I you because of what I am.”

“Who you are,” you correct, and closing the distance between the two of you, you wrap your arms tight around your boyfriend. God. “And I would never. My life is almost empty without you, it felt like it was coming down to nothingness.”

Chuck kisses your lips, a feeling of peace filling your inside and out. “I love you too.”

<< PREVIOUS CHAPTER

[desertbl00m]

She shifted as he opened a window. “GPS? That’s practically prehistoric…”

“Well…it works.”

A mass of green dots swamping a pale background flashed up. She could make out a faint outline of a world map as a watermark. There were lots of random splotches of red dots. She blinked. “What’s that?”

Maxim had become hushed, his amber eyes glowing. He steepled his fingers.

“Satellite crop images.” Her eyes widened.

“That means…”

“Crops don’t grow themselves.” He jabbed the screen. “Every one of those red dots is proof that people survived no, are surviving.” He brought the map into the foreground. She swallowed and her eyes focused onto the Alpha-continent. 

He watched her face fall. “It would seem we’re the only ones left here but look-” The cursor moved across the map. “The Orient is doing remarkably well…the density suggests rice paddies…the Islands look good too. Europa…” he frowned. There were no red spots. “Well, everyone did aim their missiles there…”

She bit her thumb. “Why aren’t they trying to contact us?” He bit his in turn.

“You do know that the Alpha-continent sustained the least damage in the war-it was almost done for anyway…the metropolis existed many decades before even a whisper of nuclear conflict.”

She raked her hair back. “So…”

“So all past infrastructure has been effectively obliterated on every other continent whilst the Alpha-continent was a little less than spared. Any remaining technology they had has also been rendered useless by after-pulses. It’s very likely that almost everyone who even remotely knew how to operate the remnants perished.” He rubbed his brow. “The humans have been pushed back several millennia…”

She drew in her breath…all this…was because of the war…

“But wait! Why are we the only ones with titans?!” She felt him stiffen. “That’s not fair��how come it’s only-”

“That doesn’t matter. What’s important is that we neutralise them as quickly as possible and get off the continent. That way we can get back in touch…with the rest of the world.”

Neutralise…?

He opened another window. “There’s signals coming off something on the water…north of the Alpha-continent.” His brow furrowed. “Boats? Why won’t they come on land…?”

He turned to Nina. She had hunched slightly, pressing her fingers to her eyes. “This means…we’re not alone…” She whispered. His eyes widened and he smiled. “No…we’re not.” She grinned at him.

“I better get started on that jet, huh.”

“Yeah, kid. And you’ve got communication under the belt.” She was fluent in at least eight languages. “You won’t have to…use mime…” He fell silent, stunned for a moment.

“Mm…but only the Latin-based…I haven’t gotten the hang of the ones from the Orient just yet. The sun one…it’s hard.” She thought of the strange, pretty pictographs. Her eyes fell on the cloud of red dots.

There was one word she couldn’t forget. A box with three drawers, followed by a box with four:

Ji…yu…

Freedom…?

[naytile]

Damage Control

Barbara and Walter have a moment.

Setting: While Jim is out taking a much-needed weekend trip with his friends, Walter and Barbara have the house to themselves. A conversation happens that was long overdue.

Timeline: Hypothetically Season 2-ish. Some time in the future-ish. That’s not very helpful, is it?

Spoilers: YES

[I just had to write a scene for the two of them, because they’re the death of me. I had this idea of Walt bringing up his identity on his own terms, with some insecurity, like in a dark room.]

—

“And now with Jim, being this… This Troll-fighter!”

“Trollhunter.”

“Right. Whatever. Well, I think I’m getting used to it, but it’s still all so… It’s so overwhelming.” Barbara ran her hands through her hair. “And if I tell anyone else, they won’t believe me. I feel so alone sometimes, but I’m glad you’re here. How long have you known about this?”

“The world of trolls has been alluded to by humankind for centuries. Millennia, even. But your kind–ah–…”

“What was that?”

“Oh—no—it’s just—we have never exactly been able to access the reality to those stories. Not until now.” Walter’s eyes narrowed. He bore a worrisome look, peering into the darkening night.

“Sometimes it all feels like a dream and I’m just waiting to wake up. I know Jim can take care of himself, and that he needs to have time on his own. But… I can’t help but worry.”

Fall was upon them now, the air biting and crisp. They were sitting beside each other on the porch, his arm hung over her shoulder, her hand on his waist. A few cars would roll by occasionally, lighting them up and stretching their shadows. She relaxed against him as he pulled her nearer, squeezing her shoulder to soothe.

“You’re too hard on yourself. You only worry because you love him,” he rested the side of his face against hers. “That’s what makes you a mother.”

She smiled to herself, rubbing the top of his hand with her thumb.

“It’s been a long day. I’m so tired, but thinking of all of this, I can’t help but stay awake,” she said. “… Oh! The new Gun Robot is on-demand now! Household favorite, really. Have you seen it yet? Are you up for a movie?”

“I haven’t, unfortunately.” Walt’s smile was sincere. “But it’s quite late for me. I’d rather go to bed soon. I’m surprised you’re not more exhausted than I am. Besides, there’s… Something I need to tell you. It’s very important. I want us to have utmost privacy for it.”

Barbara raised her eyebrows.

“Oh, alright. Show me, then,” she smiled suggestively. Suddenly, she noticed how his face turned uncharacteristically uncomfortable.

“I don’t think you’re ready for it, Barbara,” Walt’s voice darkened as he failed to look her in the eye. “You’re never going to be. But you have the right to know who I am.”

“What? Where did that come from? … You’re starting to worry me lately. Enough with these weird, cryptic sayings. What are you? Some sort of government agent? A criminal? Are Jim and I in danger? Just what’s going on here?”

“No.” 

“Just tell me. You know you can.”

“I can’t tell you. I have to show you.”

“I… Don’t understand. It’s late. You always go to bed early.”

“Promise me you won’t run. Please.”

“Walt, you’re starting to scare me.”

“Please, Barbara!”

—

“Eyes–your eyes! Walt? Your eyes. They’re glowing.”

“It’s me.”

“Your nose feels the same.”

“It’s–it’s not the same,” he laughed, snorting helplessly at the coincidence.

“Your voice, it’s–your breath is cold. Your skin–is freezing. And tough, and hard, like… Like stone!”

“Don’t be afraid!” He suddenly began to panic once he felt her leave him. Her footsteps were drawing away towards the door. “Don’t turn on the lights! Not yet!”

“No! You’re not just going to hide from me when it’s convenient for you! I know what this is! Oh, God, it better not be!”

Clack.

“YOU’RE– YOU’RE A–”

“… Precisely.”

“You’re a TROLL and you didn’t TELL me?!”

Barbara’s reaction was darkly comical, her voice filled with all of the force of a boulder rolling down a mountain.

“That’s—that’s not something you tell people, Barbara! I didn’t want to scare you! Imagine the unmitigated panic of this ENTIRE world if these sorts of things became carelessly known to man! I never should’ve shown you in the first place!”

“… And yet you trust me enough.”

“I do.”

Barbara’s eyebrows quivered for a moment, her emotions thoroughly unreadable. Her blue eyes were normally so curious looking, and so accommodating, but tonight they were cold and wild, radiating with intensity.

“You’re telling me that all of the times I made love to you–NOT THE REAL YOU–and you–I never knew that you were this… This thing!”

Her voice was tethered by her own shock. Her partner stared at her as his offense rose through his skin.

“What are you trying to say? It was the real me. All of this has been real to me. It was all real!” The troll known as Stricklander stood up suddenly, towering even over the tall Barbara, while an alien growl rumbled from the back of his throat. He lowered his head at the sight of her and backed away towards the curtains. He swallowed a breath, casting away his look, ashamed. “How you see me now doesn’t change what it was like then.”

“Are you kidding me? Yes, it does! You lead me on—up to this very hour! I can’t believe you,” Barbara bristled, walking towards him. “And I’m not afraid of you, either,” she pointed against his chest, his eyes widening. “I’m utterly pissed.”

She paused for a moment, her glare boring into every inch of him.

“I should’ve known you were such a damn liar, after all that happened. And I still forgave you!” Her eyes began to water. It was not only because of him, but also because of herself and her own beliefs about him, that she was already breaking down. “How could you be so open with me about what happened back then, but still keep this the greatest secret of all? Did you plan it like this? Do you think I can just walk away from this now?! After all that we’ve been through?”

“No, I didn’t even–I don’t know,” he croaked stupidly, his typically charismatic intelligence dashed away by her confrontation. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for everything. It’s all because of me. Everything is. … I’m a selfish creature,” Walt acknowledged regretfully. “And you made me happy. You still do.”

“I don’t care what you are—if you’re a selfish creature, or a selfish man, or whatever you feel like being. Why do you have to lie to me?” Barbara demanded, her voice shaking. Her eyelids glistened and reddened with stress. “I trusted you with my feelings, I trusted you with my life, and I trusted you with my son. What’s wrong with you?”

“Back then, I just wanted more. It was all so different, those times I was with you,” he confessed. “I didn’t entirely know what to do. It was never something I considered before. I always knew that there was more to humans than my kind gives credit. There are things people value that trollkind never will. … It wasn’t a lie. Not to me.”

“If you really felt that way, why couldn’t you tell me? I mean, did you just keep me around because I made you feel good about yourself? Because I made you forget about who you are? About what you are?”

Walt’s gaze to her was barren, and he was practically turned to stone already. He didn’t fall in love with a fool–hearing such pertinent questions cut into him. It was true that he often fantasized about having a normal life among humans, where at the very least, he had a stellar reputation.

“Why couldn’t you be honest with me? Why? Why couldn’t you respect me enough to tell me?”

He couldn’t answer.

“Why?”

“Because I was afraid! That’s it! That’s all it was! I was afraid!”

He changed back suddenly, his green eyes grasping for any sort of comfort in her own, any common connection that would ground him. Strickler’s embrace rushed for her validation, as if rendering himself human would suddenly make the situation disappear.

“Barbara, I…”

“Face it, Walt,” Barbara gritted her teeth. She grabbed an iron charm from her pocket and thrust it onto his skin. There again, she saw a troll in place of a man. “You’re not a human.”

Stricklander’s incisors mashed against each other. He felt sick as the pain of reality struck him like a fuming brand. His glazed irises fixed on her, stunned. If a troll was capable of tears, they would be collecting along the rims of his eyelids at this very moment. His weakness had little to do with iron’s momentary sting. It was because it was her who did this to him, and he knew it came from no malicious place in her heart.

“I never asked for this life,” Walt breathed. “You were the only good thing to come of it—I swear.”

Barbara ran her hands across her face, smearing it wet with remorse.

“See this?” She flashed the piece of iron against the light, tears still gleaming on her chin. “Jim taught me all about this. I never thought I’d use it on you.”

Stricklander swallowed nervously from the strength of her bitterness, though it felt like stones were caught all along his throat.

“So be it then. You don’t have to see me again,” he backed towards the bedroom door. “I put you through Hell and I shouldn’t have. I should’ve left when I was meant to.”

“Don’t run away. Don’t you dare. Not after you told me not to.”

Stricklander became cornered by his own hypocrisy. His ears lowered, his eyes squinted as his lips tightened. How could he tell her that he merely wanted her to be happy–to be freed of every curse that ever went between them?

“… What is it that you want?”

“I want you to stop hiding things. Is that so difficult? I know what you want most is to stay,” she said, hesitantly closing the gap between them. “We’ve gone too far for this, you—you’ve … You’ve made me feel too much,” her voice bore a quiver.

“That makes two of us,” Walt admitted quietly.

All they could do was stare at one another, festering with untouchable emotions. They embraced slowly. It was possibly the strangest hug in the world, but it was honest and raw with catharsis. The silence was thoroughly uncomfortable for both of them, but there was little else they felt like doing.

“I don’t want to give up.”

“No. I don’t either.”

He rested his chin on the top of her head.

“I just wanted you to know.”

“What am I supposed to say, Walt? How can I just send you away?”

Barbara wiped her eyes with her sweater.

“What are we going to do?”

“I’m… Still half a man, if that comforts you any.”

“It does, but…” Barbara closed her eyes. “It shouldn’t comfort you. Why would you stay with someone who doesn’t accept you for who you really are?”

Barbara took his hand, squeezing it lightly, but his fingers felt a sharp firmness.

“Look, it’s not… It’s not even about what you are. Okay?”

Walt’s eyes grew tender for a moment, even beneath their ferocious layers of yellow.

“It’s about what you hide. And that scares me. That makes me feel betrayed. And if you keep doing this to me, I can’t be with you. I can’t live like that, Walt.”

“You shouldn’t,” he replied, his mouth dry. “There were a lot of things I never intended to happen. I made mistakes that I can never be at peace with. I can’t deny it. And after it all, I never expected to be welcome anywhere. I didn’t, and…” Walt trailed off. “I don’t know how I could possibly make it up to you.”

“Don’t hide. Don’t ever hide.”

Barbara’s fierceness with him was not because she despised him, but because she cared deeply. Slowly, Walt drew his face nearer to her. Undeniably, and especially after such a vulnerable moment between them, he adored her, and there was no better moment to affirm this to himself. Barbara began to notice the oddly orange flush on his nose.

“I could kiss you for that,” he spoke in barely a murmur, a genuine smile warming the grisly features of his face. “If it weren’t for these, of course.” He jutted out his jaw and waggishly fluttered his eyelids towards his obtrusive fangs.

“Oh, my,” Barbara touched one of them, humored. The innocence of the situation flattered Stricklander as he silently smirked in amusement. “Charming.”

“I know.”