#is that his soul is already stained so black that he can bear the weight of (more) fratricide

[scarletspider2the2ndpower]

Chasm: Curse of Kaine (Vol. 1/2024), #1.

Writer: Steve Foxe; Penciler and Inker: Andrea Broccardo; Colorist: Brian Reber; Letterer: Joe Caramagna

[uroborae]

viii. shed

And when the light returns;

when it bursts from the seams, splits flesh into gilded cracks and the ivory sludge she wretches onto the ground stains her lips, her skin;

it had expected this from the very start.

For an auspice should, juvenile though she is, understand the very fluctuations of its soul. Where her entire disposition could shift into cataclysm, a devastation upon which would threaten the safety of those it has come to consider as friends (fortunate though that its lifestyle was enough to keep the Aramitama at bay), Astraia had not left Hell's Kier until the very nature of that precarious balance was sufficiently understood.

So upon the first inception of light, where it had taken that blinding white into its soul, she had noticed the way it had bent to contain it. Noticed as it distorted when each Lightwarden was slain, each region cleansed from their burning corruption, as she contained the miasma within. That when Y'shtola could no longer see the truth of her, when they had raised arms against what should have been seen as an ally, Astraia knew this would be a fate from which it did not expect to return.

It does not say it knows what will be.

It pretends it does not see the way Y'shtola grows to worry.

So when Innocence falls, and it knows it has taken too much, for it was after Storge when it began to crack and splinter, it makes sure it is far enough from the others when it soul begins to break.

When it fails, and it collapses beneath the strain, and wonders if dying has always felt this painful.

Or if it has taunted and denied death so much that, now caught up with her, it has condemned it to punishment.

Its avatar tries to offer mercy, dams the corruption by way of darkness, but even as the aether that swathes it becomes a checkerboard of whites and blacks, Astraia does not think it can do much against the weight. For it is a poison that stretches into each crevice, tearing her apart from within.

She is unravelling. A sinner damned. This infernal light burns its blood, burns the flesh, and there is a point where it struggles to breathe. As though its lungs have hardened into marble and its veins turned to ash.

It must look a hallow horror.

Gaze blinded by the light that erupts from it, drowning the world in a violent pallid hue, it does not, cannot, look upon the faces of its friends. Can barely hear them as they speak. It wonders, hopes, they are prepared to deal with the aftermath of her. Clever that they are, the would find a solution to the light if they had not already.

There were worse ways to be a sacrifice.

Much less when the desire to die was so very strong.

She offers again a single soul to save a world, and hopes this time it might be the last. Where it would end their torment as the final of abominations, where they might finally be free

and the agony of its soul, this loss and anquish, might cease.

"The combined power of every Lightwarden is too terrible a burden for any one soul to bear." When the Exarch steps forward (having waited, no doubt, until this very moment) when no when else will, the sigh that leaves it is one of relief. To finally know end, even if he had used her to achieve salvation, before the light takes hold

"And so I shall relieve you of it."

only for him to claim its place when it is unable to do otherwise.

To deny this sacrifice it would make for them, for his name to join the many who had given up their lives for its sake already, those it had not been enough to save

And it is like he conspires to make it hate him, but he offers such poor deception. A resolution that betrays his lies, his attempts to become their villain fractures with every word, that its feeble attempts to stop him only embolden him further. A determination for a stranger that borders on irrational, a dedication when it would be so much easier to let her go —

The wind howls and rips the hood from his head

and it all makes sense

in the worst of ways it does,

for the words it speaks next are only of a hollow, haunted understanding.

"G'raha Tia."

SHED (verb.) cast or give off (light)

[glaswen]

bill paxton voice : ‘GAME OVER’

He flees the river as if escaping the clutches of styx itself. 

Skeletal hands, once full of him, now reach outwards to nothingness from the depths of the water. They are slow to grip upon themselves, tightening into translucent flesh and shake before sinking back within the water. The creature disappears beneath the tide, only to resurface near the shoreline. Virescent light searches, her glare roaming outwards into the night. A desperate motion circling the boundary between land and river. 

He can hear her voice behind him; she sounds like many women all at once, every vocal range extended out to him. They beg for him to return, shaking in their dulcet notes, failing to hide the plea beneath their alluring surface. In his panic, Trent can hear someone far younger beneath the facade; her frustration cracking the illusion. It’s the sound of a girl on the verge of tears,  bellowing scream poured from the cage of her heart.

The escapee makes no effort to turn back and see the true face of the monster by the riverbed. For if he did, he would know these roles were reversed; he would heed her message and the story would end as fate decreed. The noise treads beyond the coast, calling his name amongst other expletives until her faint roars are swallowed by the autumn wind.  

He can feel himself slow as adrenaline leaves his system; safety found in distance and now as he reaches the nearest fence, the wounds she had delivered were bearing their weight on him. Dripping fingers had pressed tight against his throat, dragging him beneath to tear away the flesh on his shoulder--letting him bleed as he struggled. 

If he hadn’t, her teeth would have found his jugular next. 

He drops down next to the fence, crumbling beneath the weight of his wounds and drenched clothing. Taste of blood pooling in the back of his throat, hoarse noise escapes in a cough. Splatters of darkness stain his already mud-ridden jeans and the patch of grass between them. 

But he’s alive, it’s more than enough of a consolation prize

His hand reaches for his phone, tumbling the device out of his pocket and hitting the black screen with his thumb enough times to confirm the water damage. Damn.

The device slides from his hand to the gravel in defeat, and still he can hear her calling out from below as he props himself against the chainlink fence to recoup. The glow remains by the water, struggling to leave the divide she was entrapped in, eyes half-lidded watch it, bobbing up and down the riverbed. Trapped.

Safety returns. 

Or it does until another unknown chimes from the darkness. 

❝  Why did you leave? You were so close to getting what you wanted. ❞ The voice belongs to a man sitting where the space was once empty beside him. Trent’s vision blurry, he can’t make out the features but the presence doesn’t alarm him when it should. It felt right this person would be here, whoever it was.

❝ She was going to kill me. ❞ 

The stranger scoffs, and rises to his feet. ❝ Exactly. How else would you see this done? ❞

❝ I can’t die. ❞

❝  You made this deal to die---With my blood to keep you alive I gave you the opportunity to have the death you wanted. ❞

Can’t be right, he made this deal to live. Why would he die here? This river no less. He was dying when he signed his soul away; was he only thinking of the ideal suicide to drive him back here? He was in the mindset at the time, the blood loss must have left his reason slipping through the cracks.

He knows who this was now, the stranger staring out to the river.

❝ I won’t die here. ❞

❝ So you rescind your end? You would choose not to die here, ever? ❞ 

❝ Yes. Please, I can’t. ❞  

Sight returns gradually, enough to recount the features on the man’s face. He looks to be squinting in the darkness, eyes narrowing towards the green light in the water. The smile on his face looks like he’s made his own private joke for their conversation.  

❝ Fine, I’ll release you. You two will have your endings sealed. ❞ 

The question beckons to be asked, and he almost does. Words failing as the pain of an old wound becomes undone. The bullet wound reforms in a gaping hole in his abdomen, unwinding the once sealed flesh in white hot ice. He feels weak suddenly, as darkness swallows his clothes; mixing with the dried blood from the previous encounter.

Trent dies shortly after. The ghost on the river silences;  somehow knowing her one salvation from the grave has been stolen away.

A fire for the body was set, flames combusting inwards to vent the annoyance of a lost deal. The soul, the escaping soul, the one bound for purgatorio or hell even to a lesser extent, is not allowed to leave. The devil motions towards it, grasping outward to open air and pulls the spirit to him. A silvery light of a human soul in two hands; he cups it tightly, brings the remnant to his maw, and devours. 

The wind cries out again, this time carrying along the tears of a girl. Now eternally trapped in her river tomb. 

[genshinboys]

Thigh job with Genshin boys - Zhongli

Genre: Smut

Pairing: Fem reader x Zhongli

Knock-Knock-Knock

You are standing in front of the door to Zhongli’s office at the Wangsheng Funeral Parlour. Upon knocking, you open the door and peek inside only to see the Archon seated at his desk and hunching over some documents. His form relaxes the moment his eyes cast upon your persona.

„Can I come in?” you ask politely knowing very well that Zhongli would never be capable of saying no to you.

He puts aside the pen that was previously tightly squeezed in the palm of his hands. Eyes glistening and his facial expression a tell-tale sign of excitement which he promptly attempts to hide going back to the customary for him calm facade.

Immovable as a rock and yet his world was shaken the moment you waltzed into it.

Zhongli doesn’t mind though and he revels in the way you made everything the Archon thought he knew to go to rack and ruin.

So, he finds himself inviting you and wreaking more havoc in his hitherto impassive and emotionless millenniums of existence.

„Oh, by all means, please do,” he responds courtly. He straightens up in his armchair gesturing to his lap.

You smile knowingly.

Zhongli but adores having you in his lap. The way your soft body fits in there is glorious and the lord of Geo could narrate hundreds of stories about the marvel of you being sat on his thigh tightly pressed into his sturdy physique.

It is his way of unwinding after a long day or taking a break from work. He would find solace and relaxation with you next to him. It becomes habitual and it just occurs naturally. When he sips his tea, scans through documents, reads a book or wants to tell you some of the stories from his past. You sit on his lap and everything falls into place.

He loves the control this setting gives him and the fact that he can easily do whatever he deems fit when your body is conveniently at his disposal.

And you wouldn’t say no. Whatever his intentions are.

So you come over to the handsome god and with a loud scoff unceremoniously land on his lap while wrapping your arms around his neck.

„What’s the matter my dearest?” he furrows his brows but the little crooked smile doesn’t escape your notice. Zhongli can’t help himself, he thinks that you’re just too adorable and pure for this world.

„Oh, Zhongli!” you cry out, „That little bastard Venti stood m-,”

He clears his throat and gives you a reprimanding glare, „Language my little girl.”

You roll your eyes at his antics and wiggle your butt successfully shifting your position so that your whole weight is now on Zhongli’s right thigh and your legs are hanging in the air on the other side of the armchair. He wraps a protective arm around your middle while his free hand starts caressing your uncovered leg, so nicely exposed by the skirt of your choice.

So once you feel all snug and comfortable you continue dramatically, „Zhongli, but he really stood me up! I needed his help with one commission and I found him as drunk as a skunk. He was so sloshed he fell asleep in the tavern and Kaeya had to escort him home!”

„Is that so?” he cocks an eyebrow but he isn’t surprised at all.

„Yes! I wasted so much time because of this motherf-,”

Zhongli shoots you another look of disapproval and you just smile apologetically.

„He’s never been good at holding his liquor, my Dear,” he states the obvious more preoccupied with the way the plump flesh of your thighs reddens when he squeezes it with his leather-clad hand. He allows himself to roam a bit higher and the skirt does little to prevent his movement.

„Dear,” he says as his lips approach your earlobe, „Have you by any chance forgotten to put on underwear yet again?”

You really love Zhongli’s voice. His low rumbles, deep and husky sounds from the back of his throat always give you goosebumps.

And so this time, you shudder in his embrace like a leaf in the wind.

„No, of course I didn’t,” you respond in your defence.

„Mind if I see?” he asks and pushes your skirt out of the way revealing your naked bum.

He clicks his tongue, feeling you up with his long fingers. The gloves he is wearing create nice friction as he strokes your skin.

„I might have forgotten after all,” you admit even if reluctantly.

Zhongli is a patient man. Throughout the centuries he has learned to remain cool and composed despite the most arduous and trying of times. He would have never guessed that this quality of his would so often come in handy when graced with your presence.

„Pray-tell my Dearest, so you did come here, parading around the streets of my city with no decency in your soul left, only to sit in my lap with your bare bottom?”

This question sounded more like an accusation and was rather rhetorical.

You shrug your shoulders for lack of any better excuse.

The archon takes a deep breath and digs his fingers into the meat of your ass.

„You enjoyed yourself last time, no?” you make a point to remind the lord of Geo of your last visit to his office.

„So vulgar,” he criticizes gazing down and marvelling how your smooth skin contrasts with the material of his black slacks. You would often stain them with your juices when the Archon opts for something more than just telling you stories with you in his lap.

„I trust you know what to do, Love,” he adds once again locking his eyes with yours and then kisses your forehead fondly.

You chuckle having no intentions to make the god wait any longer.

You let your hands slide down to his crotch and unbuckle the belt helping Zhongli get his erection out of the tight black slacks. At times like this, you would internally curse the Archon for his strict dress code but it can’t be helped. Zhongli is as stubborn as a mule when it comes to certain customs.

His cock springs free and you bite your lip openly admiring the ex-Archon. It never ceases to thrill you. His shaft is thick and painfully long with popping veins and a swollen tip. He is just so enormously big it intimidates you. You briefly wonder if it has anything to do with him being a half-dragon and you shudder at the thought mentally taking a note to ask him about that next time he places you in his lap.

Zhongli’s heartbeat quickens when you teasingly stroke his impressive girth, your lips finding his and you crash them together hungrily.

He hums in delight when you slide your thumb over the tip of his penis. You break the kiss and flash a cute grin at your immortal lover.

„I want to please you with my thighs,” you inform him matter-of-factly at which he nods somehow too quickly to match his typical indifferent attitude.

„You spoil me, my little one,” he praises in an erotic timbre and his eyes widen when you lift yourself from his lap and turn around.

„Hold my waist, will you?” you ask for some assistance placing your hands on both sides of the chair.

„Certainly, so,” he obliges.

So with some help on his side, you elevate your bum and reach for his hardened cock to delicately insert it between your warm-to-the-touch thighs. Experimentally, you lift yourself up and then push down letting his erection slide between your legs in a smooth motion. You make sure to smudge the leaking pre-cum all over his shaft so that the Archon doesn’t feel any discomfort.

„How does that feel Zhongli?” you ask glancing behind your back only to see his already fucked-out stare which makes your chest swell in adoration.

His lips are parted and eyes half-closed as he holds onto your waist the way you asked him to.

„Absolutely marvellous, my Dear. Please, do continue, hmm?” he encourages albeit struggles to reply.

You carry on stroking him like that, sometimes pressing your thighs a little tighter and he groans as quiet as he possibly can. Zhongli would despise being caught by Hu-Tao when you rub his cock so expertly.

The pace you decide to torture Zhongli with is sickeningly slow and he’s had enough of playing around for today.

You let out a muffled cried when the Archon grabs you even tighter and forces you down on his dick. He repeats the motion in an animalistic tempo taking pride in the way your ass bounces up and down in front of his eyes.

„Zhongli!” you plead as you feel your legs going numb.

„Bear with me a little longer, Love” he coos.

Your whole body hurts and your arms feel as if they were going to give out any moment.

Fortunately, Zhongli isn’t going to last much longer as the pleasure mixed with pain make him approach the brink he so much desires. With one final thrust and a guttural moan he releases and you can feel his hot load on the inner side of your thighs. Some drops of cum land on your lower belly and face. It’s so messy and you feel how your walls contract around nothing in feverish excitement.

He helps you go back to your previous position with his arms now tightly wrapped around your exhausted body. He enjoys the slight twitching of your weary muscles. He reaches for your chin and forces you to face him.

„Home?” you ask in a desperate plea for him to return the favour. Your body aching for his touch.

„Home,” Zhongli agrees, as indeed, the Archon is unable to turn down any of your wishes.

Other boys:

Albedo

Xiao

Diluc

Kaeya

Childe

Kazuha

[bokettochild]

Hi! I really like the fics you write, and for the requests I was thinking some Wild and Legend bonding? I’m a big angst fan, but fluff always makes me happy :)

Okay, so, this was partially inspired by this, but also this.

I'm not really sorry, this has been brewing since the last update and I finally wrote it. That and I broke my writers bloc and figured out how to write Legend again!

Suffer 🙂

Sunset Comforts

Twilight was dead.

That was the thought flashing through his mind as he called the younger heroes to order. The worry that stung in his heart as Hyrule and Four charged towards the enemy that had downed their friend with ease.

A gleaming axe had struck the wolf form of their brother mid spring, and the pained and breathless whimper of the canine mixing with the wet squelch of the blade pulling free echoed in his mind.

Legend’s stomach rolled, the need to turn to the side and be sick growing as the battle continued on around him.

He didn’t know how he took command, simply let his emotions fall to the back burner, pressing down the need to vomit along with memories of a dark sewer, a gleaming blade, a wizard's cackle and wet and wheezing breaths. He focused his gaze on the enemy and called out orders, forcing the hero’s spirit to take the reins while a young hero fell to the background, eyes wide and full of tears as sobs built up in a throat that words had not poured from in years.

Blades sang a death dirge as monsters had fallen; enemies laid low by the weapons of the heroes still standing. There were no words to the song as an eerie silence hung over the field, only the sounds of battle and the occasional cry filling air that felt thick and muddled as they fought. And when at last the final monster had fallen from Wild’s blade, and the shadow had long since faded back away from where it had come, leaving the heroes bloody and breathless, Time and Wild had sprung to the rancher’s side.

Legend stood to the side, hands gripping his blade, ignoring the blood that trailed over his clothes and skin, eyes wide as they’d watched Time firmly press Warriors’ scarf to the gaping wound in -the now hylian- Twilight’s chest.

White and red clashed beneath blackening green, and Legend’s stomach revolted again at the sight, one hand pressing to his lips as he’d been forced to turn away, the sight to much for him. Bloods stench was heavy on the air, death and destruction smelling of gaping wounds and foul flesh, and it made his stomach roll. There was no task he could complete as he stood to the side and allowed the others to fuss and heal, and the mere smell of the blood on his hands made him wince back nausea.

He was covered in the stuff, it coated his body and overwhelmed his senses, and as the other’s fussed over far more pressing matters than blood; a wound, gaping and black with shining bones exposed to the air and torn flesh and-

Legend keeled over, heaving and wheezing for breath as the contents of his stomach found a new home in the carcass of a slain bokoblin.

The camp that night was plagued by the eerie heaviness in the air that had lain over the battle-field.

Warriors leaned back against Sky’s side, hands shaking from having laid the final stitches, eyes bleary as the Skyloftian gently pressed a potion to the captain’s lips. Not far from the two, Hyrule’s glimmering hands worked over Twilight’s chest weakly, shoulders drooping and hands shaking until Four had gently pulled him away with his one good hand, the other wrapped and hung in a sling from his neck as he gently ushered the traveler towards his bed roll to sleep.

Time, to no one’s surprise, sat at Twilight’s side, the ranchers hand clasped tightly in his own as worry creased already heavy brows, a single eye dark in the fading light as a song, bitter and almost tearful rings through the air. There are no words, but Warriors’ voice, heavy and weary, joins in, and though Twilight’s body lies still and the rancher hasn’t opened his eyes, there’s a flicker of his lids as his breath evens slightly, the faintest of hums sounding wet and broken from blood-stained lips.

Legend turns his gaze away.

None of the others had seen his shameful reaction earlier, and as much as he wants to be of aid, he knows that the blood that coats the bandages wrapped around Twilight’s chest and spatters over his clothing will only made him ill again, which will be in no ways helpful.

Violet eyes drift over leaves and stone before coming to rest on the form of the Champion, curled around himself at the furthest edges of the camp, fingers digging into his arms as his eyes remain fixed on his mentor. The vet blinks in surprise as his gaze trails from Twilight’s broken form to the huddled form of the man’s protégé, hiding on the edges of the camp and making no moves to approach him.

Does Wild have trouble with the blood too?

A closer look reveals that the champion’s face is red, eyes puffy and tear tracks rolling down his face, but the gaze on the champion’s face is hard, and Legend finds himself shaking off shivers from the intensity of cornflower hues as they stare across the camp, resolute and dark.

He’s useless to the healers, and the sight of Twilight’s blood streaked across all the surfaces around camp, red and wet and warm and full of life that should be staying inside him and not bleeding out because he needs to live, he needs to live, he needs to stay alive! Link can’t live without him he can’t it’s just not possible please-

The vet forces himself to breathe, shaking his head and blinking back his own tears as he moved towards his fallen friend’s protégé. He can’t offer any help to the others, but at the very least he can knock Wild out of his own head.

Twilight would want that.

As feet pick across the camp, bare because he can’t stand the ooze that coats his boots, he wonders when he began to wonder what the rancher would want or do.

Wild’s fingers are digging into his arms, blood springing up beneath his nails as they grip tighter, and Legend has to fight the urge to flinch away at the sight. It’s shameful, his aversion. He’s a hero and he’s killed more enemies than he’s seen seasons. Yet, he still flinches back at pooling red, and the droplets that roll down the champion’s arms to drip onto the ground are enough to make his stomach lurch again.

“Quit it.” He scolds, positioning himself in the way of the kid’s line of sight, blocking off the sight of the rancher as cornflower blue flicks up towards him.

His stomach rolls again at the ethereal glare that’s cast his way, eyes too old and a soul too shattered for the young body they’re set in. Still, he’s fought a corrupted goddess, he can meet the gaze of the champion, but it’s hard, and he hates it, but he forces himself regardless. Violet and blue clash, trails of gold set in each as both boys glare at each other, both disapproving in their own way before Legend shakes his head, reaches down and pulls the champion’s hands free of his arms. “None of that now. You don’t need more scars, kid.”

Wild’s eyes blink slowly, but there’s no recognition in them, and Legend finds panic flooding through hm as he realizes that Wild may or may not even be fully aware at the moment.

Great Seven, what would Twilight do?

Wild is stiff as a board and silent as death itself as Legend kneels before him, the kid’s gaze unmoving as he glares over Legend’s head, right between his ears, to where Twilight lays in his mentor’s hold. Pain leeches into the silent cold of ethereal blue, and something inside the vet shatters, his chest burning lightly at the pain and hopelessness that crosses over the kids face for a brief second before it returns to stony coldness.

Ah.

“It’s not your fault.” He breathes, crossing his legs underneath himself as he gazes up at eyes that won’t meet his own. “Wild! You can’t blame yourself; you hear me?” His own gaze hardens as he focused on the kid. “Twilight chose to chase the Shadow. It was his choice-” Glowing blue turns to him with a ferocity that nearly steals his breath, but Legend presses forwards, golden tinging at his own irises as his voice rumbles low and firm, blessedly free of its usual squeaks and breaks. “Twilight chose to fight. I’m not saying this is his fault, but it isn’t yours either.”

The champion’s gaze is stony and silent.

“You had no way of stopping this.” Legend repeats, hand clasping the kid’s arms just below the shoulders and gaze heavy as it meets the flickering blue before him. “You were on the other side of the battlefield, your arrows would have only made things worse and you had no way, on Din’s green earth, to reach him before the shadow struck.”

Wild’s eyes flicker up to Twilight’s broken form again, but the vet catches the kids face in his hands, eyes firm and glimmering slightly in faded light of the sunset. “Do you understand?”

“I failed.” The kid croaks out, broken and stiff and every word labored as if it is a weight that holds down the kid’s tongue. Each weight falls hard and heavy on Legend’s shoulders, pain dancing through his chest at the broken soul that cracks through the stone gaze. “I couldn’t save him.”

“No one could.” Legend presses, voice catching in his throat.

“I should have.”

The words are simple, but they bear a weight that nearly fells the veteran hero right then and there, and he watches in horror as tears pool behind Wild’s eyes as they turn to gaze at the dirt at his feet.

“I’m supposed to be the Hylia forsaken Hero.” The kid curses softly. “And I can’t even save my best friend.”

“You can’t save everyone.” He murmurs in reply, his own gaze struggling to stay on the kid before him and to not follow it to the ground.

Red hair and a bubbling laugh ring in his memory alongside a booming laugh that is weakened by blood that trails from an open wound, hidden in the sewers below the castle. Hands that held his own, laughter that rang with his and voices that carried joy and wonder on tehri lips as they filled his heart and breathed life into his soul.

Both of them are gone. He couldn’t save them. He’ll never have another chance to try.

“But Twilight is still alive. He’s still breathing and...” A wet laugh stutters up in his chest, broken and wrong, but impossible to hold back. “He’s still trying to sing on key.”

Wild’s eyes freeze the breath in his throat, hard and shattered and angry as they bore into him. “Twilight is still alive because Warriors and Time saved him.” The kid hisses. “He’s alive because everyone else banded together and staved off the monsters. He’s alive because you all are heroes enough, that while I was pulling my sorry ass off the top of a wall, you were all down there protecting him!”

The kid’s voice rises and those behind them turn to stare, but Legend isn’t cowed. He’s heard many a worse speech from his own shattered soul ringing in his mind again and again over the years. The kid’s broken voice and aching soul aren’t enough to bring him to tears and reassurance.

Twilight might treat the kid with care and grace that one would a wounded child, which Wild needs. But the kid also needs the sense slapped into him, and Legend’s very good at that.

“You all protect everyone!” Tears spill down the kid’s cheeks as he glares at Legend. “All I ever can do is sit by while everyone else struggles, and I can’t even offer help!”

“Wild-”

“My whole world died while I was sleeping!” Wild’s voice breaks, blue eyes sparking with lights that aren’t natural or Hylian.

“And I killed mine!” Legend shoots back, gaze and voice both dark as he meets the kid’s stare. “You’re not the only one of us to have ever failed!”

The champion blinks at him in shock, and Legend takes the moment to catch his breath, eyes blinking open again to meet the kid’s. “I destroyed a whole world. People, places, families and homes. Just blotted them out of existence.” His voice is firm but tears prick at his eyes as he glares down the taller hero. “You aren’t the only one who messed up.

“What matters though, is that when you were given a second chance, you took it. You stood to your feet, after being killed in battle you came back. And you walked right up to Ganon and drop-kicked his ass back into whatever hell it came from.” Violet and gold swirl in the vet’s gaze as it bores into Wild’s, the kid’s expression fading just left of wonder as he stares back. “You are still living your second chance. You are going to make new mistakes. You are going to get hurt. Other people are going to get hurt. What matters is that you don’t spend all your time crying over what you aren’t, and instead use it to become what you can be.”

The vet’s gaze softens. “You’re a good kid, Wild. And a great hero. Don’t ruin that by worrying about the past. You don’t live there, so you don’t belong there. Get your ass in gear and start worrying about the now.”

Wild opens his mouth to protest but is cut off by Legend. “And I don’t mean fussing about a battle that’s already lost. I mean by getting over there and hugging the stuffing out of your grand-mentor or whatever the shit Time is to you, because the guy is on the verge of tears and none of the rest of us can help.” The vet cracks a weak and strained smile. “Twilight’s strong. He’ll pull through. Don’t make me have to explain that you’re depressed because you can’t accept what he sees in you.”

He’s not fast enough to pull away before Wild’s arms are wrapping around him in a tearful hug, sniffles and sobs escaping the kid as he whispers thanks into Legend’s blood matted hair, and Legend can’t even bring himself to pull away. Instead, he gently rubs the kids back, grumbling back fondly until Wild pulls away, rubbing at his eyes and nose he offers Legend a wobbly smile, before standing and making his way back into the center of the camp.

Time’s face when Wild comes over and wraps his arms around the man is priceless, the tune on his lips fading out as the man folds Wild into his arms with a quiet sob, and Legend fights back a twitch of his lips as the two hold tight to each other.

Night falls as the others fade off into sleep.

Legend had finally pulled himself back into the camp once the lights had dimmed enough that the blood across their faces and clothes could be mistaken for dirt and shadow, and while the others cling to each other in their sleep, his eyes are fixed on the rancher.

Twilight’s breaths are sharp and strained, chest stuttering and stopping agonizingly often as the night continues on. Each time it stutters, Legend has to hold his hand above the rancher’s mouth and nose, waiting for warm air to caress his palm. Each time it comes late, panic blossoms inside of him, and Legend has to hold his own breath as he waits for it to eventually puff out again.

Time sleeps not far off, Wild’s curled in his arms where the two had dozed off after their nerve-wracking evening, and Sky is settled not far from them, Hyrule pressed to one side and Wind to the other, and Four lying across the lot of them while they sleep.

Warriors sits at the edge of the camp, hands working over the blades of his brothers, cleaning away blood and dirt and sweat with practiced movements as his gaze flickers from the forest to the fallen hero, concern in the royal blue gaze as it turns every so often to Legend.

He knows the captain wants to tell him to sleep, wants to tell him to rest, but seeing as the man himself doesn’t seem able to do it either, neither presses the other to sleep. Grim understanding flashes across the camp when their eyes chance to meet, and Warrior’s turns his attention back to Legend’s sword where it lays across his lap, hands working over it while its owner sits beside Twilight.

He doesn’t know when he’s taken Twilight’s hand in his own. Doesn’t know when his fingers start trailing over worn scars and calluses, taking comfort in the warmth that they find there as he holds it close to his chest, breaths deep and stuttering as his eyes flicker over Twilight’s pale face.

“You better be okay.” He whispers, voice breaking slightly as tear prick at his eyes. “I told the kid you will be, but it you make that a lie I’ll-” A sob breaks the silence, one that Warrior’s politely ignores as Legend drops his gaze, clinging to the still hand. “You’ve got to make it through this, Twi. Please! Please!”

Scarred and calloused fingers twitch softly, clasping Legend’s own weakly as another sob shatters the silence.

[magnoliasinbloom]

Lie To Me - 19

AO3 :: Previously

Jamie prays as he has not done so in a long time. He prays on his knees in the hospital’s nondenominational chapel, long enough that there are likely permanent dents in the bone. He lays prostrate on the weathered linoleum, hands held fast in supplication, hands beating at the floor in anger and desperation.

His voice in the empty chapel is rigid with fear and grief. He pleads; he bargains; he threatens; he begs for a miracle out of the lavishness of his God’s grace.

“Dinna leave me, Sassenach. This time I’ll beg. A Dhia, dinna take her from me.”

Dr. Denzell Hunter is listed on a whiteboard as the man responsible for operating on Claire. She had been rushed to the nearest operating room, and it had taken several nurses and a security guard to stop him from going in after her. The threat of being kicked out and banned from the premises had made him acquiesce.

Now, curses mingle with his prayers as he recalls the fabric of Claire’s dress turning almost black with her spilled blood. He vows to destroy the MacKenzie, to strangle Dougal with his own bare hands and watch with fervent glee as the life leaves his eyes.

Jamie had failed, once again, to protect her. That particular thought gnaws at him and will not let him rest. He briefly touches the bright red stains on his white jacket, some already rusted brown; a nurse had offered him clothes from the lost and found to change into, but he had refused. He would wear this until he knew for certain whether Claire lived or died.

Claire.

He struggled to his feet, knees protesting from the hard floor. He stumbles to the nurses’ station near the waiting room, hoping for an update on her condition. Geillis rounds the corner, in surgical scrubs but an incongruous, fully made-up face from the gala.

“Jamie!” She hugs him briefly and takes in the bloody jacket with a gasp. “I came as soon as I heard. The group chat blew up, saying a doctor had been shot outside the museum. I’d hoped it wasna Claire, but…” she trails off and suppresses a sob. “Hunter’s operating, he’s one of the best. She’ll be alright, Jamie.”

“They dinna ken… they havena—” He gestures helplessly towards the board and the nurses’ station and Geillis grips his hand, squeezing it tightly.

“Aye. They’ll talk to me, let me see what I can find out.” She whirls away through the doors marked for authorized personnel only. Jamie feels time slog by in fits and starts, minutes dragging on endlessly, and before he knows it, it’s already been three hours since Claire arrived in the ambulance.

Geillis returns and takes him by the arm, dragging him to a secluded corner of the waiting room. “She’s stable, for now. The bullet hit her liver, which is very vascular—meaning there was a lot of blood loss, because it has many blood vessels,” she adds, understanding the look on his face. “But the liver regenerates itself, and she’s received blood transfusions to replace it. She was damned lucky.”

“Not lucky enough, to be with the likes of me,” Jamie whispers, dragging his hands through his hair. Geillis pulls his hands back down roughly, shaking him out of his stupor.

“It verra well could have been you, and I’d be having a different conversation with Claire. Now.” She regards his blood-soaked jacket with distaste. “I’ll take you to the doctors’ lounge, and ye’ll have a shower and change into something less morbid. Ye have to take care of yerself too—do it for her, at least.”

Her words tug at what’s left of Jamie’s heart and he agrees, if only to kill more time while the other half of his soul lies on a cold operating table.

X-x-X

“John Grey is here to see ye, Fraser,” Geillis calls into the lounge where Jamie is tying up the drawstring on the too-short scrubs. He fits the brace back over his hand and comes out to meet John Grey.

Jamie’s first instinct upon seeing the chief inspector is to wrench him into a hug. It catches Grey by surprise, but he is quick to return Jamie’s tight embrace.

“Thank ye, John,” Jamie manages, fisting handfuls of Grey’s shirt in his hands, the struggles of the previous night catching up to him once more. “I dinna ken how to thank ye.”

“No need, Jamie.” Grey pulls away and gestures toward the waiting room. “If you don’t mind, there’s someone here from SCD who would like to take your statement regarding the… incident. I know it’s a lot to ask, with what happened to Ms. Beauchamp, but it’s important to have all our ducks in a row. We’re moving ahead with the legal process, and bringing Leoch down. And I brought Murtagh along as well.”

The thought of seeing his godfather lifts Jamie’s spirits. The waiting room holds an elderly couple and a young man reading a French newspaper, and Murtagh surrounded by a few police officers. He sits and at Grey’s prompting, begins to recount everything that happened. Remembering the moment that Claire was shot makes his voice and hands shake with anger, and he glances at the clock behind the nurses’ station. Almost 3 AM. As he signs the affidavit, he’s suddenly yanked to his feet by Geillis.

“Family for Claire Beauchamp?” A tired-looking surgeon with blue paper booties covering his shoes emerges from the direction where they’d taken Claire.

“Yes, doctor?”

“Are you family?” He has an American accent, odd amongst the Scottish burr he’s accustomed to hear in Glasgow.

Jamie wavers, but Geillis intervenes before he can say the wrong thing. “He’s her fiancé, Dr. Hunter. Jamie Fraser.”

“Very well, Mr. Fraser. Miss Beauchamp is presently in the post-op recovery room. We managed to extract the bullet, and patch up her liver as best we could. The next 48 hours will be critical, as we’ll be watching for infection, but hopefully that won’t be an issue. If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to contact me. She was very lucky indeed.” Hunter extends a hand to shake Jamie’s, and he feels a small weight lift off his shoulders.

“Can I see her?”

“We’ll make sure to let you know when she’s in a room. She’ll be sleeping most of the time. And yes, Inspector Grey, I’ll appraise your team when she is in fit condition to talk to you,” Hunter adds, anticipating the officer’s comment.

With a grateful handshake, Jamie watches Dr. Hunter walk away. He drops onto the vinyl couch like a stone, his face in his hands, as the storm within finally gives way to racking sobs.

Alive. Claire’s alive.

X-x-X

Claire is aware of her body before anything else. A dull, throbbing ache laces her right side, and it feels rigid. Bandages, her mind thinks fuzzily. Why am I bandaged?

Her eyes still closed, she tries wiggling her toes. Still there. The feeling traverses up her legs, avoiding her abdomen which she instinctively knows will hurt like bloody hell, and then a fluttering of her fingers. She finds her left hand entrapped and she panics for a second. At this, she struggles to open her eyes. She blinks at the harsh white lighting above her head.

Claire glances down as she feels a warm wetness, and she realizes it’s Jamie. Jamie is crying, kneeling by her bedside. She wishes she could cradle his face and wipe his tears away, but decides it would hurt too much to move. She settles for speaking, after clearing her throat.

“I’ve decided… not to die.” Claire’s voice is soft and rusty from misuse, but it still startles Jamie. He comes out of his reverie to see that her eyes are open, a luminous gold in her white face.

Jamie doesn’t know what to say to that, so he manages a strangled, “Oh, good.”

“I could have. This is… bloody awful.” She winces as she tries to shift her body, but Jamie stops her. He is afraid to touch her further, for fear of hurting her, but can’t bear not to. He lays a hand as lightly as he can on her cheek, finding it cool. No fever; the IV pumping antibiotics into her via the needle in her right arm seems to be working.

“I know,” he says roughly, recalling the weeks spent in hospital healing from his own wounds. Jamie brings her untethered hand to his lips. Her bones feel frail. She hasn’t even the strength to squeeze his hand.

“But I… wouldn’t do that to you.” Already this small interaction is tiring her, and she is out of breath, but it seems important to let him know, that she is here, and she is still fighting. For herself, and for him.

“Thank ye, Sassenach. Truly.” He pushes himself off the floor with a groan, knees stiff and painful. He drags an uncomfortable-looking chair from the corner of the room and sits, still as close as possible to Claire. She looks him over, notices the dark bruises under his eyes and how his hands shake slightly.

“You haven’t slept or eaten, have you?” she asks critically; Jamie ducks his head and she knows she’s right. Claire is mindful of how much energy each word expends. She wants to remain awake, to drink him in, to just be with him, but knows the road to recovery is just beginning. “It won’t do me any good to have you sick, either. Go eat, please, and then get some rest too.”

“I dinna want to—”

“Stubborn Scot.” Claire sighs, and exhaustion wants to pull her under again. “There’s a couch. I’m sure it pulls out.”

Jamie offers a small smile. “What I want right now, Sassenach—I want verra much to kiss ye.”

“Come here, then.” Afraid to hurt her but even more desperate to feel her lips against his, he brushes his mouth in the gentlest kiss.  

“Do ye need anything, Claire? Shall I call the nurse? Geillis has been around, but ye were still out.” Jamie is anxious to leave her, but understands that he cannot run himself ragged; he would be unable to help her recover and be with her.

“No.” Her eyes are already drifting closed, with a combination of what her body endured and the pain medication. “I just need… you. Go. I’ll be… here.”

With a final peck on the lips, Jamie heads for the door. Even though Claire is sleeping again, he makes her a promise, out loud: “You werena the first lass I kissed, but I swear to ye that ye’ll be the last.”

[geraltofriviasleftbuttcheek]

They stumble up to their room at the inn, Jaskier's arm over Geralt's shoulders as he supports his weight. He can smell Jaskier's blood where it seeps from the wound in his side, staining his shirt, but he's not worried; the wound is superficial at best—when Jaskier is actually hurt he goes quiet, and right now he's still muttering about how he's never going to get the blood out. 

"It's ruined, Geralt!" he whines, as Geralt dumps him onto the bed gracelessly. "And for what? The fight wasn't even that impressive!" 

"I told you it would be a waste of your time," Geralt says, unsympathetic. He digs around in his bag, grabbing some clean cloth to wet and clean the wound with. 

Jaskier sniffs, gazing down at his shirt with sad eyes. Geralt knows he'll get over it—it really doesn't bother him now, he just likes to be dramatic—and so feels no guilt in pulling it off him and tossing it to the floor without care, crouching down to get a better look at the wound. 

It goes quiet between them as Geralt's eyes land first not on the wound, but on the stark lines of Jaskier's soul mark, curving gracefully up the left side of his torso from hip to armpit. It's large—very large—for a mark: a wolf, he sees, its back to him and looking over its shoulder with intense eyes. Soul marks are traditionally colorless, just black lines, but the lack of shading implies it's meant to be a very light color. 

White, he thinks, it's a white wolf. 

His own mark on the back of his neck tingles, a pleasantly warm sensation. Geralt swallows thickly, and he finally brings his eyes up to meet Jaskier's soft, fond look. His blue eyes are bright even in the dim light of the room. He reaches out the hand closest to Geralt and his fingers gently caress along Geralt's jaw as they move to rest over the buttercups tattooed at the top of his spine. 

With as often as Jaskier helps him bathe after hunts, of course he's seen the small cluster of blooms Geralt keeps hidden beneath his hair. He would trace them with tender, reverent fingers as he washed Geralt's hair, and it soothed something primal in Geralt, though before now he hadn't thought too hard about why. 

Well. Now he knows. 

All his long, long life, he's fought against Destiny and her ceaseless machinations against him, guiding him where she wants, no regard for what his choice might be, and now she's tied this beautiful soul to him, chained this fiery and lively free spirit to his dark and twisted existence, took away their choice—

Jaskier's fingers give his neck a squeeze, pulling Geralt out of his thoughts, and he blinks up at the soft expression on Jaskier's face. 

"It means only what you want it to mean," Jaskier says, ever so gentle. "It's a suggestion, nothing more. We do with it what we choose, Geralt." 

Geralt takes a breath, holds it, and lets it out slowly, eyes falling back to the wolf imprinted on Jaskier's skin. 

What we choose. 

Most people choose the obvious route of consummating a romantic relationship when faced with the person who bears the mark that represents their soul. Plenty of others, however, choose to remain platonic, lifelong friends. 

Geralt isn't sure what he wants in the moment—he cares for Jaskier, he knows this much, but making it something more? It terrifies him, the idea of opening himself up, of being so vulnerable even with Jaskier who he knows would cradle his beaten, worn heart like it's something precious. 

The thought of remaining nothing more than friends, however, leaves a sour taste in his mouth nearly as bad as the terror that grips his chest at the other option. 

But—Jaskier isn't making him pick one or the other. He's telling Geralt they can make it their own, whatever they want to do, however they need it to be. 

And it could change; Geralt's heard of people who start out as platonic who grow into a romantic relationship, and vice versa. It doesn't have to be only one way or the other. 

He breathes easier the longer he looks at the wolf, Jaskier's hand a steady, grounding warmth on his neck as his thoughts finally settle. Eventually, he looks back at Jaskier, back to those bright blue eyes and that small, fond smile Jaskier reserves just for him. 

We do with it what we choose. 

So, Geralt chooses: he lets his calloused fingers trace over Jaskier's soul mark, an acknowledgment, the touch so light it's barely there—though Jaskier still sucks in a startled breath and his muscles tense, like it tickles—and then brings up the cloth in his other hand to finally wipe away the dried blood from the wound in his side, and the tension that had settled over them doesn't break so much as it seems to gently dissipate, like an exhaled breath. 

Jaskier's hand remains on his neck, fingers dancing lightly over the lines of the buttercups as Geralt applies healing salve to the long but shallow gash and bandages him up, humming one of his latest tunes to fill the quiet. When he's done, Jaskier looks at his handiwork and then grins at him. 

"Good as new?" he asks, like he can't see it himself, and Geralt rolls his eyes, standing up from the crouch he'd taken to tend to Jaskier. 

"It won't scar," he says, not quite an answer. "But maybe next time you'll actually listen to me when I tell you it'll be too boring for you." 

Jaskier makes a considering noise, patting Geralt's chest as he stands and moves to his things to grab a new shirt. "Eh, probably not. Boring hunts mean I get to exercise my creative liberties." 

"You say creative liberties, I say lies." 

"That's because you're boring and lack imagination." 

"I'm imagining a lot right now." 

"Oh?" 

"Yeah. You shutting up." 

"Ooh, big dreams! How's that working out for you?" 

Their banter continues as they head from the inn to the tavern for dinner, and Geralt feels his shoulders relax even more when he sits at a table in the back and watches Jaskier perform for the evening crowd while he eats. It's so easy with Jaskier sometimes that Geralt's starting to forget why he'd ever not wanted Jaskier with him in the first place. 

Jaskier looks his way several times throughout his set, and each time he sends a smile or a wink Geralt's way, as he always does. Geralt feels his lips twitch with an answering smile, small and nearly unnoticeable as it is, and feels warmth spread through his chest, a pleasant tingle on the back of his neck. 

Though he's in a new, not-bloodstained shirt and doublet, Geralt can still see the image of the wolf beneath Jaskier's clothes, can feel the intensity of its gaze which he knows if it were in color would be gold. 

Suddenly, Geralt thinks he'd like to trace the lines of the wolf with his lips, to taste Jaskier's skin and feel him pressed up against his body, to swallow his songs with his own mouth. He wants those nimble fingers tracing his scars and touching him with aching tenderness and reverence, like they do already but—more. 

He wants more. 

He wants to give himself to Jaskier, to open himself up and pull his own heart out and lay it at Jaskier's feet and ask him to treat it gently, even though it scares him. 

He wants to hold Jaskier's heart in return, even though it terrifies him that he might crush it in his hands that were made to hurt and harm and kill. He wants the chance to try.

We choose. 

And, well—Geralt chooses Jaskier. 

[emmaannaelisabeth]

so, like i don't know why i've started to get so emotional writing the parts on this. but like.. on this episode of sailor-wife!kaz we can cry together. here's PART 12

wylan presses his lips into a thin line, looks up as jesper comes out from the guest room. blue eyes sweep over him, over the anxious frown on his face, and the stiffness of his otherwise so smooth movements. he looks at jesper's hands. his beautiful hands.

how can these hands have the power to rip the life out of a man's chest with just one simple twitch of a finger, just one squeeze on the trigger, and still be the hands that held melinda so carefully when she was only a baby? how can these hands make blood rush out through torn-apart skin, and still make wylan's heart flutter every time he lays eyes on them?

these are the hands that hold wylan's heart, that hold his soul, hold his life. they know all of him, they know the deepest corner of his heart, and every single spot of bare skin; they know his most secret desires and they know his greatest fears. these are the hands that hold him when the world comes crashing down, these are the hands that are steady when his own are not.

these are the hands that now twist in each other, with tremors running up from his fingers to his arms, deepening the frown on his face.

without a word, wylan walks up to jesper and closes his own hands around jesper's. he bows his golden head, looks at how their fingers entwine and close around each other. jesper's dark skin feels so cold against wylan's, and he lifts jesper's hands to his lips, presses a kiss on jesper's knuckles. blue eyes meet grey, as wylan lowers their hands again, and suddenly that warm light grey he loves so dearly, has turned dark.

wylan lifts his right hand to jesper's cheek, cups his jaw gently. and jesper closes his eyes for a moment, leans onto wylan's hand. just by looking, wylan can feel the weight pressing on jesper's heart, and he would do anything to lift it off. he takes a step closer and gently pulls jesper in. at first, jesper doesn't move, but then he draws in a sharp breath and falls into wylan's embrace.

wylan wraps his arms around jesper and holds him, feels his trembling chest against his own, feels jesper lean his head against wylan’s neck, feels him close his arms tightly around him.

what the hell happened?

a wave of anxiety washes over him, makes his guts twist and his heart flip. he’d seen inej upset many times, but this… seeing her like this… blue eyes close and he tries not to think about what he’d do if it was him. if it was melinda, or jesper.

saints, thank you. he feels guilty for thinking that, but he can’t stop his mind. he thanks everything alive and dead and holy and unholy that jesper is right here, and that melinda is playing in her room. that his husband is holding him, that his heart is beating, and that their daughter smiles just like she did yesterday.

saints know what happened to kaz and jordie. wylan’s heart feels like it’s being turned inside out. they way inej wheezed their names, the way she reached out even though they weren’t there, the way she asked where her son was. wylan’s mind spirals. anything could have happened. he sees blood. sees burnt socks. sees a broken cane.

he sees a lifeless jordie beside an already gone kaz.

and wylan feels his heart shatter and his eyes burn with tears; he buries his face in jesper’s shoulder. they can’t be dead, he thinks. my brother can’t be dead. kaz can’t be, he always made it out, he always made it, he always…

please.

and then wylan’s heart freezes to ice, and for a second he can’t breathe. jordie. what about jordie? saints, please no. the world almost starts spinning round wylan, and he clutches jesper tighter, desperately trying to shove the picture of jordie’s limp body out of his mind. but he can’t fight it, jordie’s blue eyes shine bright in front of his inner gaze, and the tears spill from wylan’s eyes.

what if it was melinda? what if she was… what if my girl was…

and then it’s her. in his head, it's her. her eyes empty, drained of that beautiful glittering that was her. her golden hair stained by crimson, her small body cold, her mouth open, her neck twisted-

wylan detangles himself from jesper, turns his head towards the corridor that leads to melinda’s room, feels his soul want to run to her, just to check, just to make sure... “what happened?” he then whispers, looks back at jesper, forces himself to stay.

jesper bites his lip - another day, another time, wylan would’ve grinned and kissed him - and meets wylan’s gaze, his grey eyes black with pain. “all i got out of her was that someone took them”, he says. “and kaz got... shot.” wylan shudders, swallows hard. “perhaps jordie too.” jesper’s voice breaks at the end.

“do we know if they’re…” alive?

jesper shakes his head, tears prick in his eyes. if this was fifteen years ago, their eyes would have lightened up with the flames of determination and they’d breathed the smoke of vengeance, gazes hungry for blood. but now, only terror pulses through their veins, only anguish rules their hearts.

they’re not the teenagers they were. it’s not only their own lives at stake now, all of them have smaller ones to care for. wylan and jesper have melinda. kaz and inej have jordie (yes, wylan burns the present tense of have into his mind, as if he could make it stay that way by sheer power of will). and nina and matthias have the twins.

they’ve all got so much more to lose now. so much neither of them can afford to lose. so much that would kill them all if it got ripped from their side.

“i don’t know anything”, jesper says. “not more than that.” it’s not enough, wylan wants to yell. jesper shakes his head slowly. “she just kept saying the same things over and over when i helped her get into bed, and i-” he stops, sighs. “-i don’t know. and it kills me.”

wylan nods. i know. it's not like kaz uses to say, not at all actually. it's not shame that eats men whole. it's love.

“but i’m gonna go down to the harbour just to check for myself”, jesper says, places a kiss on wylan’s temple. wylan closes his eyes as jesper’s soft lips brush his skin, as his nose touches his red locks, just like so many other times. the action carries only grief now though, grief and struggling hope. like a small light in the storm, the flame of hope in their hearts fight to survive.

because they both know that every second that passes pulls them further away from a reality where jordie can play with melinda again, where kaz can sit with them at the table and smile smugly as he places out his last card, winning the game, like always.

there are far too many who hate the man kaz no longer is, for kaz to get out alive from this without their help. and they’re already running out of time.

“can you watch the girls?” jesper takes his lips of wylan’s temple and looks into his eyes. wylan nods.

“be safe”, he says. i don’t know what i’ll do if you don’t come home.

jesper huffs, forces a smile. “of course”, he says. “it’s my jesper talent, remember?”

wylan feels his lips curl into a smile - it feels foreign in a sad moment like this. “i remember”, he says, nods at jesper to go, watches as he turns his back to wylan and walks out the door.

as soon as jesper has left, that smile is gone, and wylan pulls both hands through his hair, draws in a trembling breath. he shuts his eyes, tries to keep the tears from spilling out of his eyes. he leans onto the wall for support, as his legs suddenly seem too weak to bear him up. they're too weak to bear him and his heart, heavy with worry. this isn’t like me, he thinks. but then again, he is only wylan. wylan fahey.

[mirageofthecrystal]

dream eater — does your muse have any recurring dreams/nightmares?

The sword slides cleanly through the flesh, blood splattering the snow beneath their feet. Faiolan's hands grip the hilt of the greatsword tightly, warily, heavily, as he delivers the killing blow. The wind howls in his ears, and yet, he can hear the ragged breath of his quarry rattling from their lungs. Their face is obscured by shadow, their body strangely formless, their voice distorted and dark.

"You think yourself absolved of your sins?" The voice asks with malice. "The wrongs you've committed, the mistakes you've made, the blood you've spilled in the name of your truth, your justice, your... righteousness? You think yourself a hero, a warrior of a just cause?" The blood that drips down his blade is black like ink, pooling beneath their feet.

The shadowed man laughs, his hands grasping at Faiolan's to pull the blade even deeper, spilling more ink-like blood that gushes as if from a fountain. It no longer simply stains the snow, it begins to fill the space around them, rising already to Faiolan's ankles. The figure, still faceless and formless, turns it head up to gaze into his eyes. A pair of smoldering coals stares back at Faiolan, into the very depths of his soul.

As the blood continues to flow, to rise, screams feel the air. Voices barely recognizable, and yet Faiolan knows them. They are the people he has slain, cut down over the course of all his years. They are the victims of his causes, those whom he decided no longer had claim to life. The darkened figure laughs again. The laugh is strikingly familiar, sending a chill down Faiolan's spine. The shadow ebbs, and begins to give the figure some form, slowly as its blood sloshes around Faiolan's knees. He is all too aware of the silence now, the wind that once whipped around them having disappeared. There is no longer the sight of snow, the cliff edge they had been standing upon, even the sky above. All is darkness, a darkness that rises up to swallow them both.

Faiolan tries to protest, but cannot form the words. Hands begin reaching up from the pooling blood, grasping at him, some of them at his body, some of them at his blade, pulling it ever deeper into its target. "There will come a day where your blade falters, your armor breaks, your will weakens. The day where the weight of your sins will be far too much to bear alone. And on that day, your denial of who you truly are will haunt you more than ever before. You will not accept butcher, murderer, kin-slayer, villain... and as you lie to yourself, so will the weight of it all grow. All you needs do is admit to the monster you truly are... embrace it, love it, nurture it... and let it free."

The figure no longer speaks with a voice indiscriminate. The voice... is his own. The shadowed figure, no longer cloaked in darkness, stares back at him... and it is his own face he sees. The blade sinks all the way to the hilt, bringing Faiolan face to face with himself. The other him smirks, inky-black blood rising to their necks. The screams grow louder from within the endless blackness that begins to drown him. The other Faiolan simply stares with contentment upon his face as he begins to feel it fill his lungs. He plunges into the dark, refusing to let go of his sword and let this thing go free. And as the darkness closes in all around him, as his lungs begin to give way to the inevitability of the end, he awakens in a cold sweat, the stump of his severed arm burning and aching, and him gasping for a desperate breath of air.

Thank you for the ask @under-the-blood-moonlight.

[harcourtholmesii]

A Strange Meeting

Fandoms: Dead by Daylight

Pairings: None

Warnings: - Reference to Violence - Referenced Gore - Referenced Death and Torture - Implied, Stated and Referenced Prejudice - Pretty Poorly Written

Words: 2019

I wrote this sometime ago, but I felt like posting some of my older works to Tumblr to get them out there. In this one, to clarify, I have this little headcanon that the Entity would want to get the most it can from its survivors and killers before tossing them into the void. So, the Entity forces some killers to be survivors and some survivors to be killers, so it might leech as much emotion, hope and fear out of them all.

Enjoy!

She had found a quiet place. It was hidden deep into the woods, far from the campfire’s warm glow, and out of sight of those judging looks. She could hear, carried along by the chilling wind, the faint cries of Dwight and Kate’s hollers as they searched for where she had hidden herself away. With her back pressed firmly to the chipping bark of the ulmus- elm behind her, she brought her knees up to her chin, muting her sobs. The cold wind swept through her, and beneath her long sleeves she could feel her hairs rising in horripilation.

 Goose-bumps. It was what everyone else called it. But why not use the scientific term? She didn’t understand. According to David, and everyone else probably, there was a lot she didn’t understand. Her father called it a ‘brilliant mind’, an ‘inquisitive mind’, but her mother referred to it in much the same way as everyone else. ‘Special’. ‘Unique’. ‘Unusual’.

 When the world around them began to collapse, everyone else ran to the door. When she was alone in the collapse, she just had to collect that one insect. Where one should run for a teammate, she had to collect the sap and take notes. She couldn’t help herself. That was what she knew; botany and entomology were her video games and childhood toys. She didn’t understand these trials. Never had she wished to be swept into a life or death game, and whilst other survivors lived for the chase, she despised having to run around. Her legs ached so much at the end of a trial, she would rarely wait to reach the campfire before collapsing to her knees. Even when those black, arachnid-like appendages tore her away from the safety of the fire, she could rarely find the strength to continue these trials any longer.

 Claudette’s head snapped up, hearing heavy footsteps approaching. It sounded much like David or Bill’s heavy boots; the last people she wanted to talk to. As she brought a hand up to the tree behind her, gaining some purchase on it so she might stand quickly and run, she was interrupted by the face of a man she had not met out in these woods. She had never run into another lost soul on her own before. She had always been by Dwight or the others, but now, she was caught out and unsure how to react.

 He was enormous. Like an ursus arctos horribilis- Like a grizzly bear in size, he was packed with muscle with wide grey eyes. He turned a dark gaze down to onto her; those grey eyes filled with mild curiosity. They carried a familiar weight to them, like the gazes she had seen many times when their group met survivors who had been there just as long as themselves (or perhaps longer). They were weary, exhausted and yet they looked at her with aroused suspicion. She noted the faintest dark stains on his clothes; there was blood, yes, like there always was, but a black powder mixed with mud and dirt caked the white of his collared shirt. He wore dark overalls with one strap snapped on the right side and, much like everyone else, his clothes were in such a disarray. How could a man like this be one of them? It was much like when she met David; just how could a man of his size, strength and temperament be a survivor?

 A crunch of leaves and twigs alerted her, Claudette’s eyes travelling up to the man’s face as he ducked down beneath a branch and with his back pressed to the tree, slid down to sit on her left side. He dropped heavily into the mix of dirt and roots, but kept quiet. She didn’t like this. She wanted to speak up and tell him to go away. This was her spot. But, instead all she felt was the urge to stand and return to the campfire.

 “Please stay.” Claudette hadn’t realised she had already started making a move to stand. His voice shocked her. It was a growl. Not like a threatening growl, but his voice was deep and broken that when his plica vocalis- vocal cords produced his words, it reminded her much like the deep bellows of a bear. She swallowed around a lump in her throat, feeling how her body tightened in fear. Her joints were strained, prepared for her to jump up and run like her body had never done so before. Even when she was in a trial, she had never felt so terrified. Nervously, she let herself slump back into her place at the base of the elm’s trunk. She was shaking.

 “W-Who…” She swallowed again, trying to gain the nerve to speak. “Who are you?”

 He turned his head to look at her; a slow, bored motion, with his grey eyes meeting hers. Even like this, he was still at least a foot taller. He was just… so… big…

 “Someone like you.”

 “H-How do you kno-?”

 “I guessed.” He interrupted her, turning his head away, his right hand brushing lightly at the dirt between them. She bit her lip to keep herself from yelling at him at how he was getting her jean pants dirty. What did it matter? They were dirtied from mud, blood and torn to shreds at the calf and knees. He glanced back up at her, one large finger beginning to scratch a pattern into the dirt. “Lost.”

 “W-What?”

 “You seem lost.” His eyes turned back to the dirt, glowering at a mistake he brushed away with his knuckles. His attention returned to dividing his gaze between her face and his picture.

 “W-Well, I’m not. I know where I can go and-”

 “It is not what I meant.” He said, stopping his digits from digging into the dirt. He turned his body, angling it towards her, a foot between them. He was uncomfortably close for her liking, but he didn’t push further. “Your mind seems elsewhere.”

 “And how do you know that?” She pulled her lips tight into a frown. She didn’t appreciate how he was analysing her. It was like how her mother tried to send her to a therapist, except instead of a sense of duty to her mother, she was kept there by her fear rooting her feet to the ground.

 “I know.” He hummed, returning to a relaxed position around the tree. “No one runs from the fire except for a few reasons. Since you are not screaming…” He trailed off, letting Claudette fill in the rest.

 “I… I just can’t deal with this any longer.” Well, he was certainly doing better than her therapist and actually getting her to spill something personal. Whether out of fear or not, it didn’t really matter. “I’m constantly afraid. I can’t keep up with this. I just… I just want to go home.” The world around her grew blurry, her eyes beginning to sting as tears welled up and then rolled tracks down her hot cheeks.

 He didn’t speak. He had stopped drawing in the dirt, and kept his eyes trained on her and how she rose her hands up in fists to wipe away the tears. “I just want to go home to my parents. To my microscope and studies. I want to go back to college. If anything, people whispering behind my back is nothing compared to a hook going through it.” She bawled, bringing her body into a curled position.

 “What is a m-micro-… ma-icro-scopp?” Her wide eyes turned to look up at him, surprised to find him tilting his head like a giant dog. He was curious, and the thought that this man didn’t know what a microscope was… It was a welcome distraction.

 “A-…” She wiped the tears from her eyes, trying to gather herself. “A microscope i-is a tool used to analyse samples. Like being able to see… Um…” She reached down to the grass and dirt, pulling up into view a single leaf, crumpled, but otherwise intact. “Inside a plant there are cells. By having a sample like this leaf under a microscope, you can see them.”

 “How?” His growl of a voice caused her body to shudder. Despite her discomfort, his being there as a stranger just listening to what she had to say reminded her of how someone would message the forums asking a simple question she could answer. At least over the internet and in the college chatrooms, people appreciated her knowledge.

 She expanded on how it all worked, and felt herself go on and ramble. What could have been answered in fifty words had ended up becoming an entire thesis. Then came the questions about how she got into college studying science as a woman and what the internet was. Like Ashley and Laurie, it seemed he had been ripped out of a time long before her own. How long had he been here? Still, who knows how much time passed, but through it all, whilst he sketched into the forest floor, she answered all of his inquiries and explained how it all worked. She appreciated how he didn’t seem to have any prejudices despite his time, and when bringing up the topic, he simply shrugged his shoulders.

 “It never mattered to my father. It doesn’t matter to me.”

 When Claudette felt her rump and tailbone beginning to ache, she stood slowly, feeling a little better to talk to someone other than her teammates. As she stood, so did he; carefully sidestepping around his sketch until he faced her. She felt a little trapped just due to his sheer size and might, but when she moved, he did not reach out or follow behind. Instead, he took a step back in the opposite direction.

 “Come with me.” She said, feeling a flush enter her cheeks. It was a little embarrassing saying that so quickly, but after their hours (she had to presume) of talking, she didn’t want to return to the group without him. Who knows? A man of his size might be able to help them in the trials.

 “No.”

 “W-Why not?” She felt a little astounded. Why wouldn’t he want to come? “I-It is okay. No one is going to run you off. I just needed time to myself. You should come with me. I’m sure the others will be happy to meet you.”

 “No. I have my own to return to.”

 “There are other campfires?” He looked over his shoulder, back through the thick woods from whence he came.

 “Hundreds.”

 “W-What?”

 “Hundreds, scattered all about. We can’t go very far, but you are not the first person I have met out here.” He stepped away from her, the shadows over his form hiding his face from sight. The moonlight streaked that streaked through the woods refused to move and just grant her one last look at him. “I have to return to my own. In time, may we meet like this again.”

 “Wait!” But already, he had vanished back into the dark. How a man like that could move so quickly and quietly, she had no clue. But apart from his patch of dirt, there was no sign he had even been there. In the dirt, what she saw drawn there was a truly nice sketch, if a little primitive due to the lack of tools. It was her face. Her face was in the dirt, with a small smile on her face. She bit back a huff of laughter- not out of actual amusement, but out of sheer irony that he would predict the outcome of their conversation.

 She turned on her heel and went back the way she came, noting the carvings of Mashtyx in the bark of the trees, reminding her of her path. Now, as she returned to the safety of Kate’s lullaby and the warm glow of the campfire, she came to realise what was stained on his clothes. What gave him such an earthy smell. It was coal dust, much like what she smelt in the coal mines of the Macmillan estate.

[angelaiswriting]

25 | (JATP) Alex & twin!sister!Nancy

✏️ Pairing (sorta, but not really): Alex & twin!sister!Nancy

✏️ Summary: It’s been twenty-five years, but Nance is still mourning the deaths of her brother and her friends. Life hasn’t exactly been going in the right direction since 1995 — it never has, though, ever since she has memory — but little does she know her daughter Sarah is about to find out that Uncle Alex and Sunset Curve are back as ghosts and playing with an old school friend. (Not requested)

✏️ A/N: Many thanks to @themazeskies for introducing me to this fandom ✌🏻 this story def wouldn’t be here without you. (Thank you for feeding my need for angst!) To the rest of y’all: enjoy! Angie and I sort of created a little universe of events and stuff with these characters, so if you wanna read more, just let me know. 🥰

✏️ Warnings: sad/angst (but also fluff? if you squint?); mentions of death (but that’s the show?); slight hint to a past use of drugs.

✏️ Notes: flashbacks in italics; lyrics in bold and italics.

✏️ Word Count: 6,472

It happens suddenly. One day she’s… normal, one would say — doing her things, carrying on with her life, helping her daughter prepare her things to leave home as soon as high school ends — and the next she’s whole again.

She hasn’t felt that kind of whole in twenty-five years.

Alex used to call it their twin link, back in the day, when putting up with their parents and their falling-out marriage seemed to be the worst thing they had to endure. Lex… 

There’s a treacherous tear running down her cheek and when her brain registers it, it’s almost too late. She feels it on her jaw, threatening to fall down onto the test she’s grading. Her mind almost anticipates what’s about to happen — the tear will dangle from her jaw for a moment, and then it’ll eventually land onto one of the words one of her students wrote, and it will stain it. But her hand is quicker, and it wipes that tear away before it’s too late.

Twenty-five years.

Her throat knots up with the tears she has been trying so hard not to shed. The anniversary of his death is coming up quickly, and with a son off at college and a toxic ex-husband still fighting to spill money out of her, she feels the loneliness and the weight of it all even more. It’s in her limbs when she wakes up, and it stays perched on her shoulders throughout the day, until it’s finally time to go to bed. And to start it all over again.

She’s managed twenty-five years without him, so she reasons that she can manage twenty-five more — it’s not like she has a choice. She promised it, after all, too long ago to even remember when, exactly, but that was one of the things they had both promised each other — that they’d have a happy life; that they’d fight for it, no matter the cost, no matter where they’d be in the world, if together or if apart. Life had spinned the roulette and the ball had landed on apart, but that had been out of their control.

“Mom? Mom, are you listening?”

Sarah’s standing there, fingertips digging into the cushioned back of the couch — her baby girl now at the threshold of adulthood. Time really does fly in hindsight.

“I said I’m taking Lex on a run,” she says, brows furrowing as she lets the dog’s leash dangle in her hold, almost as a way to catch her mother’s attention. “Are you okay? Did Dad call again? Do you want me to call Jake?”

She shakes her head and only then, when her gaze drops to the kitchen table, does she realize she’s been gripping onto the red pen in her left hand with more force than necessary. “I’m okay, just thinking. Don’t be too late, you still have school tomorrow.” And although that’s true, her voice comes out soft and tired, and all of a sudden she knows tears are about to come. “Have fun,” she adds before her daughter can speak.

A pet to Lex’s furry head, and the dog has sprinted into a messy run towards the entrance door.

“You know you can talk to me.” Sarah’s standing in the corridor, but her head is poking into the room, a hand gripping the door frame. It’s a weird sight, albeit not unfamiliar — a boy her age, blonde hair much shorter, a happy smile on his lips, she’s seen that pose a million times in a past life. “If it’s about Uncle Alex…” There’s a long pause as the girl looks for the right words, goes over every possible ending she could come up with, but then settles for none. “You know it,” her daughter nods, and then she’s gone.

Unconsciously, she sits up straighter and strains her ears until she hears the front door open and close. Lex barks twice outside and through the open window of the living room, she can hear her daughter’s chuckle at the dog’s playfulness.

Then everything goes silent again and she’s left with that odd sensation in her soul. It’s nothing she can put her finger on, but it’s… there, and it’s something. Something she had never known she felt until that night, and something she hasn’t felt ever since. It knocks the wind out of her and as the pen falls onto the table, a sob tears its way up her throat.

It feels like home, in a way. It feels like being seventeen again — not the Zac Efron way, but it’s… again, something. Something so utterly absurd that she’s this close to slapping a hand against her forehead, but that hand just ends up clamping down onto her mouth when she feels another sob coming.

She feels the sobs more than she does the tears. They seem to shake her from the inside out — and not just from there, but from her very soul. She tells herself it’s just the anniversary — and everything else in her life going both the wrong and the right way. Her marriage in shambles, and her kids off to college, leaving her with no one but the dog she rescued some five years ago at their spot.

It has to be that. It’s all catching up this year, after all. The twenty-fifth lap around the Sun, bringing back all the memories from that night, both at the Orpheum and then in that alley. Her ex-husband trying to shatter what’s left of her life after leaving her utterly heartbroken one too many times already. Sarah going off to nursing school when the school year ends; and Jake playing his uncle’s instrument with his friends from college.

The house already does feel empty, but right now it’s almost hollow. Hollow and silent, almost expanding to infinity as she tries her best to keep herself under check — and she fails.

“C’mon, you’ve already done this countless times,” but her voice shatters on the last syllable and her lower lip quivers, and for a moment she’s blind even behind her reading glasses. “Just breathe.”

But that just breathe doesn’t hit as well as her brother’s always did, it doesn’t calm her down. She’s left feeling like she’s whole again — and more than that, like she’s part of something bigger, of a two-for-the-price-of-one kind of deal. And as she makes her way upstairs, her knees aren’t the only part of her body trembling.

There’s an old shoebox on the top shelf of her closet. It’s been there ever since the beginning and through all the relocations her family has done since the unlucky day she moved in with Michael at eighteen. It’s a pale red by now, held closed by elastic bands of every color and they’re so many because when the memory of what’s inside makes her feel like she’s starting to crumble apart again, she adds one more in the desperate attempt to keep it sealed, to keep the past inside, hidden away, almost as though by doing so, she can keep every single one of those memories locked away in a dark and recondite corner of her mind.

But not today. Today she knows she has to open it. She feels it in her bones, and probably even deeper than that. And maybe it’s about time — just open the Pandora box and see what happens, or something like that. The tears are already there; she doesn’t see what else could come out of her hidden past that isn’t already there.

Taking the rubber bands off is the hardest part. One by one, it feels like ripping off a brick from the wall she has spent almost three decades building around herself. It’s exhausting and by the time she has reached the last rubber band — the last brick — she has no tears left to shed. But that’s good; it has the taste of liberation, like she’s finally free of a choker she didn’t know she was wearing.

Almost as a joke of fate, a velvety choker necklace is what welcomes her back to the 1990s when she takes the lid off. Black and simple, it used to be her favorite. It was her lucky charm necklace, something she had somehow ended up always wearing when her brother and his group were playing.

But the stack of photographs is still there, right underneath it, and it takes her endless minutes to convince herself to pick them up. She doesn’t know how long she’s been sitting cross-legged on the floor for, but probably not as long as she thinks she has.

Her hand trembles when she picks up the first polaroid. And she feels it again, that lump of tears in the back of her throat, and then that sensation of absolute void and loneliness she has felt inside for so long.

The empty stage of the Orpheum would be unrecognizable to anyone that doesn’t know where the photo has been taken. It’s just a place like any other, but she can still feel the electricity in the atmosphere almost as though she was still there, stuck between those four walls like some sort of ghost.

She was laughing, and so was Alex. He had an arm around her shoulders, and she had one around his waist. As absurd as it could sound, to this day she can still smell him — he had a cheap perfume he wore at gigs, one he had treasured dearly, and all because it had been a present from her for their shared birthday. And that night they had been laughing because Reggie had almost tripped down the stage when Bobby had called him over.

The memory crashes over her like a wave. Luke had tried to silence their laughter to snap a good picture — and she’s sure there are better ones in that shoebox — but somehow this in particular is the one that bears the most meaning.

“Guys, please!” She can still hear her friend as clear as day, probably more clearly than she hears her students in class every day. “Can you please…

*

… please stop laughing? I’m tryna take a decent one here!”

“Sorry, bro,” but Alex is still laughing, and she is too, and in the hilarity of the moment, they end up pulling each other closer.

The flash goes off and as Luke flaps the polaroid picture, Alex gives her shoulder a squeeze before eventually turning serious.

“I’m glad you could come, Nance.” And although he’s smiling down at her from the height difference their twin bond hasn’t managed to level out, it’s clear from the look in his eyes that there’s something else lurking underneath the surface. It could be one of the billion things their parents have said — have spat out like venom in their usual style — but she can’t put a finger on one in particular.

“They can say and do whatever they want,” she says as she shakes her head. “You know that, Lex: it’s always been you above anyone else and always will be. I’d choose you in a heartbeat over them. You know I’ll always be front row for you.”

He heaves a sigh and leans his forehead against hers. His nerves are starting to act up — as usual before a performance, before he sits down and starts pouring his heart out on the drums — but she knows he’ll find his calm very soon.

“Just a little longer.” She tries to come off as reassuring, but there’s a pinch of fear — of the unknown, of failing, of having to go back — inside her at the plan they have come up with. “September is right behind the corner, then we’re both eighteen and out of that house for good. They won’t be able to stop either of us.”

“I know, I’m just… impatient.” He looks up when Bobby calls his name — they still have to rehearse their opening song for tonight. “I miss you when I’m not there, and I’m —”

“No need to be worried, Lex.” She pulls him into a side hug and breathes him in. And she doesn’t know it, not yet, but this will be the last time she’ll be able to do it. In her forties, she’ll still remember the way the fabric of his t-shirt felt against her cheek that night — soft and warm, smelling of the perfume she gave him on his last birthday; the way he playfully tugged on her braid, or how that chuckle ringed in the back of his throat. And even the way Reggie flirtingly called her just so that she would turn around. “Now go show them who’s best,” she chuckles, letting her brother go.

Watching them play always gives her a first-time kind of sensation, and there’s no stopping her from dancing around, just feeling the music. Now or Never is one of her favorite songs of theirs, and she just knows they’ll make it big. Landing a gig and playing at the Orpheum isn’t easy, but she’s looking at them — a bunch of seventeen-year olds, and she can’t but smile because they’ll hit the big time soon. Their own concerts, their own tours, no more sneaking around parents to play in a garage — but an actual career, with an actual label, and everything will be good.

And it’s almost exhilarating to know that they’re all willing to take her with them on their journey. It’s not like they’ll ever be able to get rid of Alex’s twin sister, not when they know how much they mean to each other, how important they are to each other as they wait to become of age. It’s the start of something big and she’s there with them, a bunch of kids she’s met almost by accident, and she can’t wait for tonight. The people, the Orpheum…

She jumps around, excited, and there’s nothing else. Not her parents’ venom towards Lex, not the billion and one problems at home, not even volleyball practice at school.

“Nancy!” She looks up when Reggie calls her name over Luke’s singing and when her eyes meet his, she realizes she’s tired of the endless and fruitless flirting and that she’d love to go to the school ball with him. “‘s one’s for you!” he grins, before joining the others in the chorus — Keep dreaming like we’ll live forever, But live it like it’s now or never.

She cheers, and even the girl behind her giggles as she cleans one of the tables in preparation for tonight.

The one before her is a sight that would turn into a picture in her mind with time, a photogram that would never fade, would never age. Four friends living their dream — and it’s amazing to know that one of them is the person she cares about the most in the world. She looks at them and even at forty-two, she won’t be able to think back of Bobby with contempt as he stands on that stage.

It feels like finally being a part of something bigger than just herself, even if she’s standing on the sidelines, watching someone else living the dream. She’s there for that; she’s there for them, and she will always be, wherever that’ll take them —

— She doesn’t know that ‘wherever’ is a dirty couch in a back alley. Or an ambulance that will just arrive at its destination too late. Right now it’s the Orpheum first, and then something bigger and better in the future.

When the song is over, she’s the first to clap and whistle in an empty Orpheum Theater, excitement bubbling up inside her, making her blood buzz in her veins.

“You’re the only groopie that matters,” Reggie jokes, pulling her into his side after jumping down the stage. “I’d ask you out on a post-gig burger if it wasn’t for…”

They both turn to glance at her brother and see him climbing down the stairs to the side of the stage to get to them.

“Dream on, Reginald,” he says and she laughs.

“It’s just rehearsals but you guys were killing it up there,” she smiles, intertwining her fingers with her brother’s. “I can’t believe you’re actually here.”

“And that you snuck out just to come and see us,” Bobby adds, a grin shyly stretching on his lips.

“Bold of you to assume she’s not just here for Alex!” Luke picks her up from behind, his arms wrapped tight around her waist as he spins her around.

“Put me down,” she laughs out of breath. “He’s my brother. Of course, he’s the number one reason I’m here,” she jokes.

When he eventually puts her down and they stare at each other chuckling as they catch their breaths, Reggie is the first to speak. “You’re like family to us,” he says, “you make everything else worth it.”

She smiles, through her breathlessness and the skin of her face heating up. “You guys are family for me as well.”

There’s not much silence then, not when the few workers present cheer on the guys, distracting them from the moment. She stands there, smiling softly at the bassist in front of her, and he smiles at her just as warmly.

“For the record,” she whispers, “I would have said yes to that post-gig burger.”

And he smiles, cheeks flushing pink before Luke’s Street dogs? distracts them.

She watches as they all agree — all but Bobby, for he ‘could never hurt an animal,’ as he tries to flirt with the slightly older waitress. Rose. She’s nice, and as Nancy’s found out while the boys were setting their stuff up on stage, she has a group of her own. And just as Rose has made her feel at home while she had sat all alone on one of the stools, Nance steps in to steer the guys away just after Reggie gifts her one of their t-shirts — size beautiful, and she’ll forever remember those two words with a smile on her face even years later.

“I’m sorry, they just don’t know when to stop with the flirting,” she smiles apologetically just before guiding Luke towards the exit door.

“You coming with us?”

“Later,” she nods, turning to face her brother as he’s pulling his jacket on. “I wanna make sure everything’s in order for tonight. This is your big chance, right?”

He nods. “I’ll wait for you.”

And she’ll forever regret ever speaking her next words. “Nah, it’s okay. You go on, I’ll reach you in five, ten at most. Just make sure there’s something left for me.” Twenty-five years later she still hears her own chuckle, still feels her brother’s warm cheek against her perpetually chapped lips as she presses a see-you-later kiss to his skin.

She watches him leave, and answers to his ‘see you later’ with a wave of her hand.

It’s almost unbelievable how cruel things are at times. You’re seventeen, sneaking around your parents, having fun with your brother and his friends, playing the piano for them every once in a while… and then suddenly the wheel of fortune spins again, and something as small and insignificant as a hot dog turns into a major plot point. The wind changes, and suddenly the colors start fading, the music turns fainter and fainter, until there’s nothing but static silence.

When she leaves the building fifteen minutes — and an unexpected call from home — later, all she’s in the mood for are hot dogs and her friends. She doesn’t know where Bobby has gone off to, but she doesn’t pay it much attention as she wraps herself into her hoodie.

The night air isn’t too chilly, but there’s something to it that brings goosebumps to her skin. She’s nauseous, and she doesn’t know whether it’s because she’s just got off the phone with her yelling mother, but she doesn’t care. They’re not going back home tonight anyway — little does she know that she won’t be going home for a completely different reason than just celebrating with her brother and the guys.

The man selling street dogs out of his car greets her with a smile before she walks past him to fix herself a quick dinner. She’ll never understand how they’re yet to catch some disease from the weird food they eat before gigs, but she won’t have much more time to wonder.

“The guys are inside,” he tells her when she hands him the price, and all she can do is thank him with a grin on her lips, her stomach closed into a knot, before making her way to the makeshift dining area.

She stops in the entryway and quickly glances around before she spots them on the couch. Luke and Alex seem to have fallen asleep, but Reggie’s staring back at her and she finds herself blushing.

“Won’t you finish your hot dog?” she asks as she walks up to them, a smile on her face that slowly leaves its place to a frown when the boy doesn’t answer, doesn’t react in any way.

It’s then that the nausea gets stronger, and somehow she’s not in the mood to eat anymore.

“Reg? Cat got your tongue?” She fails at that chuckle and when she’s close enough, she almost crouches forward to shake him by his shoulder. “Prank’s over, your staring is unsettling.”

His head falls backward, against the back of the dirty and tattered couch, and it’s then that her heart starts beating in her temples. She stares at him, frowning, her hot dog still in her right hand.

“Reg?”

Her gaze moves down to his chest and suddenly, the place’s silence becomes deafening. She hears her heartbeat — she feels it everywhere in her body — just as she hears her breathing almost scratch every time she exhales. Her subconscious is quicker at reacting: her hand lets go of her friend’s shoulder all of a sudden, and it truly does feel like the contact burned her palm in a sickening way, but it takes her a full minute for the conscious part of her brain to catch up.

His chest is not heaving.

She gasps, and her hot dog drops down onto Reggie’s knee first and then to the floor.

Frantically, her gaze swipes over Luke and Lex. She’s aware of everything and nothing at once. Her palms turn clammy; her breathing gets deeper, it almost hurts her lungs; and just as her eyes move from Luke to her brother, she knows she’s about to throw up. It’s cold — despite the place being sheltered, despite Lex’s too-big hoodie on her: goosebumps tug painfully at her skin. And when her wandering eyes stop on the person she loves most in the world, her knees threaten to give out and make her trip over Reggie’s extended leg.

“Lex?” but her voice is a whisper. Her chest hurts as she seems to move in slow motion; her head is empty and heavy at the same time and oh my God, please, just —

She doesn’t know how she’s managed to take those three steps to stand in front of her brother, and even twenty-five years later, that still feels like the hardest thing she’s ever had to do.

He seems fine. She looks at him and there’s nothing weird on his face; he’s stained his shirt, but that can be fixed. Reggie could lend him his flannel. Hell, he could wear one of their Sunset Curve t-shirts!

“Lex.”

She doesn’t know she’s falling until her knees crash onto the rough concrete of the floor.

His hand is still warm when she gets a hold of it.

And she can’t move. The nausea almost makes her head spin, and she feels… empty. It starts slowly. It’s a feeling as tiny as a pinhead at first, but it grows quickly, like a black hole that eats and swallows her whole, quicker and quicker the more the momentum picks up.

“C’mon, it’ll be September soon… You have a concert tonight.”

But he doesn’t answer. And the more she stares at him, the more that whisper in the back of her head grows in volume —

— Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. —

— until it echoes in her mind and her ears and —

“An ambulance is coming,” someone says — to her, to the three boys in front of her, she doesn’t know, it doesn’t matter, nothing does. “I’m sorry, if we had realized sooner —”

But she’s already turning her head to the side to throw up.

The strongest memories of that night are the goosebumps, the cold, the nausea. And then that extreme loneliness building up inside her, quickly growing like some kind of alien parasite, rooting her to the spot, freezing her mind in a loop of Lex Lex Lex that just goes on indefinitely.

And then the flashing lights of an ambulance and Bobby calling her name — Nance? Nance? Nan—

*

—nce?”

She whips around so quickly she almost loses her balance on the heels she’s wearing. No one has called her ‘Nance’ in forever, even Michael preferred ‘Nancy’, but coupled with that weird feeling that has been rocking her for a couple of weeks now, it truly does feel like suddenly being back in some familiar place.

It takes her a couple of seconds before her sight zeroes in on the Trevor Wilson.

“Nancy?” The smile on his lips is unsure as he makes his way up to her between rows of clothes. He hasn’t changed since the last time she’s seen him, but at the same time she stares at him like he’s grown ten heads; like her brain can barely comprehend what’s going on. “That really you?” He has colorful clothes in his arms, she notices as her brain struggles to keep on functioning smoothly.

“Hey.”

“It’s been, what? Ten years?” Bobby’s never been good at small talk, and she realizes now that Trevor hasn’t become much better, not even after the decade that has passed since the last time she’s seen him at a teacher-parent meeting. “You look well.”

“Thank you.” Her heart is in her throat — it feels like choking, like gasping for air she can’t get —, and for a moment she forgets all about having a teenage daughter she needs to help find a dress for her school ball.  “You look well, too.” It’s lame, but she can’t even attempt a chit-chat with the only one of them that got away on his legs.

“How have you —” He sighs, and he probably catches up with what she’s thinking — the way her brain has stopped working, the way it must be back into that loop of loss first and drugs later, when they had turned their backs on each other. “How are you?”

“It’s been forty-two years of shit, Bobby,” she sighs. “But the kids make it good. I hope Carrie’s doing well. She was a good pupil.”

“I’m not…” I’m not Bobby, that’s what he’s about to say. I’m not Bobby anymore. I haven’t been Bobby in twenty-five years. Bobby’s dead.

But Bobby isn’t dead, he didn’t share his friends’ fate, so he shuts up. He still remembers the black eye she gave him the very day Trevor Wilson’s first song — Luke’s song — came out, and she reads it right on his face, in the way his expression changes and falls in defeat.

“I’m helping my daughter with her dress now. I should go.” The smile she gives him is tired and tense, and she doesn’t put much effort into coming off as a happy woman for him, not after the bad joke he pulled in the past. “It was good seeing you. I wish you well.”

And with that she turns around, swallows the lump in her throat and for a moment thinks back to Lex. Lex, and the fact that she didn’t get the chance to see him age into the man Bobby’s had the chance to become. To Luke, and the success he would have had with his talent. And then to Reggie, whose open eyes still haunt her to this day — and although she’s grateful for her children, she can’t help but wonder how things would have turned out if she and Reg would have had a chance.

“Mom? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.” Sarah is standing there, at the entrance of the changing rooms area, and although there’s her usual concerned frown on her face, she truly does look like a princess in that navy dress she didn’t want to try on.

Nancy chuckles — she wouldn’t have thought of those words, but boy, are they spot on! “Just someone I used to know. So, what do you think of that?” she asks, desperately trying to steer the conversation into another direction. “I wasn’t always a mom, I used to have good taste in outfits, too.”

Sarah laughs at her joke and she does, too. And for a moment, a split second, she sees her brother in the way her daughter laughs and looks away for a moment. But that memory is as short and quick as a flash, and she doesn’t have time to think about it for too long.

“Yeah, I know.” She’s almost on the verge of spilling the beans — that she and Jake have gone through her secret box with all her memories, but she catches her tongue just in time. There’s no need to upset her mother, not when she’s been in her head so much these past two weeks. “But I like it, and you could do my hair…”

An hour later, they’re walking back to the car, bags with food and anything Sarah might need for her ball in their hands.

Bobby — Trevor — is there, and Nancy holds his gaze for a few seconds as she walks by. She barely has the time to see Carrie’s head disappear into her father’s car before the door closes with a slam. They stare at each other, but it’s not Nancy and Trevor: it’s a pregnant Nance standing in front of a Bobby whose face is about to meet her left hook. It’s tense and silent, and there’s the same guilt in his eyes that he had back in 1998.

How did things go like that? She’s had twenty-five years to look for an answer to that nagging question, but she’s never found one — not in the three years she’s spent with her feet in two different worlds, and not even after the birth of Jake in ‘98.

“I was over at the Molinas’ to help Carlos with his homework yesterday,” Sarah says as she lays her new dress down onto the back seat of the car. “Did you know Julie’s started playing again?”

Nancy stares at her daughter for a long minute and the longer she stands there, as she finishes putting the groceries in the trunk of the car, the more that soft smile stretches on her lips. “Really?”

Sarah nods. “She apparently has a band of holograms or something now. Carlos doesn’t exactly know how that works, but says they’re cool.”

“Her mother would be so proud.” The engine roars to life and when she turns to check that nothing or nobody is behind them as she puts the car in reverse, she catches her daughter’s questioning expression. “She had a group as well.”

The Sunset Curve demo her kids still listen to starts playing then, and Nancy has to be careful not to jolt the car to a stop — she didn’t remember it still being in the CD player, she thought Jake had brought it to college when he had left after spring break — he has been contemplating making his friends listen to his mom’s friends’ songs for months, but she must have been mistaken.

The silence is heavy, almost tense. It has the weight of a being alive of its own life, pressing down on her shoulders and robbing her of her breath as she leaves the parking lot of the mall and she heads back home. It’s always a pang to the heart, every time the notes start playing and Luke gets ready to sing again. And although it hurts, although the tears are always there, ready to prickle her eyes, it’s a way to keep them alive. Twenty-five years after their deaths, and she’s still childishly hoping that playing their songs will miraculously bring them all back to life.

It’s only when the chorus sings Keep dreaming like we’ll live forever, But live it like it’s now or never — the same one Reggie had playfully dedicated to her that night — that Sarah clears her throat. “I didn’t know you knew Mrs Molina well.”

Nancy hums. “We met once, before…”

“Oh.” There’s no need for explanations, nor to wait for her mother to finish that sentence. “I didn’t know.”

“We never had the chance to get close,” she shrugs. “But I’m glad you’re going along well with her kids. How’s Carlos doing?”

Sarah laughs, and it’s in that moment that the sun starts shining again. That weird feeling of slowly-building wholeness filling her cup one drop at a time is still there, and somehow it’s still something she can’t explain — maybe the pieces of an unfinished puzzle going back to their place? or maybe just life finally starting to go in the right direction? — but it doesn’t feel as nagging with her daughter’s laughter ringing in the cabin of the car.

“He’s starting his career as a ghost hunter.”

“A ghost hunter?” A smirk tugs at her lips and it feels good, after years spent trying her hardest to do something that should have always been so natural.

“Yeah, his dad was taking pictures of the house when they were still considering selling it and one came out with three orbs. Carlos thinks it could be his mom with some friends, or just some ghosts in general, and he wanted my help to set his channel up since he knows I helped Jake and the guys with theirs.”

Nancy chuckles, and she feels light again after so long. The last time she’s felt like that was when the divorce papers had finally been finalized, probably. “So, are you? Helping him, I mean?”

“Hell yeah, I am, mom! That kid is the best kid I’ve ever babysat. He’s going through all the old stuff at his place to see if he can find anything that might help him find out whose ghost he’s dealing with.” She smiles brightly — and Nancy can’t help but mirror her expression when she sees it from the corner of her eye at a red light. “I think I’m —”

*

— going to sing for Jake’s band.

It’s a week after that afternoon in the car, and Nance is still thinking about the news Sarah has informed her of a few hours ago. Her daughter has been acting weird for a week now, and although she couldn’t pinpoint the cause at first — Sarah wouldn’t tell her —, she’s now starting to understand. Jake and his friends had a falling out with their singer Peter the day before a possibly important gig at Eats&Beats, the same one Julie and her hologram friends played at, and she’s probably been pondering her brother’s offer.

Still, it somewhat stings, for there have never been secrets between her and her girl. The pride bubbling up inside her is stronger than anything else, though, and she can’t help but smile.

It’s the first time she smiles at what had used to be her and her brother’s secret place at the beach. That alcove used to echo with the sound of their laughter a long time ago, but had quickly turned silent after that night at the Orpheum. It’s just the way things go sometimes, when you can’t make them go the way you want, when life’s outcomes are way out of your control.

It’s peaceful, and for the first time in painfully long years, she truly does feel at peace. It’s a weird, almost stressful feeling for someone who’s never exactly felt at peace in her life, but she’d like to think that this truly is the start of a new and happy chapter in her life.

Lex is with her, with his head resting heavily on her thigh, much like the day she found and rescued him — or, well, the day he found and rescued her. He’s always by her side, and somehow he knows when she needs him the most. It’s not exactly like having her brother with her but it’s… close.

“I wish you were here.” She never talks to her brother out loud, but somehow she feels the need to do just that now. The words leave her lips before she has the chance to stop them, and she finds that it doesn’t hurt as much as she had always thought it would. “The kids are following in on your footsteps more than they are mine.”

And it’s not a bad thing. At all. It’s a relief neither Jake nor Sarah have gone down the path Michael had started to take her along with him. And although Jake behind the drums is still a sight she won’t become fully used to all that quickly — she hasn’t managed to in twenty years —, it’s still comforting in a way. She watches him play with her brother’s only remaining pair of drumsticks and she feels at home.

“I’m so proud of them, and I like to think you’d be, too.” Then, she smiles again. “Sarah asked me if I believe in ghosts the other day. If I think people with unfinished business come back from the afterlife in an attempt to see it through. If I think you’d ever come back, maybe with the guys. And I…”

But her voice fails her. One of her hands comes down to caress Lex’s head while the other plays with a smooth piece of wood she’s found in the sand.

The truth is, she’s spent longer than she’d ever be comfortable admitting with her mind wondering about that same question, bouncing around like a pinball.

She doesn’t know the reason for Sarah’s weird behavior isn’t Jake and his friends asking her to join September Dream. Just as she could never imagine that last week, when Carlos Molina invited her daughter to his sister’s garage party, she saw three guys she’s only ever seen in her mother’s polaroids playing right in front of her like life has never stopped.

Feedback is always welcome if you want to drop old me a line 💛

Original video used for the gif: https://www.pexels.com/video/blurred-bokeh-video-855204/

TAGS (to be added to or to be removed from any list, shoot me an ask)

Everything: @idhrenniel @saibh29 @fuckthatfeeling @aya-fay @pebblesz892  @mblaqgi​ @becs-bunker

[notapaladin]

take what the water gave me (3/3)

The city is drowning. With a great deal of help from his friends, Acatl brings his Emperor home. (aka me looking at history and going “no i simply do not vibe with that”)

Also on AO3!

-

The city is drowning. The rainy season this year has been long and hard, but they could have withstood that. They’ve dealt with worse weather before. But this isn’t just due to the storms; Tlaloc’s rage isn’t what’s dragging the stone and adobe back down to the depths of the lake this time. No, this is from the lake itself. There are those in the courts who blame Teomitl—the aqueduct he’s constructed is shoddy, they say, and the spring it draws on too unpredictable—but Acatl can’t credit it. Teomitl is wise, now. He’s been Revered Speaker for seventeen years, no longer a callow, impetuous youth. He’d labored over the plans for that aqueduct for a year. It can’t be his fault.

But regardless of whether it’s the pouring rain or the rising springs, the lake is covering the streets and the houses and the very steps of the temples, and Acatl can’t find his Emperor anywhere. He’s not in the Duality House, where Mihmatini has taken shelter with their children and the occupants of the womens’ chambers. He’s not at the top of the Great Temple, the highest point in the city. He’s not at Chalchiuhtlicue’s temple trying to propitiate her wrath.

Acatl can’t wait anymore. He makes sure his priests are safe on the steps of his own temple, and then he wades down into the brown and swirling muck before it can rise too high for him to walk. Ichtaca grabs him by the arm, and for a moment he thinks he’ll be stopped, but his Fire Priest only puts his cane into his hand and shoves him towards the palace.

He forges on. It’s slow going; there’s the water, of course, but also the panicked people with just enough sense to head for whatever higher ground they can find. Nobody makes way for him. He may be their High Priest for the Dead, but right now he’s just an exhausted, frightened man past his middle age with gray in his hair and a cloak turned nearly black by the water.

The palace itself feels deserted. If anywhere should have been safe, it is here. Jade Skirt has spread her aegis over the Emperor Ahuitzotl, has given him command of the creatures he is named after, has enfolded him in Her arms. He was supposed to be safe.

But as Acatl heads deeper into the complex, fear coils its scaly tail around his heart. The water isn’t rising fast enough to be an immediate threat, but it also isn’t stopping. If he doesn’t hurry, he could be swimming through the halls. “Teomitl!” he screams, splashing through the knee-deep water, but there is no answer. His voice cracks. In desperation, he screams again, and this time the form he once vowed he’d never use. So far, he’s kept that promise, but if Teomitl can hear him—if he’s trapped somewhere by the waters or the shattered foundations of mud brick that were never meant for this deluge—he must respond to it. He has to. The alternative is unthinkable.

“Teomitl-tzin!”

Only the rain answers.

Through the dark water, something darker is swimming with purpose. Something big. He grabs for his knife.

An ahuitzotl pokes its head out of the water and looks at him. Its eyes are the same mad yellow as all its fellows, but there’s a glimmer of intelligence in them and a small splotch of white on its throat. He sheathes the knife. This one, he recognizes as one of Teomitl’s favorites. “Lead me to your master. Now.”

The ahuitzotl lashes its body like a whip, speeding off down another corridor, and it’s all Acatl can do to keep up. He doesn’t bother screaming Teomitl’s name anymore; he needs his breath for running. He’s still reasonably fit (he has to be, to keep up with his lover), but a man has his limits. With the part of his mind that isn’t tamping down a flood of panic, he reaches for his connection to Mictlan. The chill calms him, steadies his limbs, and he sends a prayer of thanks to his god. Lord Death has never failed him.

He loses track of time as he makes his way through the palace. There’s only the stitch in his side and the rising water; the ahuitzotl’s wake looks like a serpent, and he’s caught in its tail. Please let me find him, he prays. Please.

Finally, his prayers are answered.

Teomitl is sprawled out on a staircase leading to higher ground, half in and half out of the water, with debris from the waterlogged doorway all around him.  He’s too still.  There’s blood spreading out beneath his head in a terrible crimson stain, and his crown is a dented wreck inches away from his hand. His eyes snag on the fallen chips of turquoise, bright against the filthy floor.

Acatl can’t breathe. Teomitl.

He doesn’t think he’s ever moved so fast in his life. Teomitl is still breathing, thank the Duality, but his thick black hair is clotted with blood, and he doesn’t so much as stir when Acatl touches him. He forces himself not to hyperventilate; he can’t give into panic yet, not when Teomitl needs him. (There’ll be time for that later, when they survive. If they survive.) He knows those with head wounds shouldn’t be moved carelessly, but the water is creeping to his waist. They’ll drown if they stay here. Something in his back pops in a flash of agony when he lifts Teomitl into his arms, but miraculously he can bear his lover’s weight. He can’t see the ahuitzotl anywhere, but that’s not important. What is important is getting to higher ground.

He drags himself up one step. Another. Another. Teomitl’s heartbeat is a slow, sluggish thing where it’s pressed against his own chest, but it doesn’t stop; he clings to that like a lifeline. His Revered Speaker has made war in the Maya lands, and come back unscathed from the terrible mountains of Danibaan. He’s faced angry gods and demons, with the scars to show for it. He will not be defeated by a flood in his own home. Acatl won’t let him. They just need to make it up this next step.

The next step...isn’t. The floor goes out from under them as they reach the landing, and they’re falling into the water below before he can even scream. The impact tears Teomitl from his grip, but only the shock of his own submersion paralyzes him; even as he snatches fruitlessly at the billow of Teomitl’s cloak, his hands refuse to obey him.

Panic grips him immediately; only sheer instinct keeps him from opening his mouth and letting in deadly water instead of precious air. In the next instant he remembers where he is, and relaxes. There’s only another floor below them; the palace is about as far from the lake as you can get. Any moment now, he’ll be able to kick off from the bottom, grab Teomitl—he’s a solidly muscled man, he can’t have drifted far—and make his way back to the surface again.

There is no bottom. Green light filters behind his eyelids, clear as jade, and when he opens them he realizes he’s not in the palace anymore. He’s far too familiar with the tight, painful sensation of being on another deity’s ground. And yet...it isn’t quite as bad as it could be. He can breathe, and when he extends his priest-senses he can feel the Fifth World all around him, a hairs’ breadth away. Not fully in Tlalocan, then.

But Chalchiuhtlicue stands in front of him, on the doorstep of Her domain. He thinks he can hear the ahuitzotls’ song scratching at the inside of his ears, scrabbling like their claws for purchase into his mind. Between them floats Teomitl, still unconscious, his face obscured by a cloud of red. He already looks like a corpse, limp and cold and hollow-cheeked.

Acatl inhales, the words of a hymn on his lips. He can fix this—he can stall Her, at least, give them time—he can bow and scrape and maybe She’ll let them go, maybe they can survive this. His own soul is seasoned enough for Her to accept, surely.

She doesn’t give him the opportunity. “Finally,” She says. And she reaches out a hand to gather Teomitl to her.

All his piety vanishes like smoke, torn out of him in a gush of blood and replaced by a horrible, howling denial. He’s stood powerless too many times while Teomitl risked certain death out on the battlefield. He can’t watch a god take him in front of his very eyes. “Give him back,” he rasps.

Chalchiuhtlicue looks at him. Looks back at Teomitl. For a long, long while, Her face is impassive.

And then She smiles, and it is slow and terrible as the tide. “No.”

His heart stops.

“Do you not remember, little mortal, the price of your brother’s life all those years ago?”

No. No. He remembers—gods, he remembers, he’ll never forget the sight of Neutemoc drawing that life-saving breath on the banks of the lake—but that—no—

“It is time to collect what I am owed.”

And Acatl—Acatl, who has served the gods these forty years and more, who knows perfectly well that the Fifth World hangs by the slimmest thread, who once wagered his sister’s very soul in a desperate attempt to keep the boundaries of the world intact—Acatl lunges for Teomitl’s floating body, with a raw scream ripping its way from his throat in a shroud of bubbles. “No!”

Jade Skirt raises a hand, and he goes tumbling backwards end over end in the not-water. She could have killed him instantly, he knows, but She is...She is toying with him, like a jaguar with its prey, and it has him seeing red. Worse, he can hear the smug satisfaction in Her voice. “And what will you offer Me in exchange? Yourself?”

Yes. He doesn’t need air, but he sucks in a breath anyway, hissing in pain as he gets to his feet again. He’s old. His back hurts. He’d broken an ankle once, years ago, in a fall down a flight of stairs chasing after a monster, and that hurts too. He thinks fleetingly of Mihmatini’s face, of the nieces and nephews he will not now see grow up. Teomitl is forever letting each of his children try on the crown, even the girls. “If you will spare him,” he whispers. “If you will return him to us, hale and whole and alive, I will give you everything I have. Everything that is mine to give.”

She’s considering this, he can tell. A fish makes a lazy circuit of Her watery skirt somewhere around knee-height as her head tilts. “...Everything. Your soul, your body. All to serve Me.”

Terror would be a smart reaction. Grief, perhaps. But there’s none of that, at least not for himself. Teomitl hasn’t even seen forty yet, and Acatl can’t—he can’t—

“Ye—”

“No.”

His heart drops into his stomach and both organs freeze solid. He’s forgotten where he is. He’s forgotten that this is not truly Tlalocan, despite all appearances to the contrary, but a yawning rift in the Fifth World, torn open by the chaos of a Revered Speaker’s (near-)drowning. A rift in the boundaries.

And where there is a rift in the boundaries, there is bound to be the Wind of Knives investigating the cause.

He moves through the water, the obsidian shards of his body glittering like stars. His face...Acatl has never seen such an expression on His face. He did not know the Wind of Knives was capable of anger, and yet that is unmistakable in the baring of His teeth and the low rumble of His voice. When He stops by Acatl’s side, shoulder to shoulder the way they’ve fought of old, the cold of Him feels like the wind from Mictlan’s plains. “He is already spoken for. Both of them are—or do you think Lord Death will share? I do not.”

Chalchiuhtlicue draws Herself up, a wave breaking over their heads. “Keep your priest. But Ahuitzotl has sworn himself to Me these many years, and I will have him.”

“And yet,” the Wind of Knives says simply, “his mother dedicated him to the Southern Hummingbird at his birth, and he has also served Him well. The Hummingbird may be young, but do you imagine that He will not fight You for such a devoted servant?”

“He would lose,” She replies, but there is real fear in Her voice, and Acatl knows it’s far from a sure thing. Huitzilopochtli has grown very strong indeed since Teomitl was crowned Emperor.

“Nevertheless. You should give him back.” The Wind of Knives does not step forward, but the blades that make up His body ripple like a school of fish. “Him and the priest both. You have taken many souls to Your embrace tonight. What is one or two more?”

Acatl says nothing. He’s still prepared to give up his soul—prepared to tear out his very heart with his fingernails and lay it at Jade Skirt’s feet, if he must—but the Wind of Knives is here and is bargaining for their lives and he has no words for that. Instead he stares helplessly at Teomitl, watching the cloud of blood drift around his head.

Chalchiuhtlicue sweeps a slow glance over both of their faces. “Your master will owe Me something. And I do not think My ahuitzotls will come at their namesake’s call again.”

“So be it.” The Wind of Knives’ face doesn’t so much as twitch.

Her gaze settles on Acatl again, and there is no mercy in it. “You have angered Me this day, priest.”

Acatl thinks, now, that he’s surely moved to a place beyond fear. That explains the cold, calm surety in his heart. One day Chalchiuhtlicue will have her revenge, but it will not be this day. “Apologies, My Lady.”

This time, when he swims forward to gather Teomitl into his arms, She does not stop him. Nor does she stop him when he swims for the surface, when Teomitl draws in a glorious, shuddering breath, when that white-splotched ahuitzotl arrows through the water with a boat’s tow-rope in its jaws. (Jade Skirt was wrong. It nearly makes him smile.) The water’s risen too far for them to walk, and Teomitl needs medical attention. Acatl settles him in the boat as gently as he can and starts rowing.

The Wind of Knives keeps pace with them, and eventually Acatl finds the strength to ask, “Why?”

There’s something like a smile on His face. “Are we not comrades, Acatl?”

He nods, too exhausted to speak. They still aren’t safe. The Wind of Knives leaves him when they’re in sight of his temple, and then there are his priests and a healer and he can do nothing but slump down and pray, pray to the Duality that he isn’t too late to save the man he loves.

Three days later, as the waters begin to recede, Teomitl opens his eyes. It’s barely a flutter, and his pupils are blown wide and unfocused, but it’s something. A week after that, they stay open, and they are clear as the dawn. And his first word, spoken through cracked lips, is a breathless, “...Acatl...?”

Acatl doesn’t burst into tears of relief, but it’s a near thing.

[overthegravityfalls]

Bodies and Beasts

Hey, so, this fic I mentioned off-hand 5 years ago?

I finished it!

...Better late than never?

(please heed the warnings)

Rating: E Word count: 4,300 Pairing(s): Bipper/Beast!Wirt, Bill Cipher/The Beast Summary: "Those that enter shall become part of my forest. No matter how long it takes,” the Beast says, his eyes glowing with colour. “Oh, don’t worry, pal, this flesh-sack can spend an eternity here. You can have him. All I’m asking is to have a little fun with it first.” “Oh?” The Beast tilts his head, feeling the weight of his antlers as he does. Warnings: Main Character Death, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Gore, Cannibalism, Coerced Suicide, Child Death, Torture, Unhappy Ending, Self-Mutilation Read on AO3 here

There is a body in the woods. He discovers it on a day when the air is cold, despite the brightness of the sun. In another time, he would have receded into the deepest, darkest parts of his domain in such conditions, but he no longer needs to be so closely tied to the night and shadow; now, the plainness of day could serve him just as well.

The body reminds him of his own still-new form: made of flesh, bones, skin. Teenaged, brown-haired, slim. It is more similar to him than he realises at first.

It lies there motionless until he approaches it. When he leans down, its eyes open wide, and he can see through them that the being inside it is not one who belongs. The amalgam grins, and it continues to grin even as he wraps his hands around its neck and clenches hard. Such a body can usually be coerced into becoming a part of his forest, with muscle and intent being just as effective as the deceit and patience he was once limited to, but this one seems to warrant a different approach. It seems to enjoy the ministrations he is putting it through. Unconcerned, his fingers twitch and their grip loosens; he comes to a stand. After all, his lantern is still burning strong from that younger brother's oil, as little as his Edelwood tree had been; and he has, too, a heart within him which beats black around his body.

"Don't they teach you manners in this plane of existence?"

He stares at the being with white, narrowed orbs.

"As it happens, you're actually not that far off from what I want from you. But an introduction wouldn't hurt, pal! Here, look. Name: Bill Cipher, occupation: this kid's flesh sack. See how easy that was? Haven't even tried to strangle you yet!" It—he—rubs a hand across his neck and bares his teeth again in a facsimile of a smile.

"How did you come by that vessel and to my woods?"

'Bill Cipher,' as he calls himself, sits up, putting his weight on his forearms. He watches closely in case Cipher tries to do anything as unpredictable as his nature seems to be. "Oh, me and Pine Tree go way back. Introduced him to an awesome apocalypse before he and his family had to go and ruin everything." His voice lowers, and his face contorts into a scowl at those words, but, like lightening, it passes in an instant. He brings himself to his feet and dusts himself off, then meets his eyes. "Take it from me, do not wish on Shooting Stars, no matter what people tell you.

"Buuuut I'm getting sidetracked here. Point is, he was mine to control a few years ago, and after all those difficulties he and his family caused, I thought a little payback was in order. That annoying little pest took his time in dropping his guard--honestly, had more forms of protection than a Trojan factory! —but my waiting paid off. Eventually, he awakened my statue. Curiosity killed the cat, am I right? And so, here I am!" Cipher does a little flourish with his hands, and he notices that his white sleeves are stained heavily with red. “Now, you wanna introduce yourself, Beast boy?”

“…You know me. Therefore, you know that the Unknown is my domain. Those that enter shall become part of my forest. No matter how long it takes,” the Beast says, his eyes glowing with colour as he remembers the thrill of finding the brothers in his woods again. They had carried freezing water in their lungs ever since their fateful journey, and it had dragged them back to the forest from a pair of white-sheet beds. One to bear his weakened being, one to fuel his flickering soul. He blinks, his eyes white again.

“You got a bit of personality in there, huh? Yeah, yeah, I know you—got my mitts in all sorts of dimensions. The Unknown is a funny name for Purgatory, but, whatever. Just thought you could be polite about it, you know?”

He cares not for how much this being talks. Underneath all of the blabber, he wonders what he means to gain by coming here. If he thinks he can saunter out, he is mistaken. “You are… intriguing, but your vessel is still young enough; here, it will remain,” the Beast says, his voice soft.

“Oh, don’t worry, pal, this flesh-sack can spend an eternity here. He’s already suffered a punishing fate in his physical reality, but I am not satisfied with just making him kill himself and leaving all of those Pines heartbroken. You can have him. All I’m asking is to have a little fun with it first.”

“Oh?” the Beast says, tilting his head, feeling the weight of his antlers as he does.

“He’s in here. With me. Pine Tree. First time around, I kicked him out, but now, we’re roomies in this here head of teen angst. And hoo boy, he is not happy about it. See, I love pain, and I love how much squishy and breakable stuff is inside these gross human bodies. It’s hilarious! I had to rush through everything in the physical realm, but now…” Cipher grins so wide it looks like it could split his face in two. “I can take my time in torturing him. Care to explore with me, Beast?”

He follows along well enough with the story this demon tells, as strangely as he tells it, and his ideas stir something sadistic in him. He wonders, though, “Why would you simply dispose of the body when you could utilise it, Bill Cipher?” He himself enjoyed that shadow of consciousness within him and the empty, hollow sadness and regret it emitted. Wirt’s emotions had burned through his being initially, as heated as the fire of the lantern, but once the Edelwood branches were all ash, the boy gave himself fully to the Beast. There was nothing else he could do.

“Eugh, when I take over the world, it will be with my equilateral perfection. No, no, the slow torture and crash course in forestry will do just fine for Pine Tree—or should I say Pine-Edelwood Tree?”

“You should not.”

“You’re right, let’s just get on with it. Here, I have something that’ll help,” he says, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a knife coated with red.

The Beast plucks it from his hand, running his slim fingers along the flat steel. He taps on the point and a pinprick of black blood swells from his digit. “Yes, this will do nicely.”

“Why don’t I just lie back and think of England?” the demon says with a wink. He spreads his arms out like a cross and falls back, hitting the ground with an “oomph.” The Beast straddles him, taking his time to get comfortable, but Bill Cipher is impatient. He squirms and pulls at his shirt collar, making the button strain until the Beast carefully nicks the thread with the blade and sends the button flying.

First, he can cut his shirt open, then, he can cut his chest open.

Settled in place, the Beast works on revealing this Pine Tree’s milky skin. It is dotted with bruises and old scars here and there and looks unnaturally pale. His ribs are just about visible, his body skinny. Delicate.

“Get on with it, I’m vibrating in place here!” Bill Cipher urges.

He rests the blade on the centre of his chest, making Cipher still, and applies a bit of pressure to it. Blood oozes out and continues to do so as he pulls the knife down, past his ribs and across his stomach. It is only a shallow cut, surface-level damage. Enough to sting.

Cipher lets out a breath, sounding satisfied. The Beast repeats the motion horizontally, vertically, diagonally, until there are lacerations all over his chest.

“Mmm, this would pair perfectly with some lemon juice.”

The scarlet rivulets look too inviting to resist, and he leans down and licks his tongue up the red stripe. The bright, coppery taste delights his senses, and he collects more blood with his fingers and sucks them clean.

“Hey, think you missed a spot there,” Cipher says, his voice taking on a raspy tone. He props himself up and grabs the Beast’s face, swiping his tongue across a smudge of blood on his cheek. Cipher surprises him by twisting his face forward and invading his mouth, wrapping around his teeth and gums and all the inner spots he has missed. It is less of a kiss and more a cannibalistic instinct he cannot seem to help. The Beast allows it, closing his eyes and waiting for him to finish his exploration.

“Yum,” the amalgam simply states, then leans back without any further comment.

He notices he has spots on his cloak, though that is nothing compared to how many stains are on Cipher’s shirt, the contrast of red on white stark and harsh. Cipher decides to do away with it, taking the clothing off completely and discarding it besides him. The Beast can clearly see, now, the ugly gashes that had stained his sleeves, following his veins from his wrists down his forearms.

He wants to excavate this body.

The Beast takes a hold of Cipher’s hand, resting the knife where it had carved a path through skin in the physical realm. This time, though, he will take it deeper. He lets the knife feel its way down the path, then pushes, pushes, pushes, until bone scrapes against the blade. Cipher laughs dementedly, then screeches, then his voice takes on a different tone; it is agonised, raw and rough.

“Stop, stop, stop, PLEASE, I—AAAAAAAAH,” he yells. Cipher has lost control, and Pine Tree thrashes and fights against the Beast as he sobs and wails. He drops the knife, protecting himself against flailing attacks. Spittle and blood flies between them. Pine Tree finds his face and tries to dig his thumbs into the Beast’s eye sockets, but his hands tremble. His pain makes him uncoordinated. Cipher takes advantage of the unclarity; with a spasm, Pine Tree’s eyes roll into the back of his head and when his pupils appear again, they are elongated and unquestionably demonic.

“Woo! Did not anticipate how much he would push back from a little bit of torture like that. We are just getting started, pal,” Bill Cipher says casually.

The Beast has to pause for a moment, because he can feel his own storm inside him. Emotions that are not his own are flaring and twisting in his chest. He can tell Wirt yearns to save this poor creature, to bring himself a moment of redemption—but there is no redemption for him. Not after he failed to save his own brother. With this in his mind, the Beast lures him back to despair and resignation; he was so much easier to coax than that blasted brother of his, a boy good for nothing but firewood. It does not take long for his emotions to wither and dull. It is so comforting to feel nothing at all, is it not, Wirt?

There is no answer.

“Perhaps I should utilise the idea your host so kindly gave me,” the Beast murmurs, hovering his thumbs over Cipher’s pale, yellow eyes.

“Woah, woah, woah, I wanna see these innards, thank you very much. Shoo,” he says with the accompanying motion.

“Very well.”

“Why not reveal this Bleeding Heart’s bleeding heart instead?”

“Hmm…” the Beast considers, gazing at his chest. “Yes, that would do.”

He chooses not to pick up the knife again. He wants to do this himself.

With supernatural ability, the Beast buries his fingers into Pine Tree’s chest, buries into flesh and feeling around bone. He yanks back and rips him open. Skin and matter tear off in large sheets, Cipher’s cry piercing his eardrums, until there is revealed his ribcage and lungs holding a frantically beating heart hostage.

It is beautiful.

Even Bill Cipher needs time to adjust to this onslaught—he pants and lies there, presumably also keeping Pine Tree at bay more carefully this time around. With drool pooling from one side of his mouth, he says between gasps, “See, Pine Tree? Told you we were just getting started.”

The Beast drops his skin, leaving the amalgam spread open, a creature in the middle of a vivisection. Fluid coats his hands. The temptation makes him hunger. He cradles Cipher’s face with both palms flush against his cheeks, then drags them down over his neck, his grip tightening and then releasing. He wants to crush this human, but he has to remind himself to take it slowly. Cipher, now painted with shades of maroon and scarlet, licks his lips.

“So nice to find a kindred spirit. Just bros being bros, bonding over some good old-fashioned gore. Maybe I should come back here with Shooting Star sometime,” he contemplates.

“Let us not get ahead of ourselves. I want to appreciate what I have right here.” If he felt he could have another plaything, he really would crush this human all too soon.

“Oh, you’re so romantic, Beast,” Cipher says with a grin.

He traces each of his ribs, squeezes around the heart to feel the atriums and ventricles straining to keep this body alive. In the Unknown, it can work all it wants, beat until all the blood is drained and the skull is caved in and the body is in dozens of pieces that will never be reassembled. If it believes it needs to keep beating, it will.

Bill Cipher bites on his fist, like he needs to keep his thrill toned down to savour the intensity of the situation. Then, with a lightbulb moment, he remarks, “Apparently, the force needed to bite through a finger is the same as biting through a carrot.” Without waiting for a response, he sticks his little finger in his mouth and snaps his teeth around it. “Ow. Okay, that’s not true.”

The Beast picks up his knife again with his musical fingers, twirling it the same way Wirt would do in marching band. His body still has the instincts his mind has failed to overrun. “Allow me.”

“With pleasure!” Cipher agrees, stretching out to him like he is asking him to dance.

He takes his hand, caressing delicate skin, then lays it flat on the leafy ground, pushing down hard on his wrist. With his other hand, the Beast holds his knife with the tip squarely aimed at Cipher’s pinkie finger. In one swift movement, he drives it through air, body and into the soil, and holds fast against Cipher’s flailing to keep his hand in place. When he raises the weapon again, there is a neat severing right at the knuckle, the finger laying meekly as blood collects underneath it.

Bill Cipher tugs his arm back, and the Beast relinquishes his hold in order to allow the demon to appreciate his handiwork. It is strange how one small removal can so change the appearance of the extremity, the wrongness of the missing part highlighted by the bloody stump.

“Again! Again!” he cries, waving his other hand around.

The Beast grabs it with annoyance, and instead of placing it on the ground, digs his knife in between ring and pinkie and scores right in the middle. The gash in the connective flesh hangs open obscenely.

“Yeowch—not like that,” Cipher admonishes.

“Well, if you demonstrated some patience, maybe I would have a clearer understanding of your wishes,” the Beast replies tersely with a shake of his head.

“Oh, fine, fine, yes, take your time, just get the damn fingers off,” he says.

This time, the Beast acquiesces, repeating his earlier action, and Cipher yelps at the removal. He brings the cut-apart hand up to his mouth, placing his lips over the wound and sucking. Cipher moans weakly as the Beast looks at him from under half-hooded eyes.

The demon bites his lip. “Sexy.”

“Shall I continue to work?” he says once he pulls away, saliva and blood mixed on the abused hand.

“Yes, yes, yes, but just the ring fingers, alright? I still wanna be able to do some shit while we play. Just don’t ask for a pinkie promise or for my hand in marriage.”

“Duly noted.”

The Beast hacks away the two fingers with ease, then collects the four severed digits and contemplates them as he holds them.

“Feelin’ peckish?”

“I desire something…more substantial,” the Beast finally says, placing the digits back besides their tortured body.

“I hear thigh of Pine Tree is especially succulent,” he suggests with a leer.

White eyes meet pale yellow as he considers this, and then the Beast decides to cut up the trouser leg to reveal more flesh, from calves to thighs. The smell of viscera is heavy in the air, emanating from such an array of exposed organs, but when he presses his face against the amalgam’s leg, there is a faint scent of mechanical oil. He knows just a little more about Pine Tree’s life outside of the Unknown now, he supposes. Not that it matters anymore.

He bites down hard enough to pierce the skin with his canines, and then, wretchedly, demonically tears off flesh. His heart squirms with Wirt’s revulsion as he feasts, a visceral reaction from the usually placid boy to his monstrousness. It is pleasing to the Beast to use this human’s body to eat another. Even more so since he would not yearn to cannibalise if it were not for humans in the first place. Every time they told their stories, every time they believed him to be more and more malevolent, they transformed him; their beliefs became his truth. And, sometimes, the people of the Unknown called him another name—wendigo.

And a wendigo he would be.

With the heightened pleasure from the textured, delectable meat in his maw, he almost forgets to notice Cipher’s reaction at all. His eyes flicker open. He pulls away and swallows. Cipher has his hands—what is left of them—inside himself, squeezing his own intestines to deal with the pain as he gasps. The ropes of gore squirm around his fingers, coiled snakes twining around and around each other in the cavity.

“It hurts…real good…” he says weakly, the nasal quality of his voice reduced to a quiet whine. All of their machinations are starting to add up—or, rather, take away from him; with chunks taken out of his leg, body parts missing and a red pool underneath him, Bill Cipher is fading. In a broken voice, he whispers, “Please…let me go… I just…want to go back to my family…” before he passes out. He hopes Pine Tree will not be the one to wake up.

The Beast places his slack leg down and dabs his mouth and chin clean with his shirt sleeve. As he straightens up, he can see that there are Edelwood branches starting to grow around the amalgam, reaching up from the ground and tipped with autumnal leaves. As much as Bill Cipher wants to enjoy this, his body is beginning to give up. It is inevitable. There is only the forest, and there is only surrender.

The Beast lets him rest. He trails a finger down one of the branches by his hip, a drop of oil leaking out. Then, he picks up his lantern from the nearby spot he had placed it. As he stares into the flickering firelight, what had once been rendered an ember by the Woodsman, he feels a strange sense of gratitude to the brothers who had changed everything for him. Were it not for them, the Woodsman would have never disposed of the lantern, would have never allowed the Beast to reform and take control of his own soul again. When he decided to fuse himself with Wirt, and become Beast and Lantern-Bearer, he gained entirely new ways of growing his forest. He still remembers how it felt to wrap his arms around Gregory’s neck until the twitching stopped and the wood grew. Though some aspects of his human form were tiresome, he knows he would not go back to his old trypophobic self.

Bill Cipher stirs, groaning and lifting his head up. He blinks one eye, and then the other, and shakes himself awake. “Whew. Did I miss anything?”

He puts his lantern down and gestures to the Edelwood.

“Oh, man. Guess we’d better wrap up, huh?” He lifts his leg to inspect the damage. “Had your fill?”

The Beast puts his hand in his hair, rubbing the base of his antler as he considers. “For now. I will have your heart after we are through.”

“Good choice. So, what next?” he says, feeling up his stomach and ribcage like it is a salacious act.

After a moment, the Beast’s hands join his, appreciating the slippery, warm texture of his organs. The colour in his vision intensifies as he realises he can now anything to this body; he no longer needs to hold back. His hands ball up into fists so tight they shake as he says, “I want to break you.”

Cipher’s eyes widen. “Then break me, Beast.”

He spreads his fingers wide over Cipher’s ribs and locks his arms straight. Pushing down from his shoulders, he applies enough pressure to make the bones fracture, only showing small amounts of damage at first, but as he pushes harder, they crack and break apart completely. The splintered bones pierce Cipher’s lungs as the Beast’s breathing becomes heavy and feral.

“I c—I can feel—,” Cipher attempts to say before he starts to hack up blood, decorating his already-painted face even more. The hacking coughs become laughs, as much as he is able to laugh. With his lungs filling with fluid, even this chatterbox has to admit defeat. The Edelwood branches are growing before their eyes, working their way around his limbs and intruding into his body bit by bit.

The Beast looks at Cipher’s smile and, wanting to give him one last thrill, takes his drenched hand back and picks up the knife again.

Cipher gurgles as the Beast positions the tip of the blade at the corner of his lips, a rough hand grabbing his chin and forcing his face to the left. His eyes squint with delight, elongated pupils staring straight at the pink, yellow and blue glow in the Beast’s. The Beast curves the knife up as he slashes across his cheek, making Cipher’s face-splitting smile literal. Warm blood gushes over his fingers as he turns Cipher’s face to the right and finishes the look.

The gashes pull apart and squeeze together as the amalgam works his jaw. He attempts to say, “Why so—,” before he’s coughing up blood again.

The Beast gives him a rare smile. “Why, this is the first time I have been able to hear my own thoughts since you arrived here, Bill Cipher.”

Cipher’s eyebrows lower, and the Beast chuckles darkly as he moves his hand down to his neck and his knife over his heart. “Now, it is time for your host to become a part of my forest.”

At the instant he drives the weapon into that frenetically-beating heart, a golden spirit somersaults out of the broken body. Triangular, with one eye and a black top hat. Bill Cipher’s true form.

The Beast flickers his attention back to his task, and he twists and rips the heart free of the veins and arteries holding it in place, takes it off of the blade and holds it in his palm. It beats once, twice, before giving up the ghost and stilling.

“Oh, Pine Tree, it sure did take some time but boy, was it worth it!”

Pine Tree’s body looks so bereft, so utterly fragile. His skin is starkly pale now, and his head is tipped onto the ground, his eyes closed and his mouth ajar. His arms, encased in branches, lay with his cut wrists facing the sky. All of the movement in his chest—the writhing intestines, the inflating and deflating lungs, the beating heart—have come to a stop. White, fragmented ribs are threaded with earthy Edelwood. His shredded clothes lay soaked in his own blood around him, flicked with bits of flesh and cut-up parts. He looks… small, in death.

“Yes. The destination is all the more sweeter when the road is long, is it not?” the Beast says, touching his own skin with his fingertips.

Cipher floats over to put an arm around his shoulders. “Ab-so-lutely. And hey, you’ve been swell, such a great guy. Thanks for hooking me up with this awesome venue for torture! Love what you’re doing with all the trees and whatever. But I’d best be going, things to do, chaos to enact, you know the deal. And we’re both great with deals, aren’t we?”

The Beast inwardly sighs, then admits, “I would not object to having more dealings with you. I have not felt that kind of pleasure in many moons. Thank you. For now, I shall bid you farewell.”

Bill Cipher blinks—or winks—and spins out of his hold. “Have fun burning up this sad-sack and chomping on that ol’ ticker. See you on the flip side. The universe is a lie, buy gold, bye!” he shouts before flashing out of this existence.

The Beast pauses, raises the heart, murmurs to himself, “The loveliest lie of all,” and bites into it.

Wirt is just as drained and deadened as this boy lying in front of him; he cannot even feel disgust anymore. He cannot feel anything at all.

[patchwork-panda]

“I don’t want to be your... ‘ex.’”

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28870812

Genre: romance/angst Rating: 17+ for CW: subtle (non-graphic) mentions of depression, drinking, suicidal ideation, implied sex. Reader-insert has no description of gender/height/weight/race, etc Plot: You are Dazai Osamu's ex-lover. You run into him again one day at the Uzumaki Cafe, months after you've broken up. He says he missed you. Do you take him back?

Mini Fic is written in 2nd person. based off of Ailee’s cover of Ex by Kiana Lede: link here

There he is.

You nearly drop your cup when you turn around.

Like usual, he’s sitting there at the table in the corner. He’s got his coffee in front of him along with that little red book, the “masterpiece” he carries with him everywhere he goes, the bright, lurid text trailing down the center of the tome visible even from your place by the counter. His lashes twitch as his deep brown eyes skim the page, the subtle flicking of his irises going right to left telling you that while he only looks to be idly flipping through, he’s drinking in every word.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he had never read this book before.

But you know all too well how many times he’s read it, don’t you?

Pulled it out of his bandaged hands on more than one occasion, often late in the night, throwing it on the floor in frustration as you let your silent tears do the talking for you.

You bite your lip.

Why does he look so beautiful to you even now?

It’s been months since you threw that bouquet of stark-white lilies back in his face. Months since you threw him out of your apartment and told him never to come back. Months since you decided you could finally come back to the cafe where it all began...

You clutch the cup of coffee in your hands a little more tightly, barely feeling the burn of the paper hot against your skin.

Unable to let go.

It’s been nearly half a year.

So why do you still feel that subtle, familiar ache in your chest when you look at him?

At Dazai Osamu?

Your ex-boyfriend...?

It must be the light...

Yes. That has to be it.

Something about the time of day, the way the sunlight streams through those elegant stained glass windows at his side. Bathing his body in the colors of a time long since past...

Right here, right now, the Uzumaki Cafe looks exactly like the way it did on that fateful morning you met him for the very first time.

He’s still wearing that dusty old trench coat with the sleeves rolled up, that softly pressed jet-black vest and those long, white slacks. The gem of the bolo tie around that thin bandaged neck glows like polished tourmaline in the light and as he shifts a little to turn the page, you see a fresh scar arcing across the back of his spindly left hand. His eyes, beautiful and inscrutable beneath those dark, softly curling bangs, don’t leave the page.

As you silently watch from across the cafe, he raises his free hand towards the sugar bowl and picks up a single white cube with a pair of tongs. He drops it into his cup with practiced ease, all the while never looking up from his book.

He always did have such a sweet tooth...

A sweet tooth to go with that sweet smile.

A subtle, bittersweet twinge tugs at your heart, the ache coming from somewhere deeper than the organ beneath your ribs.

He looks exactly the same as he did back then.

Like the picture in your cell phone you couldn’t bear to delete.

Like the man you’d fallen in love with the moment he’d taken your hand with a smile and declared that you were the most beautiful person he had ever met.

Just looking at him brings the memories back...

The memories of the nights you spent at his apartment. The smell of his sweat, the feel of his body moving against yours, the look in his eyes, glowing like burnished gold as he took you in the privacy of his home...

Your heart beats faster.

He was always so good with his hands. Even better with his words.

He would always have a honeyed greeting on his tongue, pleasant words to soothe away your fears as you lay next to him in the twisted, tangled sheets, the air growing colder on your bare skin as the waning moon rose higher in the night sky.

You loved the way he stroked your hair. Loved the pet names he used when the two of you were alone. Loved the way he looked at you when you woke up in his arms in the morning.

The way he smiled when you finally called him, “Osamu.”

His eyes and skin glowed when you saw him then, his dark, tousled hair curling so perfectly about his flushed, sweaty cheekbones when he smiled that you wondered how someone so dazzling could possibly be real.

But he wasn’t, was he?

He drops another cube of sugar into his cup with a soundless splash.

The twinge in your chest grows sharp.

Oh, how he had you fooled.

How could you have known on that bright, promising day?

That he was no hopeless romantic, no light in the darkest of nights?

No.

The man who sat before you countless times in that seat in the corner with a smile on his face and a joke on his lips was nothing more than a jester wearing a mask. A sad, broken, lonely soul whose good humor ran no deeper than the bandages on his wrists. A man who’d jerked away from you the moment you’d asked to see his scars.

And that’s when the spell began to break.

You began to see it.

That he drank too much.

Stayed up too late.

Refused to care for his body and deprived himself of the things he needed in order to keep it going, whether that fuel was food or sleep.

Referred to it as a pretty, empty shell that he’d hoped to leave emptier than it was already.

But you wouldn’t let him.

You loved him too much to let him. Owed him too much to let him.

He was your savior. The man who came to your aid when no others did. The man who saw you when no others would and insisted you were worth more than you could possibly know.

And so you’d tried to take care of him. You did.

You’d sometimes iron his work clothes when he stayed at your place. Threw a blanket over him and kissed him on the cheek when he fell asleep on the couch. Pushed him to eat a proper meal whenever you could and left little memos for him to read so he would know how much he was loved.

But it wasn’t enough.

He still wanted to leave. Even with you in this world, loving him as hard as you could and straining to stay by his side, he still wanted to leave.

Leave and take you with him...

He turns the page of the little red book in his hands.

You bite your lips.

How can he just sit there like that? At the booth you always shared? On the same side he always sat down at, only after he’d seen you settle in across the table from him?

After everything you've been through?

After everything you've both been through?

You bite your lips.

Was he waiting for someone?

And if he was...

You turn away.

You should go before he sees you.

But just as the thought crosses your mind, his bright brown eyes flick upwards towards you, spotting you over the pages of his favorite book. They widen momentarily in recognition.

He drops the book and you turn.

You hear running footsteps. He’s at your side before you can reach the door.

So quick in his thoughts and his movements.

Long, familiar fingers wrap around your wrist. You try to jerk away but he turns you to face him and the moment you see the look in his eyes, you feel your resolve begin to crumble.

“So it was you,” Dazai says, his voice low, “watching me from the counter...”

Of course.

Of course he was aware that you were there. He was aware of everything, wasn’t he? He always was.

“You look well,” he says when you meet his eyes at last. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

A smile slowly creeps onto his face as he inclines his head back towards the booth he’d just vacated.

“You wanna come sit? I’m just taking a little break from work and I could use the company...”

He trails off when he realizes you’re not answering.

He sighs.

Rubs the back of his neck with that freshly scarred hand.

“Guess not, huh?” he mumbles, looking away slightly.

He drops the hand rubbing his neck but doesn’t let go of you.

“Not like I blame you.”

Dazai looks back at you and his smile grows wistful. The familiarity makes the ache in your chest return, sharper than ever.

“Hey...” he says. “I know you probably don't believe me, but I really am sorry about before. I shouldn’t have said all those things I said, or done the things I did. It... it wasn’t fair to you.”

He’s only saying this because he knows these are words you want to hear. Because he’s two steps ahead of you and everyone else in everything that he does.

Because he’s Dazai.

His smile tightens.

“I mean that, you know,” he says, a note of pain sneaking into his voice as those perceptive brown eyes meet yours. “Really, I do. And I’ve missed you.”

Fingers reach up and wind their way into your hair.

“So much.”

He falls silent. Those beautiful amber eyes are sweeping over your face, as if he’s reading you. Reading you the way he was reading his book not two minutes ago.

His lips part and he speaks.

“Hey...”

The fingers around your wrist tighten and twitch.

“Do you think we could try again?” he asks, his voice soft and sweet.

He smooths your hair away from your face and gently caresses your cheek. His eyes seem to sparkle in the light.

“I’ll do better this time. I will. So, please...”

He takes your hand in his and slowly raises it to his lips.

“Give me another chance?”

Presses a burning kiss to your fingers.

“Give us another chance?”

Smiles like he did before. Bright, happy, charming. Like a little lost puppy, begging for a treat.

“Please? I don’t want to be your..."

You hear a subtle break in his voice and you feel a part of you breaking along with it.

“Your ‘ex.’”

You want to shake your head.

You have to.

You know you have to...

It’s a matter of life and death. Literally.

But you can’t.

Just one look into the depths of those sparkling brown eyes, dark and warm--warm like the cup of coffee clutched in your trembling hands. One glance at those softly smiling lips, sweet with sugar and affection, the most endearing of expressions.

One moment to consider a softly spoken word...

Dazai quietly whispers your first name.

And his voice seems to echo in the silence of the empty cafe.

It’s over.

You can’t walk away from him again.

You sigh.

“I’ll think about it...”

[hartigays]

8 + 20 for the sappy prompts, mayhaps? -thinger-strang 💕💕💕

8. “Can I touch you?”

20. “I’ve been waiting all my life for you.”

(i’m doing this one as a continuation of this sappy prompt request, so y’all should read that one first to better understand this one)

standing at the altar, sweating just a little bit beneath his tux, billy’s stomach flip-flops nervously.

today is the big day. billy and steve’s wedding, the most anticipated event of the year. they’ve spent an ungodly amount of time making sure every last detail of this day is perfect, and throughout the process billy couldn’t find it in himself to complain even once. he wants this day to be just as perfect as steve does, and he’ll be the first to admit it.

billy is standing in front of hopper, their wedding officiant. hopper has a big, genuine smile on his face, and it’s been there since he exited the byers’ house and walked down the aisle after billy.

the backyard of the byers house was meticulously decorated by joyce, billy’s mom, and steve’s mother the day prior. dustin’s mom had helped as well, but mostly she handled the cooking for the reception.

the color scheme is primarily white, with pink and purple flowers accenting everything. steve had insisted on a blush-pink and lilac color scheme, which turned out to be rather incredible. the bridesmaids’ dresses and the groomsmens’ tuxes match the theme of the wedding, and steve had spent hours agonizing over which dresses and tuxes to pick.

the guests consist of joyce, as well as billy, steve, and dustin’s mothers, lucas’ little sister erica, tommy and carol, murray, and doc owens. jonathan had been chosen to be the wedding photographer, el the flower girl, and max the ring bearer. officer callahan had volunteered to be the wedding DJ, claiming that it’s a new hobby he’s trying out. officer powell and his wife had even shown up, and billy spots them in the crowd.

nancy, robin, and heather were chosen to be the bridesmaids, while mike, dustin, lucas, and will are their chosen groomsmen. they’re all still in the house, waiting for their moment to walk out and take their places at the altar.

it’s when the music starts up again that billy’s palms start to sweat, his heart rate kicking up. the wedding party comes out of the house first, and jonathan moves around to snap shots of everyone making their way down the aisle. then comes el, her smile wide and gleeful as she tosses petals into the air, watching happily as they fall. max is up next, exiting the house and making her way down the aisle with a soft smile, meeting billy’s eyes. she’s holding a silk lilac pillow, the rings resting on top of it.

once everyone is in their right places, callahan switches melodies. there are a few anxious moments of waiting before steve finally exits the house, and billy almost loses his balance at the sight of him.

steve is blurry and watery because billy is already crying, but billy doesn’t even attempt to hide it. he’s steeled himself so he won’t outright bawl like a baby, but it’s his wedding day. he’ll permit himself to cry around people other than steve on the most important day of his life.

steve looks breathtaking in his tux. the jacket is white with black silk lapels, and his pants and shoes are black as well. he has a set of purple flowers tucked into the pocket of his jacket, and his hair is styled as immaculately as always. billy’s tux coordinates with steve’s, though the colors are opposite. billy’s tux is black with white lapels, white pants, with a set of pink flowers tucked into the pocket of his jacket.

billy’s hands twitch by his sides, wanting to reach out and pull steve to him once he makes it to the end of the aisle. it’s only another moment before he’s standing in front of billy, smiling brighter than the sun.

“to start, i’d like to say a few words of welcome,” hopper begins once everyone is still and quiet, “and thank everyone for being here to bear witness to this union.”

billy doesn’t hear most of hopper’s introduction. he’s too busy staring at steve, and steve is staring right back. they’re both crying already, and billy can’t help but think that when they can finally kiss, they’re going to be practically bawling into each other’s mouths.

“when i first met steve, he was just a snot-nosed teenager with a penchant for getting his ass kicked,” hopper is saying, “and my first run-in with billy just so happened to be me arresting him.”

hopper gives billy a smile and a wink, and the audience laughs. billy can’t help but huff out a laugh of his own, because it’s not like he’s wrong, and steve’s laugh is a little wobbly and watery.

“i have to say, i didn’t see much in these two at the start. at the time, i didn’t much believe in change or growth, or second chances.” hopper pauses, clasping his hands together. “or even in love. i didn’t believe that love had the capacity to change people to such an impactful degree. but then you boys came along, and your souls found each other, and i saw all of that change before my very eyes.

“i’ve witnessed you boys grow and change. i’ve seen you learn from your mistakes and become better people, and i’ve seen you both do that alongside each other. the love you share is a love that has impacted not only both of you, but everyone around you. it’s opened both of your eyes, and it’s opened my eyes and the eyes of others, too. and that is a very powerful thing. this marriage doesn’t just represent love, though it is truly bursting with it. it also represents the evolution of the soul, and the capacity for the love of another human being to spark that kind of evolution.”

steve’s tears are coming harder at hopper’s words, and billy says fuck it internally, reaching out and grabbing his hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. hopper wraps up his speech a moment later, but billy has stopped listening again, focused solely on the weight of steve’s hand in his.

they’ve chosen to forego any readings, so the ceremony moves straight into their vows. steve starts them off, wiping his eyes with a shaky laugh and taking both of billy’s hands.

“billy,” steve starts, taking a deep breath. “my billy, my sweetheart, my sunshine. the love you’ve shown me, the love you’ve given me, endlessly, has been the brightest, most beautiful thing in my life. before you, i always thought i knew what love felt like, and how much of it i could give someone. but then you came along, and i never knew i could love someone so much. i never knew i could love someone the way that i love you.

“you’ve loved me, cared for me, protected me, defended me. you’ve given me everything and more, selflessly, and it’s my turn to give you that, too. i vow to love you, to care for you, to protect you, to defend you. i vow to tackle any obstacle that comes our way by your side, always. i promise that i will love you, and only you, every day for the rest of my life. i give myself, every last bit, to you. i’m yours to keep, forever. i love you, billy, and i want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you.”

steve squeezes billy’s hands, and billy can’t help the half-choked sob that slips from his lips. it’s more of a hiccup mixed with a joyful laugh, but steve just keeps smiling, holding billy’s hands, grounding him.

billy looks at hopper, sniffling. “is it my turn?”

“the floor is yours,” hopper tells him, smiling.

“steve, baby, princess. pretty boy, if you will,” billy begins, and steve huffs out a laugh. “every day since i’ve known you, you’ve made me want to wake up and be a better man. for most of my life, i didn’t care much about kindness or goodness. i didn’t think those things mattered much, until i met you. you, who’s overflowing with so much kindness and goodness. you, with all your patience and generosity. you’ve given me so much love that sometimes i hardly know what to do with it.

“you’ve shown me what it means to love, and what it means to be loved in return. even on my darkest days, you’ve loved me without question. without stipulation. i promise i will love you for the rest of my life, with no conditions attached. i vow to hold you in my heart until the day i die, to wake up every day and love you even more than the last. steven michael harrington, i’ve been waiting all my life for you. and i’m ready to spend the rest of it with you by my side. forever is a long time, and i intend to spend every last moment of it with you.”

steve is full-on crying now, teardrops staining the silk of his tux. max steps forward, holding out the pillow where both rings are resting. billy takes steve’s ring, and steve takes billy’s. they take turns slipping the rings onto each other’s fingers, both of them smiling like idiots through their tears.

hopper is sniffling too, but he barrels on, clearing his throat. “with that, william james hargrove, do you take steven michael harrington to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“i do,” billy says, easily. his voice almost cracks, and he just barely manages to keep it together.

“and do you, steven michael harrington, take william james hargrove to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“i do,” steve affirms. his voice is wobbly, but he’s smiling so wide that billy is pretty sure his cheeks are going to be sore tomorrow.

“without further ado,” hopper says, “you may now kiss -”

billy doesn’t wait for hopper to finish his sentence before he’s stepping forward, pulling steve in for a kiss. steve’s hands are on billy’s shoulders, and billy has his arms wound around steve, holding him close. the kiss is warm, and a little salty with tears, but billy smiles into it, his heart soaring.

“i now pronounce you husband, and husband,” hopper finishes, wiping his eyes.

el throws a handful of petals into the air above them, and billy is still kissing steve as they fall down around them.

it isn’t until later, until after running down the aisle with steve, after hours of dancing and eating and drinking and laughing at the reception, that billy kisses steve with more heat.

hopper has given them his cabin for the weekend, and billy doesn’t waste any time getting steve out of his tux once they’re inside, kicking the bedroom door shut with his heel.

“can i touch you?” steve asks softly, his hands pausing where they’re about to slip off billy’s tuxedo jacket.

“baby, we’re married now,” billy reminds him, pressing a kiss to his jaw, “you don’t have to ask permission.”

when they fall back into bed together, in a mass of tangled limbs, it doesn’t last long. they’re both too excited, too worked up, to hold on for more than a few minutes. but neither of them mind, because they have the rest of the evening to come together slowly, to worship each other with meticulous attention.

hell, they have the rest of their lives ahead of them. they can spend every day just like this, taking each other apart, lips and hands roaming over broad expanses of skin, giving each other every ounce of love and attention they can muster.

like billy said, forever is a long time. and they most certainly intend to spend every last second of it side by side, hand in hand.

exactly the way they should be.

[one-leaf-grimoire]

“triad”

Chapter 18: the rebirth of a world

uhhh so I cried like a baby while writing this so have fun!!!!

ao3 link

For two days and two nights, I forget everything. I sink deep into stasis, maintaining mana skin as I sit high up in a tree, where no one will find me. The clear air and the strong mana around me both sink into my pores, flowing through my body, and compounds itself upon the power already within me. The world dissolves away, taking my body and mind with it. All I am is a pair of lungs, breathing out and in, over and over in an endless cycle. 

Life and death. Death and life. There is joy in death, and despair in life. 

Breathe.

Who taught me how to breathe?

Mother?

No… not that woman. 

I taught myself.

There have only been three times in my life where I have been truly at peace.

The first- before I was born.

There was no life, there was no breath. There was only warmth.

The second- when I was One.

His warmth was joined with mine. The bliss of unity. I ceased to exist.

The third- Now.

Warm, golden light envelops me as I breathe. In and out. In and out.

There is nothing. I am nothing. I will never be anything again.

Either way, the world will end. Because of me. So I will become nothing. I will become hated.

I have destroyed myself before. And I will do it again. Because… maybe then I can be happy.

Not me… someone.

What happens to everyone?

They will be destroyed, just as I was. 

There was joy in that destruction. They will find joy in their deaths.

And there will be joy in their rebirth. The rebirth of a world worth living in.

I see nothing but a golden light up ahead. I desperately want to hold it in my hand.

I don’t see the bodies I will have to walk over to do it.

The light will outshine the blood that stains my hands.

And then I will die. I will burn in Hell for three eternities, but that will not be enough.

…

…

…

…

…

“I forgive you.”

I remember how William smiled at me when he said those words. 

Patri… will you forgive me, too?

Of course, he can’t answer. Because I killed him.

Why am I doing this? Why am I willing to go so far?

For a moment, I leave my body, and look into my own eyes. My own dead, cold eyes. What I see is something far from human. What I see is something that scares me. 

Don’t do it… you don’t have to.

She closes her eyes.

You’re going to die anyway. Is it really worth it to take everything down with you?

… 

Of course, I can’t answer. Because I already killed her.

There’s no hope for me. There is no more joy in this world, or love. I will atone for my crimes by committing the worst one of all.

What do you mean? What crimes? Haven’t I done my absolute best? Is there really no hope?

Yami and William are still alive. My two oldest friends. And even if they die… I have my family. I have Marx! And Nozel and Fuegoleon and Charlotte and Mereoleona… and all the kids… and Adeline… and…

My daughter.

Shouldn’t you spend your last moments fighting for a better world for your daughter?

Isn’t that a spark worth kindling?

…

Julius hates me.

The spark dies.

No… this is just a curse. Any curse can be broken.

Not this one.

Her eyes open, and they are glowing blue. The light is so bright that it drowns out all else, the entire world melting away under its burn.

You cannot escape fate itself.

She smiles, her mouth warping into a toothed grin. She starts to cry, the tears running in two mirrored streaks down her cheeks, black as the blood that flows from a pen. But she keeps smiling. 

The smile holds an emotion that I cannot even fathom. But somehow, I know its name.

Malice.

“I am your fate… and you are the world’s fate.”

They reach out. The two blinding lights no longer come from her eyes; they come from her wings.

Both of their hands glow with marks.

“Isn’t there joy in your shared fate? Isn’t that the closest two people can be? In life, and in death?”

But… there’s life after death! I’ve seen it- I don’t want to die! I want to be alive! I want to love.

“What is the point… if his love has been removed from this world?”

Her eyes bulge from her head, splitting into a sheet of thousands of tiny pupils… like an insect.

There’s other love in this world… I want to experience it!

It’s too late.

Either die alone, or die with the entire world. You have no choice.

Their hands close around my throat and finally break the cycle of my breath.

…

…

With a violent gasp, I’m jolted from my trance, and my eyes pop open. The sound disturbs the area around me, and four birds burst out of the leaves beside me, cawing angrily before flying away. The flutter of feathers subsides, leaving me alone once again in a comfortable silence.

The wind blows across the treetops, a quiet roar that bends branches and tears leaves. My hair flies out of my face, rippling around my head for a moment before everything becomes still once again. 

Sounds erupt as soon as the wind has quelled. Bugs and birds, appearing from nowhere, all raising their voices in a song. A dissonant, confusing song, but a song nonetheless. 

It’s peaceful…

Too peaceful.

After a long moment, I slowly stand up, my knees and back nearly creaking with effort after being stationary for so long. Despite my lack of activity, my body feels light, almost unhealthily light. Maybe it’s just the contrast from my recent pregnancy, but something tells me that my constant output of mana over the last two days may have strengthened some things yet weakened everything else.

Fine. I can still fight, though. I feel healthy-

Right as the thought crosses my mind, the left side of my mark bursts into agony once again. I squeeze that eye shut, simply gritting my teeth. Over these months, the pain hasn’t lessened; I just became better at bearing it. Fortunately, I can sense that I just burnt my candle down to the base, so I won’t have to deal with it for much longer.

“Come on…” I whisper to myself, feeling the pain finally start to dissipate. “I need to go… head out with the others…” Shakily, I take a careful step forward, farther towards the tapering end of the branch. “And then-”

Before I can finish, the world turns upside down. Like skates upon ice, my feet slip out from under me, numb and unresponsive. My eyes widen, and I don’t even have time to shriek before I fall, my limp body plunging like a rock to the bottom of the lake.

...what-

I don’t really realize what’s happened until the world fades back in, and the canopy of the forest looms high above. Did I just pass out? And fall out of the tree? What on earth-

Pain floods my body, each bone screaming in protest as I try to move. With a sharp inhale, I manage to roll over, one of my arms flopping uselessly beside me. Shit! I grit my teeth, not sure of what to do. I just fell out of the tree?! What on earth made me do that? My head feels fuzzy and light, as if I just woke up from a long nap, but there’s a familiar feeling of trickling blood down the side of my face and past my ear. Well, I’m probably just an idiot and misstepped… I don’t think I passed out. I hit my head pretty hard, I’ll probably remember what happened later. Anyway… 

Right on cue, mana within me activates. Bands of numerals start to circle my body, glowing a familiar, comforting blue. Chrono Anastasis. I let out a relieved sigh as the pain starts to disappear, slowly but surely fading into just a memory. My broken bones start to mend, and the blood dries up and flakes off of my face. I wiggle my fingers a little, delightly to feel that they aren’t numb anymore. Well, that was weird… time to go-

The fuzzy feeling in my head suddenly intensifies as I try to sit up. With only a hollow gasp, I flop back down, my strength leaving my body all at once. My fingers go numb again, and my toes, and everything else.

Panic starts to seep in.

What’s going on? Am I-

The light starts to get brighter. 

I’m… Dying…

All at once, I realize the problem: Right now, I contain the magic of three people; not just their magic, their memories. Shards of their very souls. I am a vessel for Julius and Patri, but my weakened body, a soul that’s already trying to die, is withering under their weight.

The moth is flying towards me again.

“N...n…”

A gargled sound escapes my lips as I desperately struggle to keep my eyes open.

Sleep.

“N-NO-”

There has to be something I can do- I’m not done-

 I can see a sunset. I see Patri. He’s grinning malevolently.

“Just you try and protect them now!”

 The moth flies closer. 

I have to protect them… all of them… I need to live and create that future!

 I ball up my fists.

The memory flashes along with the sunset. Patri flies far above.

Sealing magic… release!

That spell… it’s a forbidden spell, one that sealed up the necessary power to unleash patri’s ultimate attack- the one that Julius spent his final moments thwarting. Patri carried that within him, with the help of that spell… 

Forbidden magic… doesn’t that need a sacrifice or something? 

As far as I know, I’m alone. 

Either that… or something is going to change about me.

Like Nero, who used so much forbidden magic that her very humanity was warped. She was confined within the body of a bird for centuries, and even after she returned to a human form, she had horns. The mark of the Devil.

Great… 

The light starts to fade. I’m running out of time.

Patri… let me use these memories. Let me live just a little bit longer. Help me cast this spell.

Of course, he doesn’t answer, but I feel something stir within me. There’s a sound outside, a whirring, unearthly sound. Magic.

I’ll have to sacrifice part of my humanity, just to live a little longer.

That’s ok.

There was hardly any to begin with.

…

…

…

…

“Where on earth have you been!? And- WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?”

Marx stands in my way, his face red with anger as he blocks the hallway. “Your mark- the other half-”

“Get out of my way.”

My voice sounds flat, the words alien as they leave my lips. I can’t recognize its tones anymore.

Marx…

His eyes widen, and his hands start to shake.

… I don’t even know who you are.

No… I don’t. This man is a stranger. I’ve never seen him before. I’ve never talked to him. There were no deep conversations, no commiserating about Julius’s behavior. I’ve never made him coffee, and I certainly don’t know that he likes it with just a dash of milk. 

This man is a stranger.

He is not my best friend.

Slowly, Marx closes his mouth. There’s a strange acceptance in the movement. He doesn’t understand what’s going on, but he is starting to get an inkling. Without another word, Marx steps out of the way. He doesn’t move, or even raise his gaze from the floor as I walk by, my eyes fixed on the hallway up ahead.

I don’t know him… I can’t know him.

I bite my lip as I turn the corner and start ascending the stairs. 

I can’t… look him in the eye.

My room is empty when I reach it, thankfully. Any unwanted visitors would have complicated things, since I need to leave quickly. I strip down and start pulling on a new set of clothes. A clean shirt and skirt, my usual uniform that I haven’t been able to fit into for months; tights; boots lined with fur; a thick grey peacoat with a high collar; and finally, my robe and my Crown upon my head. I unfasten the medals from the front, then turn to look at the empty chair by the window.

Julius’s robe lays draped over the back, still and dusty. Sucking in a breath, I step forward.

Here… these are yours.

Slowly, I place the medals and chain onto the fuzzy white fur, and let my hand stroke it for just a moment. Then, I step back.

I’m sorry… I couldn’t keep my promise.

The room is silent. The entire castle is silent.

I know you’ll hate me for this. But in the end… the future will be bright. I’m sorry I couldn’t be like you.

With one last look, I turn to leave.

Evening falls upon the castle as I make my way down to my usual exit. The candlelight on the walls flickers with my pitch-black shadow, broken only as I pass by a mirror. The sudden sight of my own reflection makes me pause for just a moment. 

That’s… me.

I look like a stranger.

I don’t know who you are.

The mark on my forehead has changed after that forbidden spell. When I woke up, I expected to have some sort of weg; horns, a streak of black over my cheek, or something in that vein. But no. All that happened was that a magic circle was burned into the grass around me, and both sides of my mark were filled in with black. It doesn’t feel any different, but it’s strange. But in the end… it doesn’t matter. I won’t have to worry about it for long.

The sealing spell will buy me just enough time to win this fight. To win and set everything right, at long last. And then… I’ll let go.

What will it be like, I wonder…

I turn away, and continue to walk.

But I’m not alone. Footsteps thunder towards me, and Marx bursts back into the hallway, out of breath. “S-Stop right there!” he commands, pointing at me. My pace doesn’t falter, and I continue to move as if I hadn’t heard him.

Marx grits his teeth as I advance. “I-I said stop! I need to talk to you.”

“No.”

Step. Step. Step.

“You’re different… something’s wrong, and you better tell me what it is! Hold on-” Marx stumbles as I brush by him, before turning to watch me move away. “Wait! Don’t just leave without a word! Don’t think you can just go out there and die for everyone! I won’t allow it!”

Not for everyone. With everyone.

“STOP!”

His desperate cry falls upon deaf ears.

“Wait-”

Someone else steps into the hallway ahead of me. They’re shadowed by the torches behind them, but I know that voice.

I keep walking.

Don’t look at her- Don’t look at her-

The torches flicker, illuminating her front for just a moment. 

I make the mistake of looking.

No… not at her. Not at her golden eyes. Not at her beautiful face.

No… my eyes are drawn to the thing she’s holding in her hands.

The bottoms of my boots scuff against the stone as I halt suddenly, my body freezing.

T-That…

…

…

"Once everything settles down... I... I would like to have a family."

Julius wanted her so bad. So… so bad. 

But by some cruel twist of fate, he fell in love with me.

Why…

My vision starts to blur.

… why would you look at something like me… with a smile?

He smiled at me… he promised we would be together forever. He promised that nothing bad would ever happen to me.

But that was a lie.

But there was one promise that he did keep.

One way or another… even if it has to be through sheer force of will…

Something wet starts to drip down my face. My eyes burn, and my heart weakens.

“Do you really think… my love is that weak?”

Slowly, Adeline walks up to me, her form becoming clearer. Despite everything that’s happening, she still wears that kind smile on her face. She comes to a stop in front of me. Slowly, I tear my eyes away from her face and down into the bundle in her arms.

It stirs slightly.

I see her face.

My love still exists in this world. 

A strange sound escapes my lips. It’s almost a sob, not quite a gasp. I can’t tell if it’s sad or happy, because I can hardly remember what it was like to feel either of those emotions.

But now… I feel them. I feel them like a million knives in my chest.

She rolls her head slightly. She has fat cheeks,and a tuft of dark brown hair on her mostly-bald head. 

And then, she opens her eyes.

You just have to find it.

They sparkle like amethysts, like lavender blowing in the wind. She stares up at me through those squinted eyes, but just that little sliver of color is enough to break me.

She… she…

“Do you… do you want to-”

I nod before Adeline finishes her sentence. She nods, then carefully places the baby in my arms. 

She closes her eyes again, but turns her head to snuggle into my warmth.

I stand there, still frozen, with this beautiful, precious thing in my arms. I hold her like she’s made of glass, because she is.

Julius’s love wasn’t something I had to find. It wasn’t something I had to fight for, or earn.

It was always there. Inside me.

You… you are proof of a love that no longer exists.

No…

I let my head start to hang over her, more and more hot tears bubbling up and streaming down my face. 

You are his love.

You are proof… that I am human.

Because Julius’s love was what made me human, in the end. I know that now, I feel that now that he’s gone. But this baby, this child in my arms, my daughter-

She is proof… she is proof.

“I…. I…”

A hushed, weak whimper finally leaves my mouth, barely able to form words as I crumble further and further.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”

I whisper those words again and again, warped by my tears and by my guilt. 

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry-”

They raise in volume each time they’re repeated. 

I’m sorry- I’m sorry-

How could I be so selfish?

How could I be so foolish?

If only I had known… that you would give me more joy than anything in my entire life-

Joy.

Two pairs of arms are around me as I sink down to sit on the ground. I melt into a sobbing, shaking mess, but they are there. They are warm.

“M-Marx- I-’M sorry- and-” I finally look up, a pair of hands holding my face. Adeline is crying too, but she still smiles. “Adeline… I was so unfair to you-”

“Shhh…” She leans forward, and presses her forehead against mine. “It’s alright now. It’s alright.”

Slowly, I close my eyes, one arm holding Joy close while the other wraps around Marx. 

But… it’s not alright, is it?

I sit here, with forbidden magic in my body, with the blood of Patri on my hands, with an enemy knocking at our gates.

But even worse…

I let out another gasping sob.

I don’t want to die… I don’t want to die…

But even if I do…

We sit there for a long time, until my sobs finally calm. After a moment of silence, I take a deep breath before sitting up. Adeline and Marx both sit back, their eyes red and puffy. Even though they have no idea what’s going on, it’s as if they know… and they still want to help.

“Marx…. You’re my best friend.”

His eyes widen a little at the sudden confession. I let out a small smile, the most I can manage right now. “I…”

“It’s ok. But just know that I don’t deserve you.” I shake my head a little before redirecting my gaze to Adeline. “And you…”

Julius…

You could never hate me.

Because, no matter what… the two of us know that much.

We were one. I’ve seen your soul. I am your soul. 

You could never hate me. 

And you would be happy to see me love again.

I reach out to her, and she takes my hand. I give her another strained smile, fighting back more bitter tears.

“I’m so sorry… that you fell in love with me. But…” I sniff once. “I love you, Adeline. That’s the one thing I’m sure of.” 

Out of everyone here, I know that she and Marx are the ones I’ve hurt the most. But even now, they hold me. 

“I love you too... “ Adeline reaches up with her other hand to wipe her eyes. “I don’t know what you were doing… but I’m glad you’re back for now.”

My heart sinks.

For now.

No…

There is no “for now.”

That dark path might have consumed me, but I will fight against the end as hard as I can.

I am not the fate of the world… but I can still save it.

Joy squirms a little, letting out a little sob. My heart jolts out of my chest. “Oh- I-I don’t know what I did, is she okay? Oh god, she’s-”

I cut myself off when I hear laughing. I look up to see both Adeline and Marx chuckling at me. “What?! This isn’t funny!”

“Yes it is! Don’t worry-” Adeline reaches out to stroke Joy’s cheek with the back of her hand. “She’s hungry~”

“Hungry?” I frown, not sure why they’re both looking at me expectantly. Then, it hits me. “Oh… ah…” I let out a nervous laugh. “I probably shouldn’t feed her… I might not be healthy.”

Adeline frowns. “What? What do you mean?”

I can save the world… I will. I am the natural enemy of the Devil. I will destroy Qhlipoth and restore peace to this kingdom. And then…

I don’t answer. I just lean in to give Adeline a kiss.

I’ll spend my last days with Marx, Adeline, and Joy.

When I pull back, Joy is once again nestled in Adeline’s arms. I turn to look at Marx, giving him a sad little smile. 

“I still need to fight… I’ve done too much to prepare for this.” For some reason, I can’t help but chuckle. “It would be a waste to not go at this point, no matter what Nacht says. So… Marx… will you let me go?”

After a moment, Marx smiles, nodding his head. “Of course… go. You’re the Wizard King, after all.”

Wizard King…

Yes. There’s still time for me to be the Wizard King.

With that, I jump to my feet, sudden energy and vigour coursing through my veins. Maybe it’s blind hope, maybe it’s just joy. But right now, I feel like I could take on an army of devils. Adeline looks a little frightened, but after a moment the emotion fades from her face. “That’s right… you need to catch up with the others! The rescue squad left a couple of hours ago!”

“Oh! So the fight’s started without me? How rude!” I grin, giving the two of them a wink. “Keep the castle orderly while I’m gone… I’ll apologize properly when I get back.” I look down one last time at my daughter. Her eyes are open again, and I swear that she smiles, despite only being two days old.

“Take care of Joy… one day, you’ll tell her this story, I’m sure of it.”

Adeline nods, her eyes glinting with determination.

“Yes… both of her parents are Wizard Kings. She’ll hear more stories than this.”

Yes… yes she will.

Because Joy is the daughter of two Wizard Kings. The daughter of Julius Novachrono. She bears my hair, and his eyes. She is human… and if there’s one thing that I’ve learned, it’s that humans are an endless candle of potential.

I have no right to snuff that candle out.

With one last wave, I turn and run off towards the exit, already queuing up magic around me. Due to the forbidden sealing spell, this fight might be a little more… interesting than expected. But I’ve already vowed to not use the magic I sealed away. I no longer need it.

I don’t need to recreate the world in order to make it bright. Because now I can see for myself how bright it is.

Next time! The battle to rescue William and Yami is underway, and the first devils have emerged from the Qliphoth. Will our Wizard King get there in time? And will she be able to take on three powerful foes at once?