#i will merely be devastated out of my mind and weep for hours on end | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mo0nfairy · 3 years ago

Note

I was the anon whose ask your couldn't see. I only have that issue with anon so I'm just gonna come off of it. I'd like it to be a headcanon where (yandere) Ethan and Alcina are fighting over who gets the reader. Maybe Alcina already had the reader in the castle and then when Ethan ends up in the castle, he wants to save her.

🪷 ִ ° ⋆ 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ˚ ｡ . 🪺

𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗰𝘂𝗿𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗹𝘆 𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗼 . . .

♫ 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ⸺ 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐥

˚ ✩ 💼 ｡ ˚ ✧ * ｡ 🧩

( 📁 ) . . . 𝗧𝗪! 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗮 𝗽𝗶𝗲𝗰𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗳𝗶𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘆𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺𝗲𝘀. 𝗺𝘆 𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝘀 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗰𝘁𝗹𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗻𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗽𝘂𝗿𝗽𝗼𝘀𝗲𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗶 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗱𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗹𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝗻 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹 𝗹𝗶𝗳𝗲. 𝘃𝗶𝗲𝘄𝗲𝗿 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝗰𝗿𝗲𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗶𝘀 𝗮𝗱𝘃𝗶𝘀𝗲𝗱.

( 📁 ) . . . 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗸 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘀𝗼 𝗺𝘂𝗰𝗵 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗿𝗲𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗷𝗲𝗹𝗹𝘆𝗯𝗲𝗮𝗻! <𝟯

𝗹𝗮𝗱𝘆 𝗱𝗶𝗺𝗶𝘁𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗰𝘂’𝘀 𝘆𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗶𝘁𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 . . .

𝚗𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎, 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎

𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝘄𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀’ 𝘆𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗶𝘁𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 . . .

𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎, 𝚗𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎

“i’m sorry, ethan. you’re a great guy, but… i just don’t feel the same way.”

the diamond necklace and earrings in ethan’s hands slip through his fingers, to where they fall against the floor

he stares at you, bewildered and lachrymose

i just don’t feel the same way

but… you two are partners in crime, survivors, soulmates

why don’t you feel the same way?

you return the heartfelt letter he spent hours perfecting, grimacing at the look of sheer devastation within his weeping eyes

his jaw trembled, his mouth prying to speak any form of words to persuade you otherwise, but it was no use

“stay…” ethan mutters, reaching a hand out to you and praying by some miracle that it would bring you back into his embrace, even for just one last time

and that leaves you, my dear reader, somewhere in the depths of europe, far away from ethan and the horrors of louisiana

you left the state with intentions of further pursuing your love for painting and fortunately, you found a wealthy family who took a liking to your artistic talents

"dimitrescu" was a name you were intimate with, as the lady of the house nearly drank all of the family’s money on your paintings (never forgetting to leave a generous tip)

however, the events that took place within the walls of the baker residence still fog your mind time after time

some nights you’d reminisce of ethan and the sparkling tears that stained his cheeks when you didn’t reciprocate his infatuation

somedays, you’d swear you’d catch a glimpse of the man thousands of miles away from where’d you left him to wallow in his heartbreak

maybe you’d pass by someone with ash-blonde hair on your way for morning coffee or catch sight of that disheveled beige jacket he always wore on a neighborhood stroll

you excuse it as mere ptsd, but as days turn into weeks and weeks turn into months, you grow paranoid and wonder if ethan winters was looming in your shadow

your contemplation is brought to light in late january, as you’re driving to the dimitrescu castle to deliver yet another painting

within the gloom of the harsh winter weather, you see a figure with ash-blonde hair, a disheveled beige jacket, and emerald eyes peering into yours

and before the revelation blooms, you skid across a patch of ice and are sent spiraling into a ditch

great, just great

you then awake in the castle with a hoarse gasp, lathered in silk bedsheets as you detect the sparse sound of a dispute through the walls

“you ungrateful, selfish wretch! you come into my house— try and steal my property— and now you lay your filthy man-hands on my dearest!” that’s alcina…

“they’re not yours! you do not know y/n the way that i do… i love them, goddamnit!” and that's… ethan?

just a quick tip from the author, this is the part of the story where you should start running

unless you’d much rather be rapunzel up in a lavish castle as a 9’6 vampire and an immortal moldy boy both fight for your affections, then be my guest

these two are both very similar in terms of their tendencies, so they’re constantly at each other's throats to prove whose worthy of claiming you as theirs

whose better at protecting you, who's better at taking care of you, there’s never a moment of tranquillity between these two

and alcina and ethan have both tried to annihilate the other on numerous occasions, but their attempts always disappoint in the end

from ethan plunging at least a couple hundred shotgun shells into his arch-nemesis to alcina bleeding ethan dry, only to see the man-thing walk through the threshold within a single hour and demanding your freedom, it's safe to say that neither of them will ever perish

but when it comes down to you, they're much more passionate in their efforts to holding your heart

ethan will cook a meal you’d see served to a king, a cocky smirk on his lips as they both watch you devour the first edible food to be presented in the castle

alcina will sit you on her lap and teach you piano, her arrogant laughter echoing throughout the room as ethan’s jealousy practically permeates the air

any form of favoritism you share towards either of them sparks an uproar of gunshots and the sharp pierce of claws

hell, alcina gave her own daughters back to mother miranda after she saw you get a bit too close to them for comfort

much like alcina and karl, both her and ethan argue to prove whose better than one another, but these two prove their worth with affections and gifts

from priceless antiques to designer clothes, you somehow managed to get two of the most powerful beings on planet earth desperate to please you

and their compliment wars always leave you flustered

“y/n, dearest, you look like an angel today” “oh! thank you, alcina-” “are you saying that y/n doesn’t look gorgeous every day? there isn’t a second where my little princess/prince isn’t breathtaking and-” “silence! as if a man-thing such as yourself could ever do my y/n’s beauty justice with your filthy words!”

“oh, jellybean! i got you something” “ethan, this is too expensive! you didn’t have to-“ “my, if that isn’t the most hideous article of clothing i’ve ever laid my eyes on! how dare you try and put my beloved in such wretched scraps!” “you crazy witch! you’re just jealous that y/n can actually pull this off, unlike yourself!”

these two would endure every bullet wound, every slice, and every petty insult if it means looking into those enchanting eyes of yours

however, now it is time i must ask:

would you rather be coddled to death in the sweltering heat of louisiana or be drowned in lavish within the freezing depths of europe?

#resident evil #resident evil imagine #resident evil x reader #yandere resident evil #yandere resident evil x reader #lady dimitrescu #yandere lady dimitrescu #lady dimitrescu imagine #lady dimitrescu x reader #ethan winters #yandere ethan winters #ethan winters imagine #ethan winters x reader #yandere #yandere imagines #soft yandere #moonfairy

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logicalbookthief · 4 years ago

Text

achilles, achilles come down (won’t you get up off, get up off the roof)

"This is a literal warzone!" the officer raves. "Let the heroes handle this, son."

"You don't have to be a hero to do what's right!" Natsuo yells in the man's face. "Maybe if more ordinary people stepped in when they should, we wouldn't be in this mess!"

Post Chapter 291 (technically AU as of 292). Natsuo can't watch his brother die without trying to save him. Not again.

Link to the fic at ao3.

Natsuo runs. It feels like all he can do.

He runs through the wreckage, the ruble, the destruction. Barely spares it a glance, the world a blur as it rushes by. How he's managed to stay on his feet and not trip or collapse is a miracle. If he had any blood left for his brain, if his blood wasn't pumping through his body so loud it roars in his ears, blocking out everything else, he may have been able to think it over clearly.

The fact is, he's not. Thinking clearly. Or maybe he's seeing clearly for the first time in a forever.

"Touya-nii!" Natsuo stumbles in his haste to get down the stairs. "Don't leave without me!"

He stretches his hand out to his brother, who's already at the door. Touya turns at his whine, eyes sparkling fondly.

"'Course not. You know I won't leave you behind!" He ruffles his hair with a hint of teasing. "Besides, Fuyumi is grabbing our lunches. So I've got no choice, huh?"

Natsuo heaves a sigh. In his hurry, he didn't even tie his shoes. Without any prompting, Touya leans down to knot the laces tight.

"You have soccer practice today, right?" Natsuo nods. "I'll walk you home, once I'm done my training. Wait for me by the bleachers."

There are fresh bandages peeking out of his brother's sleeve. Natsuo pretends not to look. Touya catches it when he quickly averts his eyes and smiles to show it's okay.

"Don't worry, they don't hurt anymore!" Natsuo knows that isn't true. His brother can't hide, when Natsuo has watched him cry, night after night. Lately his brother always seems to be hurting, inside and out. Nobody else seems to have noticed.

His brother is smiling, but it's a lie.

Liar, Natsuo gnashes his teeth against the wind as it buffets his face. Liar, liar, lair.

His mind chants it in the voice of a petulant child: Touya is a liar. For years, and years, and years, Touya - or is it Dabi? - left Natsuo to believe he was dead. He lied to Fuyumi and Mom, too, but he's ashamed to admit he cares that he out of everyone was kept in the dark.

Growing up, they were each other's confidantes. For every white lie Touya told, Natsuo got the ugly truth. Every resentment he held in his heart, Touya accepted without judgement. It was a burden and a privilege, taking up the torch of his brother's memory. Giving him a voice where he no longer had one. He suspects that he's mourned his brother most because nobody else had known the Touya he did.

Why do I exist?

For months after he died, Natsuo used to always keep one ear tilted toward the front door, wishing for his brother to walk through it and apologize for making him wait. He did this for so long Fuyumi become concerned that he wasn't coping. To her relief, the weight of his disappointment wore him down, and finally convinced him that his big brother wasn't coming back.

To have those childish hopes vindicated by the broadcast of a notorious villain feels like the punchline to a cruel cosmic joke.

Surreal as it is, he doesn't falter. Touya must have his reasons for hiding the truth, but Natsuo needs to hear the reason from his brother before he decides if the writhing mass in his stomach is more grief or elation.

The streets this close to the battle are empty. Deserted. Anyone with good sense would have fled hours ago. Obviously, Natsuo isn't exactly being ruled by logic.

He runs. Runs until his lungs burn, begging for him to stop. He's never burned from the inside, not like Touya. Yet he'd lay awake some nights, wondering what he must've felt in those final moments. Afraid, alone, burning so hot and horribly- god, it must've hurt-

The villain in the broadcast has scars everywhere. His chest, his arms, his chin. All they ever managed to find of Touya was that piece of his jaw. Biles rushes up his throat at the mere mention of it still.

It was Fuyumi who explained in a hushed voice why there was no body for them to bury. It wasn't her job to share the grisly details of their brother's demise, but Mom was gone and Dad was useless. So it was Fuyumi who squeezed his hand at a funeral with a hollow casket, telling him, "It's alright to cry " while she openly wept.

Natsuo spent the service watching his father, searching for signs of- well, he isn't sure what he wanted to see. He remembers his father's state of disbelief. The remorse that flit over his features. If he had to put a name to how his father looked in that moment it would probably be helpless. And the fury this ignited in his heart could've melted through the earth's core.

Helpless, as if this was completely out of his control. Helpless, as if Touya hadn't come to Natsuo every fucking night in tears over how he was a failure who didn't have a reason to exist. And he didn't even have the decency to watch his son's sense of self disintegrate. In his absence, that task fell to Natsuo.

Nowadays, Natsuo watches his father pray at a shrine and admit he's to blame, but it's the hollow casket all over again. Because he's never understood why it was his fault. Never realized how he tortured Touya. Molding him for a purpose he could never fulfill and then treating him like a consolation prize. Discarding a child whose only flaw was a body at war with his Quirk, a thing beyond his control.

In his own narrow, selfish way, Natsuo believes his father loves them. His encounter with Ending certainly put that into perspective. And yet if he could toss his less-than-perfect children aside for his own aspirations, without considering the damage that would do, what sort of love was that? Maybe he didn't understand; he had never had a Quirk worthy of his father's adoration.

Natsuo was never the favorite child and that's fine. He saw where it got his brothers.

Why do I exist?

A gloved hand clamps around his arm, startling him so hard he'd scream if he had any breath to spare.

"Hey, what're you doing?" In his single-minded focus, Natsuo hadn't noticed the string of officers blocking his path, including the one glaring at him like he's crazy. Probably they were there to assist any people who were to injured or scared to escape, not deter the only idiot in the city running towards the danger. "All civilians have to evacuate this area immediately!"

"Get away from me!" he snaps, shrugging out of the grip. He has barely managed to get his heartrate under control when he catches sight of Gigantomachia, which knocks the air right back out of him.

He has no idea how his little brother, or anyone, does this on a regular basis. His knees have locked up at the mere glance. The heroes who can still fight make a valiant effort to subdue the beast, and even as Best Jeanist attempts to wind his steel cables around the villain, it seems like a desperate attempt to mitigate the devastation. Surely, though, once more heroes arrive they...

There. Atop the roof of a building, Natsuo spots the villain from the broadcast, a splotch of white hair atop a black silhouette. Flames sprout from his torso, a blazing shroud of blue, and the fear that shoots through Natsuo overtakes any hesitation. He makes to run as the officer catches him by the shoulder.

"This is a literal warzone!" he raves. "Let the heroes handle this, son."

"You don't have to be a hero to do what's right!" Natsuo yells in the man's face. "Maybe if more ordinary people stepped in when they should, we wouldn't be in this mess!"

A roar from Machia sends a shockwave through the ground. That, coupled with the officer's stricken reaction to his words is what allows Natsuo to escape. He sprints toward the building where he last saw Dabi, the officer's cries lost to the hum of adrenaline coursing through his veins.

The distance is nothing compared to a decade of grief, regret and guilt. It urges him up a flight of stairs, and another, and then another after that. By the time he reaches the roof, his lungs may well and truly explode if he taxes them any further.

Up this high, the wind is nearly deafening. Maybe it's the hammer of his heart in his chest. Dabi stares over the ledge, cloaked in flames. At this angle, Natsuo can't see his face, but the way his body's poised to leap, ready to rejoin the fray and leave him behind again... Something in Natsuo breaks. When the cry drags itself out of his throat, it's the raspy plea of a child.

"Touya!"

Dabi freezes, whirls towards his voice and that- Natsuo's breath hitches. That's his brother. His face is older, a patchwork of pain and yet... Without a doubt, it's Touya. Until this moment, Natsuo couldn't scarcely comprehend the truth, even as watched it play out on his phone screen. Now if he reached out a hand, it would definitely touch someone real, solid. Alive.

Had his family stood against him like this and really not recognized him? Shouto was hardly at fault, when he scarcely remembered his oldest brother. And as for his father... He had a knack of not paying attention where it mattered.

"It is you," he says hoarsely, surging forward on legs reduced to jelly. His heart sinks when his brother rebuffs the touch.

"Natsu..." Touya whispers his name in bewilderment. At least the distraction is enough for his flames to recede and Natsuo wants to fucking weep in relief. "What are you-"

Suddenly, the building rocks beneath their feet, a stark reminder of their proximity to the battle. Midair as he prepares to land a blow against Machia, Shouto's gaze strays over to Dabi, only to notice he's no longer alone. His eyes widen in visible terror. "Natsuo, get out of here!" he shouts.

Before he can stress the point, Machia swipes a massive claw at the heroes. Shouto dodges expertly, drawn back to the fight.

"He's right," Touya says flatly. It jolts Natsuo out of his terror-stricken daze. "You should go."

All traces of fear abates as anger seeps through the cracks of his resolve.

"What, you can give Dad and Shouto the news in person?" Natsuo's lips wobble into a line more sneer than a smirk. "While me, Fuyumi and Mom get to hear it over a fucking video."

"I'm not sorry for what I said," he scoffs. "He deserves to be exposed for what he is."

Natsuo swallows. "I know," he says tightly, and the thing is, he does. Beneath the whiplash of shock and sorrow, some vindictive part of Natsuo was glad when Touya exposed the image of their happy little family for the sham it is. He feels like shit for reveling in it at all; this will crush the dream of a normal family Fuyumi fought tooth-and-nail to preserve. Even the guilt doesn't stifle that sliver of satisfaction.

Out of all the siblings, he understands. The weight of his silence is unbearable some days. Knowing that it only protects the perpetrator, not the victims. Worse is the days where the silence doesn't weigh on him at all; those are the days he can't seem to forgive himself.

Tears begin to blur his vision. He blinks fervently against the sting. He hates that he has to do this here, on a roof, amongst this goddamn chaos. "You couldn't have told me the truth before you broadcasted it to the rest of the world!?"

Finally, Touya meets his gaze. His expression is unreadable, except for his eyes. They might shine blue, but there's no mistaking they're his mother's eyes. And no matter how much she hid, you could always see the sadness if you looked her in the eye.

"Didn't think you'd want a stitched-faced criminal showing up at your university," he deadpans.

Whatever retort he had to that shrivels up at the revelation: He knows where I go to school? It lodges like a stone in the pit of his stomach. If that's the case, he must know where Fuyumi goes to school, where Mom's staying. It should be terrifying, a murder stalking him, his mother, his sister.

But it's heartbreaking, is what it is.

Watching Endeavor's career was necessary to his revenge, but that... That was Touya, shadowing his family like a spectator, a ghost, while they went on with their lives.

His jaw tightens against the crushing wave of emotion. "That's no excuse."

"It isn't one," Touya replies, tonelessly. "None of this is."

Natsuo blanches, though he manages to tamp down on the knee-jerk of panic. No, that isn't what this is, is it? The broadcast. Attacking Endeavor. This isn't a confessional and Touya isn't asking for his forgiveness. Unlike back then, Natsuo knows what this is. Knows the signs. He spends every day pouring over coursework that describes this exact scenario.

He won't be helpless this time.

Keep him talking, tether him to the present.

"You were alive for all these years..." He can't quite wrap his mind around the idea. His brother, the frailest of them all, scorched alive by his own fire, and crawling out of the ashes without help from anybody? "Where were you? How did you survive when you-"

"Look like a charred piece of meat?" Touya's grin cuts through the question, all sharp edges and spite. It's a bait and he refuses to rise. When Natsuo doesn't budge, the façade drops, replaced by a placid expression. "Never mind, it doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters!" Natsuo bristles. Both of them hear the underlying sentiment behind the words: You matter to me!

He senses it the moment Touya shuts down. He was good at that, even as kids. He must've learned it from their mom: repress it, bury it, disguise it with a smile. Until it inevitably boils over.

Touya turns his back to him. Somehow that aches worse than anything else. "You shouldn't be here," he repeats, chilling his brother to the bone. He sounds so serene. Matter-of-fact. Like he's burned through everything he had and now is left numb. "The Touya you knew is dead. Dry your tears and move on. It won't be hard. You've done it before, you can do it again."

He lays in bed some nights, wondering if his brother suffered, if as he died he screamed for help. Touya was good at hiding the pain, but oh, god, it must've hurt-

"Cut the crap!" Natsuo snaps. "Stop treating me like the Natsu you remember. I'm not that kid anymore, either."

He grinds his teeth together to keep any of his other bitter thoughts at bay. He hadn't meant to be harsh and besides, that isn't what Touya needs from him right now. However, it seems to jostle something in his brother, who looks at him, truly looks. Finally sees the angry, desperate and dirt-streaked man standing in front of him. A thin smile stretches the staples on his cheeks.

"No," he laughs, manic, and a little fond. "I guess not, huh?"

Natsuo huffs out a near-laugh, too. His mind is reeling yet his heart hangs less heavy than it did before. Briefly, it feels as if they are those kids, the ones who simply found comfort in each other's company. But the triumph is short-lived and he makes a critical error- he forgets. Forgets they're surrounded by heroes who view his brother as an imminent threat.

Steel cables jet out towards Touya from behind. Over his shoulder, Natsuo watches a streak of ice join the attack, likely to staunch any retaliatory flames, and he curses his little brother in the same breath his heart breaks for him. As far as Shouto's concerned, this is Dabi, and all he's trying to do is protect Natsuo, yet it's so fucked up because that isn't the brother he needs to save.

All he knows is that Touya, with the state he's in... Mentally distraught, physically destroyed. He won't surrender but he won't survive this much longer. His skin is still smoldering but he's ready and willing to burn until it's ash and Natsuo will lose his brother again.

He leaps for brother and he can't even pretend it's a noble impulse, or anything less than a moment of fear-guided insanity. He isn't a hero. He isn't kind like his siblings. Strong like his father or enduring like his mother. Not a martyr like Touya. He can't do much beyond the ordinary person, but he's got to do something, or else-

Natsuo surges right into the path of Best Jeanist's attack. Distantly, it sounds like someone screams his name - Shouto? His father? - he can't be sure. All of it's white-noise as he grabs his brother and swings them around, using his larger weight to crash them to the ground. He winces as his chin collides with collar bone, his knees scraping against the concrete with a screech of protest. Touya lands against his back, hard, the air punched out of his chest.

There's a dazed stretch of silence while Touya gawks up at him and Natsuo pants in the wake of his most recent adrenaline rush. It lasts for all of a second before his brother's howling and thrashing against his hold.

"You idiot!" he seethes. "Natsu, what the hell is wrong with you?! What are you doing? Let me go!"

His skin begins to heat. Though it feels like laying his palm over a stovetop set to simmer, Natsuo maintains his grip.

"I won't just stand by and let you destroy yourself," he yells, giving him a shake. Up close, the smell of signed flesh is nauseating. "Not again!"

Whatever Touya planned to spew back is halted by . Natsuo sobs freely, the tears rushing down his cheeks. They land over scars and skin alike and he wonders if Touya can feel the impact or if he's numb there, too. The struggling has ceased, and if ever there was a time to speak, it'll have to be now.

"You came to me crying, asking why you should exist . . . and I didn't have an answer."

There are fresh bandages peeking out of his brother's sleeve. Out of the collar of his shirt, too.

Fresh scars decorate his skin every day. Evidence of the training he continues, despite his father's disinterest. Despite the toll it's taking.

Natsuo pretends not to look. If he's noticed, someone else must have, too. A teacher. An adult. Mother, if she were home. Father, if he cared to look.

He shuts his eyes against the memory, where he can still see it, the angry red of his brother's flesh. "I knew you were hurting yourself with your Quirk. That you didn't care what happened to you, as long as you could prove you were useful!"

Fists tremble where they're clenched around Touya's arms, digging into scar-tissue. "I didn't know who to tell or if I should... Mom was already unstable and Dad was the reason... I didn't know what to do so I didn't nothing. And you... you..."

Wait for me by the bleachers.

Natsuo is left waiting, waiting, waiting. Forgotten. No surprise, since he was always the forgotten one. Fuyumi was the only girl, Touya was the oldest, and Shouto was the favorite but Natsuo- well, it was easy to forget Natsuo. Only Touya never forgot, which makes it all the worse. After he promised!

Sullenly, he walks home. Swears the moment he walks through the door he's going to give his brother a piece of his mind.

He never gets the chance.

"You didn't come home." Touya watches the words leave his mouth like he can't fathom any of them, but that's okay. This is Natsuo's grief to bare. He won't ever understand what it's like to burn, just as Touya won't understand this. "You didn't come home that day and I never got to tell you, I..."

Touya has barely moved since he started talking. Shock seems to have rendered him mute, the only proof of life the shallow rise his chest. He looks too prone, too dead like this. Natsuo would almost prefer the mania. Of course there's a chance he'll slide back into despair, or rage, and the sooner they get him to a stable environment (get him away, away from dad) without all these triggers the better.

Ever wary of breaking the fragile calm, Natsuo lifts his brother up by the shoulders, just enough to wrap his arms around him in a hug. Touya goes rigid, recoiling against any hint of affection. The hands that have burned countless others fall slack, neither reciprocating nor struggling. Gradually, the erratic beat of his heart slows to a steady thrum.

"I don't why you exist, but I'm happy you do." The smell of soot and chemicals flood his senses, and it's gross but at least it's real. Proof that however awful the reunion is, it really is his brother. Natsuo chokes out a watery laugh and hugs him tighter. "I'm so happy to see you."

His shirt is damp where Touya's nose is pressed and he wonders if Touya can cry, considering the scars... Wonders if maybe he wept too much when they were young and doesn't have any tears left to spare. It doesn't matter, since Natsuo has plenty for both of them.

The noises from the battle have dwindled, as Machia's subdued and more heroes arrive. It won't be long before they pry them apart to take Touya into custody. He swallows thickly at the notion of his brother in prison, barred from the care his condition requires, but it's all he can do for now to ensure he's safe. Safe from himself, anyway. If the heroes think they can pull the same shit as they did with that other villain Twice, well-

They'll have to get through Natsuo first.

#bnha #bnha fic #dabi #touya todoroki #natsuo todoroki #bnha 291 #i'm not saying natsuo could've ended this war already with compassion and less bloodshed-#oh wait yes I am #anyway stan natsuo

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julemmaes · 4 years ago

Note

Thomastair prompt: something angsty, one of them almost dying in battle (with a happy ending pls)

Thomas Lightwood and Alastair Carstairs war au

PART ONE

SO, this is very short but very intense and it definitely needs a part two, but my dad just came back home and told us we were leaving in thirty minutes to go on holiday (don’t ask me why, I have no fucking clue, anyway) and I really wanted to post something so here it is, I hope you like it cause it shredded my heart:))

Words count: 1,346

Thomas didn't know where he was. He was lost.

Or rather, he knew it, but he knew he would never find help in this part of the battlefield. He knew that if he tried to call for help, only enemies would come and finish him off and their bodies would never be brought back to England, by their families.

A picture of his mother flashed in his mind, but it went as fast as it came, leaving him alone one more time.

He couldn't feel the left side of his face. Where seconds earlier he had perceived a sizzle and the smell of burnt flesh followed by a searing pain that had blinded him, now there was nothing. He tried to raise his hand, but something heavy was blocking his left side. He could not see whose corpse was perched next to him, the skin now melted around his eye.

He managed to turn his head to the right and the strength left in his body was so small that he did not even have the courage to try to cry while two golden eyes stared lifelessly at him. He took a deep breath and the smell of blood and mud and devastation and death almost took him over the edge. It would not be the first time he vomited on himself, but that was a privilege he could only afford during the first days at the front, when they still had enough food to afford to waste it on mere human reactions.

Thomas closed his eyes, moving his right arm towards James's body and praying to all the existing gods that the corpse on the other side was not Matthew's or Christopher's.

The earth shook beneath him.

Another bomb.

It must have fallen very close to them because James had moved and was now much closer. Thomas could smell his rotting skin. He could see the nuances in his eyes, shining brightly from the fires all over the field. He had a hole in his head. The wound from the blow was almost immaculate, just a trickle of blood running down his forehead.

He wondered if he also had gunshot wounds or if he had only been hit by acid.

He tried to get away from there, lifting one knee and crawling back. He tilted his chin up and almost laughed when he saw the stars sparkling in the pitch-black sky. Their flickering seemed to mock him as if they were laughing. He stood watching the dark night for some more time, enjoying the company of one of his oldest friends. That would be the last time he would see James.

He could hear the constant gunfire and grenade casings. He could hear the screams of soldiers falling, one after the other, as the enemy wiped them out. He could hear the hooves of the few horses still alive, pawing through the blood-red ground as they searched for a way out.

He had managed to move again, moving so far away from his friend, that even tilting his head to the side, he could not see him. He rolled to his side with a grunt and his head sank rested in a puddle of blood.

There were so many bodies.

So many sons and daughters.

And fathers and mothers.

The gunfire continued. The bombs wouldn't stop exploding and Thomas couldn't react.

The continuous whistle that followed the detonation of any weapon had become normal when suddenly it stopped. The silence welcomed Thomas and a new rush of adrenaline flowed through his body. He smiled.

Everything was so quiet. The bodies stopped having faces and the stars were now weeping, no longer making fun of the young soldier. He saw the few left standing running in groups to the enemy front line and lying on the ground in a flash, while their backpacks cushioned the falls. Some of them had their mouths open, and Thomas realized they were screaming, but to him, it seemed they were laughing. What for, exactly, he didn't know either.

He was about to get up, he had managed to lean on one arm and now he was sitting down. He looked around, looking at the bodies of James and Matthew and Christopher only ten feet away from him. His gut twisted and then, what little food he had eaten in the last few days was outside his body.

They were all dead. They were all dead. They were all dead.

The buzzing started again, from a high-pitched annoying sound to a rumble so loud that Thomas had to bring his hands to his ears as he slumped down again and screamed. And screamed.

And nobody could hear him.

The rumble continued until it reached a deafening volume and with a loud burst, it stopped again, reopening the boy's mind to the sounds of war, to the cries of despair that they all called the same thing. Salvation.

Thomas fainted.

Something hard hit him in the face and Thomas snapped up, gritting his teeth to the breaking point and screaming in pain when he noticed the piece of metal protruding from his right hip. The uniform completely soaked in blood confirmed to him that it must have been a relatively new wound, because the feel of warm blood coming out was something he knew well and when he had moved before, he had had no other wounds other than the one on his face.

He was thrown backward by a strong hand on his shoulder and when he opened his eyes, already glossy from the unexpected awakening, he burst into tears seeing who was in front of him.

Alastair.

“Yes Thomas, it's me.” sobbed the other boy.

Thomas couldn't believe it. He didn't want to.

Alastair’s face twisted in a grim expression as the tears traced their path through the smeared blood on his cheeks made him even more beautiful in Thomas' eyes.

When the younger sobbed, Alastair leaned over him, looking closer at the wound on his face and shifting his gaze from the swollen flesh to the still good eye. "Shit-"

“Am I still handsome?” asked Thomas in a hoarse voice due to the screams and the fact that he hadn't spoken in hours, days, weeks.

Alastair smiled despite the situation, despite the tears, “You're the man of my life, don't you think I'm biased?” the worry, the sorrow, everything in Alastair's eyes told Thomas that he had very little left to live. He reached out one hand to hold something when he felt the other one’s, he sighed, closing his eyes. “You're beautiful, as always.”

Thomas chuckled and then flinched when a twinge of pain ran through his entire body. Alastair moved quickly, looking for something in the pockets of his uniform. “I know you're in a very critical situation, but can you move?” When Thomas didn't answer, Alastair tried another question, a risky question. “Tom, where just the others?”

Thomas couldn't open his eyes. He whispered instead, “Take me home.”

Thomas' request was not answered, met only by silence, so he tried again, thinking he had spoken too softly, “Take me home, Alastair.”

When the other remained silent again, Thomas opened his eye to see his future husband cry silently next to him. He shook his head, not realizing what he was waiting for to take them both away from that place, away from danger and certain death.

Alastair reached out his hand to Thomas' good cheek, and when he should have felt the light touch of the boy's fingers, nothing came. Alastair bowed his head, “You are alone, Thomas.”

Thomas wrinkled his forehead, confused, and the movement caused a twinge of pain in his head, “I don't understand.”

“You're alone.” Alastair murmured, his face almost cleansed. Thomas blinked and Alastair was standing, dressed in a suit and a flower sticking out of his jacket pocket, a red flower. That was the clothing he would have been wearing at their wedding. “You're alone,” Alastair repeated, “I'm not here.”

Thomas blinked again and then he was really alone.

tsc tag list

@queenofthemoon22 @tyherondaletrash @clara-sm @can-god-strike-me-down @tessaherongraystairs @idontgetit-whydoihavetosaymyname @jamescordelias @grxceblqckthxrn @thecerridwen @stitch-kiss @alastairlightwxod @ahiretsinging @allofmywonders @tremendousheadachecollector @tlh-tea @taco-taco-belle @city-of-fae @ifeelfreewithoutmyshoes @thomascarstairsx @alastaircarstairsx @fair-y-child @matthew-herondale @thomaslightwoodx @abigneignenn @imherongraystairstrash @rednailpolishqueen @herondamnn @parababitch-herondale @silent-nerd

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cptn-stvngrntrgrs · 5 years ago

Text

Fic: Sign of the Times

Relationship: Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanoff

Summary:

His job is simple - return the stones and try not to mess up. Then come back to the present, live his life with his best friends. But he knew. He knew he can’t come back. Not if she’s not with him. But if what if they can start all over again? -- Just stop your crying Have the time of your life Breaking through the atmosphere And things are pretty good from here Remember everything will be alright We can meet again somewhere Somewhere far away from here

Also on AO3!

She isn’t coming back.

Steve still has trouble wrapping this idea around his head. She was just gone for a minute and she promised to see him after that, but she never did.

At that moment, Steve knew. This fight is all or nothing, whatever it takes. The anger and pure sadness are fighting for dominance, but both are crushing his heart. The devastation of Natasha’s loss was something he was never prepared for; something he never thought he would experience again. He remembered this feeling, pain so raw that he thought his heart was going to burst. The only time he felt this way was seeing Bucky fall from that train and waking up in the 21st century, taking in the fact that his old life was gone. And it really was.

That was, until Natasha came. She came into his life with her sarcasm and wit and humor, and the fact that she can totally beat Steve in combat. Her fearless and selfless nature that mirrors Steve’s; making her his true partner. But now she’s also gone.

Anger overtook sadness then. He wants to crush Thanos. He wants him to pay for Nat’s death. But most importantly, he wants them to win. For her. So her life being gone wouldn’t be in vain.

---

If Steve was being honest, he thought he was done for. With his shield breaking and Thanos and his army gaining advantage, he didn’t think they’d stand a chance. But alas, they had to try - he had to try. That’s what Nat would’ve done - fight til the end.

Everyone came back and they had done it - they won. But god, at what cost?

---

Clint insisted that Natasha’s funeral will be held in his farm; it’s only fitting, he said. He hasn’t been the same since Vormir: sure, he’s happy that his family is back, but it’s not complete. And it’s because of him. Steve understands his pain, him being in the same shoes with Bucky all those years ago.

“You loved her,” were the words Clint whispered to him during Nat’s funeral. Since her body wasn’t physically there, they made sure that their memory of hers is. The kids drew pictures of their Auntie Nat and Clint and Steve printed out pictures of them with her. It’s a mini-shrine dedicated to her, overflowing with flowers and pictures of her smile. The kids said a few words to her, and so did Clint. Steve couldn’t bring himself to say anything so he just stayed standing, quietly weeping to himself.

When Clint came back from Vormir alone, there was no time to mourn. They were ambushed and they had a job to do. He didn’t forget her - he never will, nor can he even if he wanted to - but he had something in front of him. Now, everything is final. She really isn't coming back. And Steve is not ready for that.

---

His job is simple - return the stones and try not to mess up. Then come back to the present, live his life with his best friends.

But he knew. He knew he can’t come back. Not if she’s not with him.

Thankfully, Bucky and Sam understood, just like he knew they would. They understood what Natasha meant to him, and as much as he loved them and vice versa, he just couldn’t see living his life without her.

“Hm, maybe you can save me from Hydra,” Bucky suggested. It was the night before Steve travels to put the stones back; their last night with him. “Then we’ll still be together.”

Sam sighed, not really wanting to think about the whole time travel fiasco. “Yeah sure, then when you’re a literal old man when you come back, just give me the shield. We’ll be the newer, cooler duo,” he joked, pointing between him and Bucky.

Steve let out a smile. He’s going to miss them.

---

Steve travelled to 2012 to return the stones and that was when he saw her again, and he felt his breath get caught in his throat. Her bright red hair, her gleaming green eyes. He itched to run to her, to tell them that they’ve won, despite knowing full well she won’t know what he was talking about and just get even more in trouble.

No, but he has a plan.

And he had to make it work.

After dutifully returning the stones from that year, Steve snuck into the tower, making sure that 2012-Steve wasn’t there. He waited on his floor, making himself comfortable in the couch. He looked around and smiled; there were so many good memories in this tower, and felt a pang of pain in his chest knowing that a certain redhead was the reason behind that.

He composed himself together, running his plan in his mind over and over, and convincing himself that it’ll work.

Almost two hours later, the elevator opened and 2012-Steve walked out of it, alone, just as Steve has expected.

“Hey man,” Steve called out, shield in hand, in case that he won’t be treated nicely.

And sure enough, a shield was thrown at him.

“What the hell!” other-Steve shouted out, still in his uniform and looking both parts exhausted and angry and confused, catching his shield back with a frown.

“Listen, I can explain.” Steve said, dropping his shield in front of him and raising his hands up - an indication that he’s harmless. “I’m you. But from 2023.”

2012-Steve had the audacity to roll his eyes. Steve had to stop himself from doing the same. “I don’t know what kind of prank Tony-” he started, but was cut off when Steve started talking.

“My, well, our mother’s name is Sarah Rogers. Back before the serum, you wore newspaper in your shoes and Bucky never let you live it down. He promised to take you the the “future” and took you to Stark’s expo. Do you want me to continue?” he rattled off. These are what he guesses are facts that Steve and only Steve would know, in hopes that he’ll get his past self’s trust.

2012-Steve was staring at him intently, brows still furrowed in confusion, but he too, lowered his shield. He didn’t let go of it, but it’s less… threatening. “Why are you telling me these things?”

“To prove to you that I’m you. But from the future.”

“What do you need from me? Why are you here? How is this even possible?” past-Steve asked in rapid succession, but it looks like he’s finally starting to believe what he’s seeing.

“It’s actually a very long story. Care to sit with me to talk about it?” Steve asked, gesturing to the couch. 2012-Steve nodded and sat across from him, still looking very confused, but he can tell that there’s still fascination and curiosity in his eyes.

Steve launched into the story of basically, everything from that year on. He talked about Thanos, the Time Heist, and Pym Particles, and what his mission was. He’d get a few questions here and there from the other but mostly just little details or clarification. The longest part was about Bucky and everything involving him, but they eventually got over it.

When he finished, 2012-Steve sat back, stared straight ahead in silence, before standing up and getting a bottle of vodka. present-Steve smiled, knowing who got him to start drinking that, knowing full well it won’t affect him.

“So what do you really want then?” 2012-Steve asked, after a couple moments of them passing the bottle between each other and drinking.

“Well, as you know, I could’ve just gone back there like, a couple of days ago. My mission was over,” Steve started to explain, fiddling with his hands. “But I can’t. I can’t go back, not after…” he took a deep breath. “Not after Natasha not making it back.”

2012-Steve raised an eyebrow. Oh. “Were you two…?” he trailed off, knowing that Steve understands the question. Steve nodded and put his hands over his face.

“We were together,” he whispered, gulping as he can feel tears threatening to fall. “I just… she was my everything, you know? I didn’t think I can love like that again, after Peggy, but,” Steve shook his head and smiled bitterly. “I did. I don’t think I loved anyone as much as I love Natasha.”

Steve looked at his past-self. “I know exactly what you’re feeling. It’s almost the same - after waking up from the ice, I don’t see what my purpose here is when everything and everyone I knew was gone. That’s the life that will welcome me if I were to come back to the future. A life without Natasha. I mean, there’s Bucky and Sam, but…”

“It’s just not the same.” 2012-Steve finished for him.

They sat in silence for a while, watching the city getting darker and darker, but also brighter.

“So what do you want me to do?” 2012-Steve asked.

“Go back in time, around the time of the plane crash, so you can live the life you wanted. With Peggy and the Commandos. Maybe even rescue Bucky,” Steve answered.

“While you live your life here in my place, and get to live the life you want with Natasha. And hopefully prevent the whole Thanos thing from happening. From this timeline, at least. Did I guess correctly?” there was a gentle smile in his face - this is such a Steve thing to think of, no matter which timeline he’s from.

Steve chuckled and nodded. “Now, I know it has some concerning things. Like if you were to go back, there will be a Steve in that year that is under the ice. Maybe just… leave him? But I only ask you to explain everything to Peggy and hopefully she’s understand.”

2012-Steve thought about it for a moment before nodding. “You’re insane, but okay, I’ll take it. I just have to ask - why me? Why choose 2012 you?”

“Because I know you. Still fresh from the ice and most of your memories are still from the time before. The 1940s were a mere 6 months ago instead of 70 years. And the girl I love is here.” Steve shrugged. “It just… seemed like it made sense.”

2012-Steve pondered it over. “Yeah… I mean, of course right now, I do like Natasha, but not in that way yet. But,” he sighed, “Peggy… I miss her so much. Wait, didn’t you mention that from your timeline, she got married and had kids with Daniel? What happens if I go back to 1945?”

Steve actually asked Bruce about that, so he was ready. “Nothing. That still happens but in a different timeline. Like I told you, time travel doesn’t exactly create a domino effect.”

Later that night, they set their plan in motion. Steve taught past-Steve what was going to happen. “Remember, get Bucky, okay? You have to rescue him,” Steve reminded him. 2012-Steve nodded and gave him a thumbs up.

In a matter of seconds, he’s gone.

And Steve’s back in 2012. Permanently.

He lied down on the couch and let out a deep sigh. He felt so exhausted, it’s as if everything came crashing down on him all at once.

“Sir, Agent Romanoff is on her way up,” Jarvis alerted him after half an hour of him taking a nap. This made Steve jolt up - it’s been a while since he heard that voice and he smiled to himself.

Steve blinked, standing up to pick up his shield from the ground, placing it in a corner just as Natasha was entering. For a moment, he didn’t know how to react.

“Hey sold- oh!” her greeting was lost in a gasp of surprise as Steve enveloped her in his arms and hugged her tightly. She frowned in confusion but also put her arms around him. She tends to humor the guy.

“Nat, I just… missed you, is all,” he said after letting her go.

“We were just together, like” she checked her watch, “five hours ago,” she glanced up at him, eyebrow raised.

Steve felt his face redden. “Oh, I mean, l - I, just forget about it,” he said sheepishly, averting his eyes away from her.

Natasha laughed - Steve’s favorite sound - and playfully punched his shoulder. “I’m just messin with ya, Cap. I could use a hung here and there sometimes,” she added with a wink. “Now let’s go, the team’s waiting upstairs! You’re the one who wanted to watch Mulan tonight!”

“Of course, Mulan, my favorite movie.” Steve said as they were waiting for the elevator.

Natasha looked up at him in surprise. “I thought we’re watching it tonight because you’ve never watched it before?” she asked, studying his face. Steve gulped and almost told a lie when she spoke again. “Don’t tell me you watched it by yourself!”

Steve shook his head. “No, I just… saw some memes on the Internet comparing you to Mulan. So I guess it would become my favorite movie soon.”

Natasha smiled at that, both of them entering the elevator. “You’re such a sap,” she looked down and tucked her hair behind her ear. When she looked up at him, a smirk was on her lips. “And I’m glad I’m finally getting through you! Look at you, looking up memes! I’m so proud.” she put a hand on her chest to emphasize on this.

Steve tucked his hands in his pockets and bumped his shoulder with her. He loves how comfortable they already are. Well, that’s the thing with them. They’ve always been this way, even in his 2012. After the Battle of New York and they hung out as a team, it’s always been easy for them to just be around each other. It’s mainly the reason why Fury put them together - they just clicked.

When the elevator stopped at the penthouse, Steve put his arm over Natasha’s shoulder casually as they walked to the living room, and he could’ve sworn she leaned into him even just a little bit.

“What, the old man needed some assistance on his way here?” Tony quipped from the couch, where he was already munching on popcorn from a bowl.

Steve took a deep breath and looked around. It’s just the six of them in the floor - like how it’s always been before.

Thor is probably here for a couple of days, which is what he usually did back then. Clint is already halfway to falling asleep, and Bruce is calmly sitting down while drinking tea. Natasha lead them to the couch where she sat next to Clint, and lying his legs over his lap. Clint barely glanced at her before shifting so she could be more comfortable.

Steve sat on the empty spot next to her, and as much as he wanted her to get curled up on his lap like how they usually end up, that didn’t start happening until 2014. This Natasha has no reason to be that close to him, nor does he with her.

But he’ll wait. Going back in time is like restarting a game you’ve already beaten before, but Steve loved the journey as much as he did the destination. He’ll do it right, like he did before. He had Natasha back - Tony, too - and for now, he couldn’t really ask for more.

Notes: Thanks for reading!

title is a Harry Styles song, although I didn't know it was his bc I've always only just listened to LANY's version lol

this idea came to me after not accepting Steve's ending. steve in 2023 has no reason to go back to peggy like that. then i was like "hmmm... maybe *not* 2023 steve, then"

hence, this fic was born. please let me know what you guys think of it!! this was really cloudy in my mind and i debated a couple times whether or not to actually go through with it. i'd love to hear some input!

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thedyingmoon · 5 years ago

Text

***

"Ave Maria! Jungfrau mild, erhöre einer jungfrau flehen, aus diesem felsen starr und wild soll mein gebet zu dir hin wehen, zu dir hin wehen. Wir schlafen sicher bis zum morgen, ob menschen noch so grausam sind. O jungfrau, sieh der jungfrau sorgen, o mutter, hör ein bittend kind!"

"Ave Maria! Jungfrau mild,..."

The people of the church never ceased praying since news of the Devil Hunters' demise and the rise of the True Demon reached them.

The innocent people of that country in the west, or what remained of them, all huddled close to the altar, joining the endless prayer vigil with personal prayers of their own, hoping for some kind of a saviour that would come down and rescue them.

Kyrie, who watched over the children, was inside that church.

"Sshh, it's okay." The woman cooed, reassuring them to, at least, keep them calm, for they haven't stopped crying for the last half hour.

And who could blame them? Multiple lasers of destruction were raining down from above, killing hundreds, if not thousands, of people.

Despite her vigilant and reliable façade, Kyrie felt really sick.

She closed her eyes, holding back the tears that threatened to spill. Negative thoughts plagued her mind all day, about the genocide, the inevitable end,...

... the life of her one true love and,...

The screams and noises outside grew louder and louder as the massacre ensued. And, just when the disturbing noises drew closer and closer, the heavy wooden doors of the church burst open, and in came a group of six to eight feet tall gargoyle - like creatures whose mouth and claws were dripping with blood,...

... blood of the people they massacred.

At the mere sounds of these creatures of darkness, the people of the church made their prayers louder, hands clasped and knees bent.

"Ave Maria! Jungfrau mild, erhöre einer jungfrau - !"

The Demons laughed and howled, mocking the defenseless.

"GOTT IST NICHT HIER!" The tallest and most horrfying of the horde boomed, its voice engulfing the whole room in hopelessness and making the younger ones cry even louder. "PANDÄMONIUM,... IST GEKOMMEN! IHR ALLE WERDET,... STERBEN!"

An old Priest bravely came forward despite his trembling knees, holding up his crucifix in hopes of warding off the Demons.

"Sáncte Michael Archángele, defénde nos in proélio,..."

The enemies fell silent, looking at each other, confused of what's going on. The priest took this as an opportunity to keep praying.

"Cóntra neqúitiam et insídias diáboli - "

One by one, the enemies started laughing at his words, clearly not affected by his prayer.

With sweat running cold and courage slowly diminishing, the poor old Priest went on, "... ésto p - p - præsídium. Ímperet ílli Déus - "

One of the Demons came forward and mockingly uttered the prayer with the frightened Priest. "... SÚPPLICES DEPRECÁMUR: TUQUE, PRÍNCEPS MILÍTIÆ CÆLÊSTIS - "

"SATANAM!" The Demons bellowed in unison, shaking the faith of everyone in the room, including the now crying Priest, who started to urinate involuntarily.

The old one wiped his tears. Despite the Demons' machinations, he went on, still holding his crucifix up high. "... aliósque spíritus malígnos, qui ad perditiónem animárum pervagántur in múndo,..."

One of the Demons bent low, reaching the Priest's face, and howled, spraying his spit on the poor man's face,

"VENITE IGITUR DESCENDAMUS ET CONFUNDAMUS IBI LINGUAM EORUM UT NON AUDIAT UNUSQUISQUE VOCEM PROXIMI SUI!"

The man started weeping, unable to finish his prayer. Then, the Demon grabbed his body with one hand and lifted him off the ground, earning screams and panic from the people.

"LAUF!" The Priest shrieked for the last time as the Demon lifted him. "LAUF!"

Kyrie grabbed the children and ran as fast as she could with them, not once looking back when the Demons started feasting on the Priest and the people nearby. She hid with them, suppressing her tears and hoping for some form of a miracle.

"Nero,..." she muttered, her eyes shut and her arms around the frightened children. "... please,..."

Then, it came: a Demon who found them, its drool dripping, its menacing red eyes looking down at them like they were some meals on a buffet.

"FOUND YOU!"

...

The remains of the Dreadnought finally fell from the sky, its parts crumbled and destroyed.

Nero pushed back some fleshy debris and looked down at the two people he was protecting with his translucent pair of blue wings. He changed back to his mortal form and supported Dante as he allowed himself to collapse on the ground, the dying girl still on his arms.

"We can't do this! We're all gonna die here!" The youth barked, unable to accept Dante's condition. The wound he received from Vergil was not healing, and he was losing a lot of blood.

“YOU’RE WRONG!” Dante fumed as his hand automatically went to his wounds, wincing with unbearable pain. “Listen to me, kid: you’re the only one left here who could stop my stupid brother.”

“I can’t beat your brother! Not like this - ”

“Then, take this!” The older man snapped, shoving his sword towards the young one. “That’s,… the Devil Sword Dante. Use it to defeat,… Vergil!”

Nero looked at the sword in his hands, still trying to process everything that’s going on. “I can’t accept this! You’re his family! You’re supposed to be the one who must defeat - !”

“AND SO ARE YOU! Vergil - V - is your father! I won’t last,… much longer!” Dante wheezed. “If you don’t want to do it for me, then do it for (Y/N)! You must,… beat some sense out of your old man for,… HURTING HER! AARRGGHH!”

“Hey!” Nero spluttered as he witnessed how the once strong Dante spout out blood, the life leaving his body. “Take it easy,…”

“Swear to me you’ll beat Vergil!”

The youth glanced into his uncle’s worried eyes, searching for some kind of hope in them.

But, there was none.

Dante, the Legendary Devil Hunter, was dying.

Nero grasped the sword like it was his, looked at Dante for one last time, and nodded. He also looked at the girl on Dante’s arms. It seemed that all hope has finally left her, as well.

“No offense here but, Devil Sword Dante sucks ass. Devil Sword Nero sounds better.”

“Whatever.” Dante whispered, his eyelids dropping and his breathing getting shallower. “Do it for the girl,… capisce?”

“Sure.”

The man smiled and wrapped his arms around her for one last time. He closed his eyes and breathed his last.

Nero felt a strange sting in his eyes but, he refused to let his emotions overwhelm him.

After all this time, he finally found out he has a family.

But, Dante was already gone,…

He turned away and ran in pursuit of the man who was the cause of all this shit.

With the Devil Sword Dante on his hand, and the Red Queen and the Blue Rose at his disposal, Nero morphed back into his Devil form and launched in the air, looking for Vergil, all the while seeing the massive casualties of the Hunters on the ground below him.

And just when he was about to speed past them, he noticed a familiar - looking white vehicle making its way past the mountain of Demon and human carcasses.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Nico uncharacteristically cursed as she drove and avoided multiple fallen debris from both the Dreadnought and some destroyed buildings.

“This isn’t supposed to happen!” Lady, who was in the vehicle together with her and Trish, protested. “Why is Shinano Musashi still alive?!”

“Dante, and everybody else, lost! And that’s about it.” Trish asserted, finding her own assumptions, and her untimely headache, hard to swallow.

“We can’t lose right now! That Demon’s on a rampage! Everybody will die!” Lady prodded, still willing to fight despite their huge loss.

“NO ONE’S LEAVING THIS TRAILER UNTIL I SAY SO!” Nico howled as she drove faster, trying to protect the two ladies in her own way.

All of a sudden, they heard a hard thud on the roof of the vehicle, like something heavy landed on it. Then, it was followed by some knocks, like it was begging to be let in.

“What’s that?” Lady questioned.

“I have a fair idea who.” Nico answered as she hit the break. Moments later, Nero entered the trailer, looking devastated and disturbed. “Hey, psycho! What happened out there?!”

“Dante’s dead.”

At the youth’s bombshell of an announcement, the three women fell silent, unable to grasp the truth.

“It can’t be,…” Lady mumbled, eyes wide with shock.

“(Y/N)’s still holding on but, not for long, I know. And V,…” Nero went on, eyes narrow in sheer wrath. “He’s the cause of all of this.”

“What exactly do you mean by that?” Trish asked, partially expecting V to be somehow involved with everything that was happening.

The young Devil Hunter explained everything, from the moment V took (Y/N)’s powers by stabbing her and the fact that he was Dante’s long lost twin brother, Vergil. And that he was, unfortunately, his own father.

And as the three women heard about the real ShiShi waking up as a true and hideous Demon due to her “sister” being wronged by the man she loved, they couldn’t help but wince in total frustration and disappointment.

“So, V chose power and ended up angering ShiShi in the process.” Nico stated, feeling nothing but anger towards the man she once trusted. “Sounds like a bitch to me. Your father, I mean.”

“Where is V - Vergil, now?” Trish asked.

“I’m not sure but, I have a hunch.”

Just as Nico was about to start the trailer, they heard a fresh batch of frightening explosions nearby - a sign that (Y/N)’s sister was wreaking havoc once more with her lasers of obliteration.

“If we linger here for a bit longer, we’ll all be fried!” The Artisan yelled as she began driving as fast as she could. “Nero, where do you think your old man is?!”

“Fleminger’s mansion!”

The woman’s eyebrows furrowed. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her freckeled nose and nodded. “We’ve got some major bitch ass - kicking to do.” She said as she skillfully grabbed a cigarette stick from her pocket, flipped it, and caught it with her chapped lips. “I’m allowed to smoke now because the girl who forbade me to do it is gone! Nero!”

The youth obliged, grabbing the lighter from his pocket and lighting up the Artisan’s cigar. “Can we get there in five minutes?”

Nico tilted her head and smirked. “Bitch, please. We’ll get there in three!”

“NICO, BEHIND US!” Lady shrieked as she looked at the window, signalling for an incoming attack.

As the bumpy ride went on, the woman has succesfully performed turns, sometimes, flips, with the vehicle, skillfully dodging all of ShiShi’s deadly lasers that seemed to target them and them alone. And a few heart - stopping moments later, Fleminger’s mansion finally came into view.

“We’re gonna make it!” Lady exclaimed but, her positivity was cut short as soon as they noticed Trish pointing at something behind them. The laser, which stayed in one place for a moment, grew wider at thrice its regular size.

“No,… way,…” Nico uttered as she glanced at it on her side mirror. Her eyes grew even wider as the laser chased after them, obliterating everything in its path.

“NICO, IT’S GONNA CATCH UP TO US!” Lady yelled at her.

“I KNOW!” Nico yelled back as she drove faster than ever before. “(S/N), STOP ATTACKING US! WE’RE NOT YOUR ENEMIES!”

“(S/N)?!” Nero inquired as he looked at the Artisan in confusion.

“(Y/N)’s sister. She told me.” The woman answered.

“Whatever her name is,” Trish began in a not - so - calm voice. “… we’re not gonna make it! (S/N) wants all of us dead!”

And she was right: the massive crimson light was inches away from the vehicle, already disintegrating parts of it.

Nico inhaled deeply, contemplating her next move for a few seconds. And when she finally exhaled, filling the air around her with cigarette smoke, she spoke, “Nero, on my signal, I want you to jump out of this trailer. Lady, Trish, you’ll do whatever it takes to get Nero to safety. Is that clear?”

“Hey, hey, hey, what are you talking about?!” Nero started to argue when Trish grasped his shoulder firmly. The youth turned just in time to see the two female Devil Hunters nodding at him.

“Girls, you’ve got to be joking - !”

“IS THAT CLEAR?!”

“We understand!” Trish and Lady answered.

“Okay.”

“You’re being stupid and reckless! I can’t let you die here! I won’t allow it!”

“STOP BEING A BITCH AND LISTEN TO ME FOR THE LAST TIME!” Nico screamed at him in anger, her sight not once straying from the road. “You’re the only one left who could do this! Better us than you!”

“She’s right. We don’t have much time!” Trish added.

“GUYS!” Lady shrieked in utter panic, pointing at the back, or what’s left, of the vehicle, now swiftly being swallowed by the light.

“LADY, OPEN THE DOOR! TRISH, DO WHATEVER IT TAKES TO STOP THAT LIGHT FROM REACHING NERO! AND WHEN SHE DOES, NERO, I WANT YOU TO JUMP AS FAR AWAY FROM HERE AS YOU CAN!”

“GOTCHA!”

“GOT IT!”

Nero watched helplessly as the women did their jobs, of Lady opening the door, of Trish positioning herself in front of the light, her hands sparkling with what’s left of her demonic power, and of Nico driving as fast as she could.

Determined to the bone, the Artisan made one last trick and launched the vehicle in mid air. She turned to them and uttered her final command.

“NOW!”

Trish held up both her hands and channeled every bit of her power to the light, doing everything she can to hamper its movement.

“NERO, PLEASE!” Lady pleaded as she waited for the youth to oblige.

“Y - you,…” the young Devil Hunter stuttered in disbelief, unable to protect them, himself, despite having adequate power.

“PUSH THAT KID OUT OF HERE! AAHH!” Trish howled in pain as the light festered her hands, then her forearms.

Lady made one last effort to push Nero out of the trailer, away from them,…

… away from the very last people who placed, yet, another great burden upon his shoulders.

The last things he saw on the trailer as he gave it one last look were Lady’s worried different - colored eyes, Trish’s serene smile, despite her half - gone body,…

… and Nico flipping the bird as she spat her very last cigarette butt.

A huge explosion followed as the light finally engulfed the trailer, throwing Nero farther away from the road with its impact.

The next time he opened his eyes, everything was quiet, everything was calm,…

He couldn’t see anything,…

… except for the lifeless faces of all the people he lost within a day.

Dante, Nico, Lady, Trish,…

… and that girl,…

All because of one man’s huge blunder.

And he, a proud descendant of Sparda, was hell - bent on bringing that stupid man down to his knees,…

***

🖤 I See My Future Before Me 🖤

***

XXV.A

***

~ Special dedication to @la-vita for the German dialogue. Thank you so much. Latin dialogue by yours, truly. 🖤

~@vergils-daughter , @heaven-on-a-landslide , @beyond-the-mirror , @micaelagua , @sofia-micaela , @lessy86 , @yepps , @ehrzeth , @gxthghoulfriend , @ceruleanworld , @simmy-ships , @boundbysoul , @diabeticsugarush , and @krazy06 . 🖤

***

🖤🖤🖤

***

#devil may cry 5 #v #i see my future before me #v x reader #v x you #devil may cry kyrie #chapter 25 part 1 #devil may cry dante #devil may cry nero #devil may cry nico #devil may cry trish #devil may cry lady #devil sword sparda #devil may cry vergil #ave maria #saint michael the archangel

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annoyed-galaxy · 6 years ago

Text

In Honor Of

So if you saw my last post, you know I’m absolutely devastated beyond all belief. I had to write this because if I didn’t it was going to be on my mind as I went to bed so here you go.

Words: 2,176

Characters: Clerissa, Jespar Dal’Varek with mentions of Tharael

Summary: Clerissa becomes very depressed after the death of a close friend and finds comfort with Jespar.

(See You Again [that song that was made after Paul Walker] was playing on my Pandora as I wrote this, causing me to cry and weep more.)

!Spoilers ahead for the Rhalata questline!

Clerissa sat on the ledge for a good hour before slowly rising to her feet. Her hair was a mess, as she hadn't stopped running her hand through it. She had watched as his body slowly fell off the cliff into the massive body of water where the Room of Paintings had been.

She failed.

She failed to save him.

She took the scroll next to Brother Sorrow's body and with a heavy heart and long sigh, teleported back to Ark.

Upon her arrival, she immediately went to his old hideout. He had given her his key. She opened the chest and took everything, even the old silverware and bowl and plate. She sat on his crate and let the tears come again; her body did not move. The tears simply fell down her face and onto her armor. She had taken his daggers. It was the last thing she would ever have of him. Her heart was aching.

She had been mentally scarred when the illusion of Jespar had attacked her in the temple. Even though it had been an illusion, she couldn't help but feel as if it was Jespar and if she had killed him.

But that had been washed away.

Jespar was alive but...Tharael.

She failed.

She needed to drink it away. In the short time she had known him, he had become her third best friend. But...like Sirius and Aravel, he died.

He jumped.

He killed himself.

She failed.

He thought she didn't believe in second chances.

Clerissa stood, stumbling a little, before moving out of the shed. She took the long trek from the Undercity to the Foreign Quarter. By the time she got to the Dancing Nomad, her tears had dried up on her face, but her armor had weighed her down.

She didn't know what on Vyn she was doing at the Nomad, but her legs had taken her there. She opened the door and the happy music the band was playing filled her pointed ears. Music normally brought joy to her, but the music couldn't penetrate the darkness swirling her heart. Her eyes breifly passed over Jespar who was smoking a pipe and smiling as he watched the band perform. His eyes met hers for a brief moment before she walked to the innkeeper.

Sifting through her bag, she brought out a pouch of pennies and threw it on the bar. "Give me the strongest shit you have, whether it be mead, ale, beer, or wine." The innkeeper looked at the pouch with wide eyes. "And for everyone else in here if they want. Their drinks, on me tonight." The innkeeper shrugged before swiping the pouch away and grabbing a few bottles of each type. He plopped them down in front of Clerissa and she grabbed them all; seven bottles in total that she carried in her arms. There was only one bottle of wine.

She began walking towards the back of the inn to head upstairs when Jespar stepped in front of her. "What are you doing?" he asked, confusion on his face. "I've never seen you get anything other than wine and you only have one bottle." Jespar looked at all the bottles in her arms. "Something wrong?" he asked.

Clerissa didn't feel like talking, but one look at Jespar's eyes and she knew she wouldn't be getting away without telling him what was up. She jerked her chin towards the stairs and started heading towards them, Jespar in tow. Once they got upstairs, Clerissa began heading towards one of the vacant rooms. Jespar hurriedly stepped in her way and guided her towards his room. He opened the doors and allowed her through. She dropped the bottles on the bed and plopped down. She peeled her chestplate off as Jespar closed the door and sat in a chair sitting across the bed. He averted his eyes as Clerissa threw her chestplate on the floor. She didn't care if she was shirtless in front of him. In fact, she didn't give a damn about anything at all.

She scooted herself towards the back wall and leaned against it as she took a bottle of mead and popped the cork. Jespar watched as she chugged the bottle, some of the contents rolling down the sides of her mouth. She finished the bottle in seconds before taking a breath and letting out a burp. She opened the bottle of ale next and chugged half of it before looking at Jespar. "How do I look?" she asked, her voice raspy from hours of not speaking.

Jespar bit his lip as he looked at her tear-stained face, ruffled hair and dark bags underneath her eyes. "I would say you look charming and beautiful as usual, but holy shit you look awful. I thought it impossible." Clerissa let out a sound that was meant to be a chuckle but was actually a croak. "What the fuck happened?"

Clerissa took a deep breath, chugged the rest of the ale, and then burped. She put the empty bottle alongside the other one. "You remember Tharael right?"

"The broody Aeterna?"

"Yeah, him. He was a part of the Rhalata. We had come up to the surface to get ready for a trip to this temple that the leader of the Rhalata, the Father, had wanted to go to. I told him I'd introduce him to my friends so I did. You remember?" Jespar nodded, his eyebrows raised in confusion as he waited for Clerissa to continue. "Well, the reason Tharael and I met was because he was wanting someone to help him kill the Father. As we all know, the Father isn't exactly a good person. This trip to this old ass temple was the one chance we were going to get to kill the Father. The Father wanted to do some bullshit ritual to separate his spirit from his body or what the fuck ever. We got to the temple, found this place the Father wanted us to find and then we confronted him. The Father explained that he conducted experiments on Tharael and that he was one of the successful experiments along with his brother Letho. Tharael had thought Letho to be dead when in reality he had been present the entire time, but merely as a husk of who he once was.

The Father revealed Letho and Tharael was so broken at Letho's state that he killed him. Then he attacked the Father. I helped. It was difficult and I had a headache because I used so much of my magic that I had to draw my sword and pierce it through the Father's back. We thought he was dead, but he just came back, knocked us out, and completed his ritual along with a group of his choosing. When I got to where the room he completed the ritual was, it was gone and there was just a giant hole in the earth. Tharael was on the ledge and I talked to him." Clerissa stopped. The tears rose again and she wiped them away with her bare arm before grabbing one of the bottles of beer and chugging it. The world titled and began to fuzz, but she didn't give a fuck. "The person I was talking to was broken. Tharael was gone. He told me sorry. He said to forgive him."

Clerissa squeezed the empty bottle, frost coming out of her hand and spreading across the bottle. It shattered, cutting her hand. Jespar jumped up from his chair and hurriedly searched through the wardrobe to find a spare piece of clothing. He climbed onto the bed alongside Clerissa and grabbed her hand, wrapping the shirt around her bleeding hand. She didn't feel the stings. She didn't even look as Jespar fussed over her. She was still staring ahead. She felt herself back on that ledge and felt herself cry out as Tharael jumped.

"I...I couldn't move," she whispered. Jespar was sitll holding her hand, squeezing it with the cloth, but he was looking at her again. His pale blue eyes swirled with worry. "I failed, Jes. I tried to tell him it was okay. We could make it together...I couldn't move. He said to forgive him." Clerissa's voice broke as a sob tore through her. "He jumped. Life wasn't worth living anymore. He jumped and I couldn't help but watch as another fucking friend died because of me." Clerissa squeezed her hand again, this time with Jespar's own in her grip. He whimpered as she squeezed his hand to the point of pain. She let go, but still stared ahead. "He thought I didn't believe in second chances because of an evil man I didn't try to save. He didn't think he was worthy. I failed him. Just like I failed Aravel and Sirius." A wicked sound crawled its way out of her throat. "What's next I wonder?" Her head finally turned and her eyes landed on Jespar. "Am I to fail you and Calia next?"

Clerissa could see her reflection in Jespar's eyes. She hated the person she saw in it. She saw a woman who was broken. She saw a woman who's eyes were glazed over with pain. She saw a woman who felt like giving up, just like Tharael.

Jespar slapped her across the face. Clerissa gasped and covered her cheek with her free hand. "Don't ever say that again!" Jespar practically shouted at her. Rage glazed over his eyes. Rage and...love. "You didn't fail anyone Clerissa! Things happen in life. There are some things you just can't stop. You didn't fail Aravel. You didn't fail Sirius. You didn't fail Tharael and you sure as hell won't fail me and Calia. Tharael chose to end it, but if he asked for your forgiveness, clearing he already had regrets."

"You don't understand, Dal'Verak!" Clerissa shouted back. "I let him kill a man who was a murderer. That made him think that I didn't believe in second chances. He murdered people because of a goal that eventually turned out as a failure. I told him he had a second chance but he didn't think I believed in them because of the choice I made! I failed him Jespar! I fucking failed him like I failed to protect Aravel! I failed him like I failed to take a blow for Sirius! I fucking fail my family and friends! It's a fucking pattern don't you see?! Everyone I fucking cares about DIES!" Clerissa's voice broke as she finished shouting. There was no more rage as tears began falling and she began sobbing. She lowered her head, ashamed. "How the fuck am I supposed to stop the Cleansing when I can't even talk a friend out of suicide. How the fuck am I supposed to stop the Cleansing when I can't even protect those I care about the most."

Jespar grabbed Clerissa's face with both of his hands and forced her to look at him. "Clerissa, things will happen in life. There are some things that we can't reverse and that we have to live with. You have to realize that. You haven't failed anyone. I know that Aravel, Sirius, and Tharael all knew that you cared for and loved them. I know that because that's all you are Clerissa. The people you decide to be your family, you love them unconditionally. You try everything in your power to protect them. I know because I'm a part of that. You didn't fail them Clerissa. You haven't failed anyone." Jespar brushed his thumb across her cheek, wiping some of her tears away. "You will never fail as long as you show that you tried."

Clerissa sighed before falling into Jespar's chest. He hugged her and rubbed his hands up and down her shoulder. He kissed the top of her head. Clerissa flung her good hand out and grabbed the pipe that Jespar had left on the table with her magic and let it float towards her. Her hand wrapped around the pipe and she took a deep and long drag. She exhaled for a long time before giving the pipe to Jespar. He took a drag but held the smoke in as he lifted Clerissa's chin, making her look at him. He kissed her and let the smoke go from him to her.

Clerissa closed her eyes and smiled as the effects of the peaceweed settled in her body. Why didn't she think about that rather than drinking all the alcohol? Jespar pulled away and the smoke drifted from both of their mouths. "Ah, there's that lovely smile." Clerissa smiled even wider. They both situated themselves to the point where they were laying down, Jespar holding Clerissa against his chest. She had scooted herself lower in the bed so she could curl underneath his chin. He rubbed his hand up and down her back as she slowly drifted to sleep.

That night, she dreamed of Aravel, Sirius, and Tharael and how they would be waiting for her in the afterlife with smiles.

#Skyrim enderal #enderal #enderal forgotten stories #enderal shards of the order #clerissa #Clerissa the Prophetess #jespar dal'varek #Jespar #tharael #rhalata #ocs #angst

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luminoustico · 6 years ago

Note

For End of the Year Writing Meme: All the questions sound super interesting so just use this as an opportunity to answer whatever questions interest you most

So funny story I put this in my drafts to complete in the quiet time of New Year’s Day, but then I forgot about it completely. BRACE YOURSELF.

A. If you could rec a piece of music to accompany one of your fics, what would you pick? Why?

Lies by Marina and the Diamonds, to accompany the latter half of Valse Melancolique. It’s a really good song to show Irene’s POV at that point, especially her reluctance to accept that the webs she’s spun are basically collapsing around her.

“I just want it to be perfect / To believe it’s all been worth the fight,” is the most relevant set of lyrics, IMO.

B. Who’s your favourite side-character from something you wrote?

I really enjoyed writing side characters like Rose and Finn, though Rose just edges it because I’ve been enjoying writing her in Don’t Complicate It. Finn runs a very close second.

C. Get any good comments on your stuff this year?

Sure! All comments are good comments, let’s be real. Unless they’re an obvious troll comment or those “update now!!!” kind of comments. Those aren’t so good.

D. Any drawings or pictures that had a big influence on your writing?

The artwork of the late 18th century and Roberto Ferri definitely influenced the tone of Valse Melancolique. Many scenes from certain stories were driven by a single image I had in my head as well.

E. Who’s your favourite main character you’ve written?

Though I do enjoy delving into Ben/Kylo’s psyche, I enjoy writing Rey more – she’s more enclosed, and I love chipping away at characters to get to their truths.

G. Where do you think you grew the most this year?

Towards the end of the year, I began to realise that writing can actually be fun like it used to be. I’ve been so aware of the way the world is currently that I’ve been convincing myself that my writing must have a message, or it’s not ‘worthy’. I need to understand that I started writing not to pass on any morals or messages, but as a release and a way to find enjoyment in the constant buzz.

H. How do you write? Paper, pen, computer? Music, no music?

All of those. I write on my phone, on my computer, on pen and paper. Music and no music, it depends. Most often I’m listening to a playlist/album which then stops and I cease writing an hour or so later realising I’ve been writing in silence.

I. What’s your favourite work you did this year? Why?

I’m always tempted to answer this kind of question with my most recent story. But I’m going to be really honest and say that star among the stars is a personal favourite. And it’s not just because of the pegging.

J. What are the best jokes you told this year? Any jokes you thought were funny that people didn’t catch? Vice-versa?

I’m completely blanking on this one.

K. Who have you killed this year? Why did they have to die?

Qui-Gon Jinn (to match with canon), Molly and Sherlock (hey it was a story based on Dangerous Liaisons, and I was reading classical Russian literature at the time of plotting) and Kylo Ren a bunch of times (metaphorically).

L. Which character did you most write about this year, and why do you like ‘em?

I wrote more about Rey. As mentioned before, it’s because I like chipping away at a character’s surface but also it’s because I really relate to her, especially in regards to her feelings of loneliness and her tendency to put on ‘a brave face’. Plus I really admire her compassion and her strength. I envy it.

M. Meta! Have any meta about a story you’re dying to throw out there?

Not particularly -- just headcanons and reasons behind why I write what I write. (I’ve never been very good with meta anyway.) I really like it when other people meta my fic, or pick up on something I didn’t! That is an AMAZING feeling.

O. Do you believe in outlines? Show us one!

I do indeed! I love my outlines. For some projects, I’ve got whole folders with docs labelled Initial Ideas, Plot Summary, Chapter Outline, etc. etc. I’ve got my notes app on my phone stuffed up to the gills with mini-outlines. I frequently use my story structure template, which is technically more for screenplays, but the breaking down into acts thing helps my brain figure things out.

P. What are your pet peeves in other people’s work?

When an author relies too much on UST and ruins the pacing. Like, an author drags out the first getting together because they believe that the anticipation is the only thing generating comments. If it’s right to have them bang, have them bang! The awkward morning after is a delicious opportunity for UST -- just a different kind. 9 times out of 10, your readers are there not for the smut because they’re invested in the story and like your writing.

Q. Quote three bits of writing you read this year. Can be your writing, or not.

Let’s mix it up.

“ “Why did you do that?” he demanded as they ducked into a side alley. “What part of ‘keep a low profile’ is difficult for you to understand?”

“I’m a good haggler,” Rey said through a full mouth. She didn’t have any idea what she was eating, and she didn’t care. It took so much effort to chew each bite instead of gulping it down whole. “He was trying to cheat us.”

“You didn’t haggle. You pushed.”

“I did not. Why would I knock him over in the middle of his stand?”

Kylo just stared. “You need a teacher,” he muttered. He watched her eat for a moment, his expression somewhere between thoughtful and disgusted, before taking a bite from one of his own skewers. Disgust won out. ” -- Symmetry and Black Tar by audreyii_fic. (Grumpy smuggler Kylo Ren, spunky scavenger Rey, canon divergence. Excellent.)

“ "Ben," Rey breathes once Kylo's mere inches away. It's the name Luke introduced him with, the only name she knows him by, and he's never bothered to correct her. Why hasn't he corrected her? The question flees from his mind as she closes her eyes and he leans down into the space between them, kissing her full on the lips. It's not gentle, he doesn't know how to be, but she opens for him the way the flowers she loves so much bloom in the sunlight. ” -- the surface of last scattering by diasterisms. (It’s the apocalypse, it’s exactly the right time to meet the love of your life, right? Read for utter devastation.)

“ Rey could spend hours in the Falcon’s inner workings. She’d spent so much time in the belly of hollowed-out Star Destroyers, which were horrific remnants of old worlds, cold and grey. The Falcon is alive, speaking a strange language she’s just about half-deciphered. Sometimes, on days where she misses the connection most and dreams of a boy reaching across the stars to find her, it feels like the Falcon doesn’t want to speak to her. It shuts down. Sparks spit at her, and mechanisms develop odd faults.Today, a jet of steam blows directly in her face, not harmful, but almost like a snarl of 'go away'.

Rey climbs out of the hatch, fetching tools. She works with that fault first.

“I’m not thinking about him,” she promises to no-one but the ship she’s looking after. ” -- If I was born as a blackthorn tree, by me!

R. If you had to rewrite one of your stories from scratch, which one would it be? What would you do to it?

Going to cheat here and head back to 2017. I’d rewrite Two Stars Aligned. What I’d probably do is make it a post-TLJ fic, where Rey and Ben decide to run away after getting involved in a secret relationship, but get shot down by the First Order -- after landing in Giaca, they become embroiled in Game of Thrones style politics and the ruling families, while the Resistance and the First Order conduct searches for them. I’d cut out the weird Force shit and make the redemption arc thing more organic by giving the whole story room to bloody breathe. Two Stars Aligned is actually the reason why I now try to stick to oneshots for exchanges and any anthologies I get involved in.

S. What’s the sexiest thing you wrote this year?

Sexiest thing written in 2018... It’ll have to be the pegging in star among the stars.

T. Themes, motherfucker, do you have them? What are they?

Feminism. Females being allowed to be as fucked-up and broody as the men they love, and perhaps, even broodier. Make women afraid of commitment, 2k19.

U. Any stories that took an abrupt U-turn from where you thought they were going?

If I were a blackthorn tree took a pleasing turn away from the initial outline. The initial idea was lots of secret trysts and stuff like that, but I much prefer the quiet romance with a note of hope at the end that it turned out to be.

V. Which story was the most viscerally pleasing to write? Tell us your narrative kinks.

Huh. Hm. Don’t Complicate It is turning out to be kind of fun to write; when I’m not allowing myself to be crippled by the brain goblins that is (they’re strong lately). It’s a combo of writing a trope/kink I’ve been wanting to write for ages -- A/B/O -- and remembering that it’s okay to have fun with it.

W. Who are your favourite writers?

@kylo-wouldnt-like-those-chips - @conchepcion (every time I think I’m out, she pulls me back in *shakes fist*) - @introspectivenavelgazer - @audreyii-fic - @kylorenvevo - ambiguously - @fettuccine-alfreylo and SO MANY MORE (this post is long enough already!!)

X. What’s your least favourite work of this year?

My least favourite has to be In Cars. It was an ambitious idea, which I didn’t really fulfil, I feel. Curse of being a perfectionist. I want something to be amazing. World-changing! Tear-jerking! I want Vestal virgins to weep golden tears over my words, already delicately transcribed onto ancient parchment by monks. Obviously, that’s an impossible standard, but I can’t help being cross when I don’t reach it.

Y. Why did you write? For fun, for a friend, for acclaim?

During 2018? Mostly for acclaim. It made 2018 a very difficult year for writing, and just a difficult year in general. I’m trying to make sure I have fun during 2019 with this stuff. Striving for perfection is a punishing task that no-one can ever accomplish because perfection doesn’t exist. Contentment does, though. As does happiness. And those should be more important.

Z. If you could choose one work and immediately finish it, what would it be? How would you end it?

I’d finish Sanctum, my priest Kylo fic. I’m split between continuing or rewriting anyway (the rewrite would include relocating the action to the medieval era, around the time Luther wrote that damned essay and pinned it to the church door). But I do know the exact image I want to finish on, which will remain whether I end up rewriting or not. It involves a name, a scrap of material and a rather fetching colour scheme.

Ooh. Cryptic.

#anonymous #answered #end of the year #did i just answer all these q's?#yes #i did #my ego is MASSIVE and i'm so sorry for that #long post for ts

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yeoldontknow · 7 years ago

Text

Solar Flare - Mercury

Author: @eradikeats-writes as part of The Heavens - a series of ongoing one shots with @the-porcelain-doll-xo and @rudeboywonho

Creative Content Contributors: @everybodykpops (who is creating exquisite moodboards for the series)

Pairing: Minseok x Reader (oc; female; based off Urania)

Rating: PG

Warnings: mentions of war

Word Count: 2,929

“In the beginning, there was time.”

This is the common misconception of the dawn of the universe, an infinite black held anxiously in wait. Time passing in indeterminate values until there was something to count the hour, something to feel its own heart break at the impossibility of its length.

In the beginning, there was time. This is wrong.

In the beginning, there was potential.

Time came later, after the universe found there was no great relief simply drifting in an endless, eternal darkness. Time came later, only after the breaking apart and rebuilding of the void resulted in a cradle filled with possibility, nestled hopefully in the in between. Crawling forward, it severed the umbilical tether that kept it contained, constricted, and impotent, and marked the end of its dependency on law. For a while, there was no law, merely a great spawning of life and action, an eruption of light so blinding the universe has simply forgotten how to be silent in the onslaught of pain.

Time came later, when there were Nine.

When the black became purple, and blue, and red; when the silence became an endless din of life, and energy, consumed by the magnitude of sound, there were Nine. Happenstance placed them as they were, so close to the Sun, a star - their father, mother, blessing, and curse - and crowned them as kings. Nine perfect children born to Nine perfect houses, brothers in protection, law, and blood. Blessed by stardust, they lived and loved, and, for a time, they were happy.

Millenia passed easily and quickly, whole great worlds born in the palms of their hands. After they started counting time, they decided to meet together, to unite and talk, speak on discoveries and findings. After they started counting time, they decided to stand together and fight, learned to rule together and love together, united in a way that made even the greatest of solar creations bow to their stead.

After they started to count time, things soon became hard.

Standing atop the observatory roof, relishing the way the metal glistens in the midnight sun, Minseok thinks on these things now, letting the way they churn his mind and memory send shivers down his spine. Tonight, the usual red and green of the skies has departed, leaving in their wake a sickly yellow glare of solar discharge.

A solar flare is coming, he has felt it for days in the boiling heat of the Sun, and now he is waiting for the relief. Tension slithers through his muscles, makes his shoulders ache to curve over and his thighs tremble anxiously in stoicism. The silk of his shirt sticks to his chest, the night warm and the wind lackluster at best, his flesh damp with heat and stress.

Vision turned upward to the sky, he counts the stars and waits. He waits and breathes and ruminates on why his brain has selected these thoughts for him this night. Always, he has considered memories to be illusions deemed worth remembering, difficult to bring them back in their full tangibility, yet the body remembers the stain - imprinted with loss, love, fear. Always, he has considered memory to be a complex, impersonal thing, the whole of the universe stretching out in front of, and behind, life in one collective length of rope. The shared involvement with living, each thing gradually moving through its life, means all individual experience is no longer unique, merely it is the implied value that makes the difference.

Yet, tonight, he finds himself troubled by an endless rotation of his brothers, each ghosting over his eyes with clenched fists and wet eyes, vague in their shape and form. Tonight, he is haunted, both by action and inaction, the past and the future. Timelines, he thinks, are converging, and he is caught in the fray. War and rage, like Mars yet too detached, coils within his veins, running just beneath his skin and making his heart race with trepidation. Tonight, he is burdened by the weight of all his choices, both made and unmade, rushing together all at once to dry his tongue.

Tonight, he is remembering.

Most clearly, he remembers Yixing standing beside him. Brilliant always, radiant even in the darkest reaches of the sky, and glowing beautifully now so close to the Sun, Yixing was weeping. Breastplate gleaming with tears, he had come to Minseok seeking all the things he could not find so far removed from the light. He had chose his eldest brother first, possibly for solace, but mostly for advice, begging for his breath to guide and dwarf him in righteousness. The threat was directly intended for Pluto, Minseok reminds himself, not the other brothers and their homes; the Guardian of the Outside and Protector of all within.

Positioned so deliberately at the outer rim of the system, he was the duality of death. Warm, beautiful, hopeful even in the way he welcomed the void and silence, he was lethal and he was hungry. A battalion unto himself, few went to war, drank the agony of misery, and luxuriated in loss as elegantly as he. But always, before the endless gnaw of flesh and clash of metal, he grieved openly, fully.

Letting the memory take its hold, Minseok feels a collapse take place somewhere deep within his ancient heart, confronted now with the hollow eyes of his young brother. Melancholy seemed to suit him that night, and this, he knows, should have been his first warning of things to come.

‘Please,’ Yixing had said simply, refusing to face him and instead letting the closeness of the Sun turn his black eyes gold.

‘I told you we will do what we can.’ Minseok had found it to be a struggle, that night, to be both comforting and faithful to the whim of the universe, especially after he had learned the secrets of the stars. Devastation would happen, swords would be drawn - he simply didn’t know whose would be victorious.

He did not know who would win, and therefore he could not sway the outcome.

‘Would you so willingly dispose of the future in an effort to maintain your honor?’ he seethed, rounding on Minseok with eyes that felt like iron, shocked and awed at his brother’s almost blasé ignorance of the depth of his plight.

Minseok had sighed then, bowing his head in an effort to remain patient. ‘You cannot hold us to our words, because we cannot truly know the consequence -’

‘Then you cannot expect me to give my heart anymore!’ Yixing snapped, pounding his armor with vicious malcontent. ‘Not so generously for those who will not help me!’

He feels the solar flare before he sees or hears it, the rumbles of cosmic energy tearing through the rock to vibrate against his feet before working their way up his legs; waves of tangibility traveling at different speeds. It eases him out of his torment, forces him to forget that his sweet, jovial brother had been turned into something less almost by the palm of his own hand. It eases him back into reality, and only then, before the flash and storm of the Sun, does he realize you are beside him.

Hands absentmindedly twirling your celestial globe, so too are your eyes poised at the sky. Beneath the Sun’s rays, your embroidered cloak, twinkling purple and blue, becomes a galaxy unto itself, and you are wrapped in all the majesty of space. Hair flowing like hydrogen, combative, powerful, regal, you are impassive and smiling, watching the way the sky births a new prophecy just for you.

Like this, he think, he could fall for you over and over and over again, and he does. Swooning slightly at the sight of you, he reminds himself that you are his, and he is yours, a pair destined beyond the birth of the cosmos - a match of interstellar proportions.

You glance at him then, face soft and eyes dancing. In these moments, he loves you most, just before cosmic burst of purpose, when you seem to glow from the inside out, astronomical and glorious.

‘Take my hand,’ you murmur, closing your eyes to welcome the great wave. ‘I trust only your touch when the sky is like this.’

Glad for the connection, he eagerly entwines his fingers with yours, watching the way your chest settles as you exhale, long and deep. Eager to capture as much of the light as he can, he edges you both close to the ledge of the roof, tipping his head back and exposing himself to the bath like he is delivering himself to providence. So too do you unleash the flesh of your neck and chest, envious of Minseok’s surrender and keen to swallow the flare just as much.

At the first eruption, the first quake of thunder and the opening maw of the Sun, Minseok readies himself for a pleasure that does not come. Solar flares should bathe his skin in light. Solar flares should wash him, cleanse his skin and give new purpose to his tired existence. Always this has been the way and, instead, all he hears is screaming.

Yixing was asking to die. He was begging Baekhyun for it, pleading with wild eyes and a wet tongue, to have him run his sword clean through his chest. Too much had been lost and not enough could ever be regained. Gathering his body in his arms, Baekhyun screamed, loud and horrible, in an effort to protect his brother from more pain, but the damage had been done. Twice, Yixing had been refused, and twice, Yixing had been covered in the blood and dust of things he loved the most.

In the aftermath, Yixing sat silent and still, watching Styx rotate in the deafening silence. Tears were expected, a howl of grief so long and desperate that the ground would open into one great cavernous mouth, consume them whole in a motion almost too clean for the mess of space. Instead, he merely sat, taking in the way his world had ended even though Pluto’s axis continued to spin.

It was then, Minseok knew, that all his love, the heart of his life and soul, had been transfigured into blame.

‘Minseok!’

‘Say a sermon, brother!’ Yixing spit, dark and cold only then for the first time in his life. ‘Say a sermon for all those you let die!’

‘This is no one’s fault!’ Junmyeon replied, vigor and rage coursing through his usual placid tone. ‘This is the natural law of all things!’

‘You were idle and absent!’

‘Minseok, please! Come back to me!’

With eyes wide open, Minseok sees you hovering above him. Briefly, he wonders how he got here, to the ground and without feeling his own fall. Hands, your hands, cup his cheeks, thumbs stroking along the bones, as you press your forehead against his. Still, he is bleary eyed and confused, knowing he is here and with you, but still seeing all the ash of Pluto stained with blood.

Minseok is pulled to his feet, unsteady and heavy, and he rests against you in search of stability and comfort. In the effort to stand, he sees the markings now burned on the flesh of his hands. By virtue of proximity or fate, the symbols of the solar flare, the language of prophecy, are always blazed onto his body as he coats himself in the embers. This time, they are not beautiful in their shape, they are distorted, warped and red and angry; they match the way his soul has started to feel.

‘I can’t read them,’ you whisper, looking at his hands in earnest. ‘I’ve never seen them look like this.’

‘How did you see them?’ he murmurs, voice raspy and tired as he rests his head against your shoulder. Suddenly, he feels groggy, overwhelmed with purpose and meaning, but he knows you could not have seen them so quickly.

‘You’ve been out for a long time.’

Somewhere in the back of his wind, a voice emerges, ethereal and whispering secrets of the oncoming meeting. No, not a meeting - a reunion. The solar system is sick with it, the impending doom and inevitable carnage that will come just by having them in the same space. Together.

Even if lives are not lost, all Nine together is surely an omen.

It makes sense now, all the tension he has carried with him these last thousand years. Soon, he will be meeting with his brothers. Soon, they will be coming together for the first time since Pluto’s collapse. Soon, the past will return to haunt them. With the uneasy solar flare, Minseok is forced to remember the way his ambivalence turned him into the carrier of death, a harbinger of doom against his best wishes.

‘Should we go to the library?’ you ask, softly holding Minseok to you because, surely, you know something is amiss. ‘To see if we can translate them?’

‘There is no need,’ Minseok croaks.

He simply does not want their truth, not tonight.

It is his first time on Earth, and he is glad he is able to see its beauty, all green and blossoming and full. Spring, he heard Jongdae calls it, and he thinks the word is playful. Light and airy in its implication, the word seems fitting for all the things that he sees.

Here, the Sun is far from him, far enough away that the warmth feels soothing rather than erupting and violent, and unable to be controlled. Here, he can bask in the light, and not feel burdened by all it contains. Here, the Sun is a gentle, distant thing, something soft and wholly unlike its true nature.

Barefoot, he lets his feet press harder into the grass and sighs happily at the pleasant feeling, strange for someone so used to hard rock and stone. A breeze moves delicately through his fingers, slides between the strands of his hair, and beneath his outstretched palms. For a moment, he finds it hard not to be jealous of Jongdae. A home like this could make a man keen to laugh, keen to live, keen to love in a way that is both impossibly and naturally simple. This is not the home for him, Minseok knows, but it is nice to imagine.

Around him, the world is jostling. Cars pass by and planes move overhead, gliding on the clouds like metal birds. People pass and this world turns, all of it wonderous in the harmony it creates. When he first arrived, the noise was a painful overstimulation, this world brimming over with life so loudly that the sheer amount of it caused all of his senses to sting. Now, after hours of standing alone, he sees humanity as quiet little animals, animals so blinded by the brief length of their life, they simply cannot do anything more than live unabashedly and completely. If he did not have the promise of eternity, he thinks even this noise would be akin silence, and he cannot believe they would want to limit their cacophonous euphoria.

‘Always the fastest, aren’t you, brother?’

Minseok does not bother to open his eyes for Jongin, does not bother to turn or greet him, simply stretches his fingers a little longer and lets the wind kiss them.

‘My prudence of time has rewarded me,’ he mutters, craning his neck slightly to the side to let the Sun warm his tendons. ‘I’ve enjoyed this atmosphere in solitude.’

He feels Jongin come to stand beside him, the closeness of their bodies causing the hair on his arms to stand on end. It’s easy to crave Jongin, for the body and the heart to want to be around him, enveloped by him, for always. Golden and beautiful, he is the warmest, softest, most affectionate of their family, and he makes the air around him feel like rapture. Naturally, Minseok leans a little closer to him, happy to feel his familial tenderness before the arrival of the others.

‘I dreamt of Pluto last night,’ Jongin says, simply and without any ceremony.

Minseok opens his eyes at this, surprised his eyes feel no pain at the sudden adjustment. ‘Oh?’ he questions, turning to face his brother.

Jongin is darker than usual, full lips pressed into a thin line. These harsh lines are unnatural on him, unsuited for a creature so exquisite, and it makes him release a small whine of frustration.

‘It was less a dream,’ Jongin clarifies with a delicate tongue, ‘and more of a memory.’

‘Of the war?’

‘Yes.’ Jongin turns to face him, hands stuffed into his trouser pockets and eyes grim. Flashes move across his irises, brief moments of the great undoing running through his mind. ‘I think we’re all haunted by it.’

Tearing his eyes from Jongin’s gaze, Minseok regards the markings on his hands and finds himself stricken. There is a reason for all this bloodshed and torment. There is a reason for all these memories to resurface, and it is not merely because they are finally reunited.

He looks up at the Sun and scowls, feeling, for the first time, as though has been abandoned. He has been abandoned by the knowledge of the cosmos, and for a moment he thinks he understands.

It is not merely about a reunion because it feels like vengeance, it feels like retribution. It feels like the tearing and ripping of the cosmos, a great shattering filled only with guilt.

It feels like the end.

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