#its like some farce where they keep trying to kill him and he keeps surviving and never stops thinking theyre teamed | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tennessoui · 3 years ago

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Been loving the new roadtrip update, Miss Kit! You don't have to (esp since it's not Obi/Ani), but can you do Rexidala and #8 in the kiss prompts?

I can give it a shot! but only if you don't mind heavy obikin. this is like. an obikin & rexidala ficlet. i tried to keep obikin in the background but i could not. incapable. bless.

8. Laying a gentle kiss to the back of the other’s hand.

(1.5k)

General Skywalker fidgets next to him, seemingly as uncomfortable in his bedecked finery as Rex is.

"Never thought I'd see you in blue, sir," he tilts his head slightly to the side to whisper out the corner of his mouth. "Thought you were from Tatooine, not Stewjon."

He flicks his eyes to the side just in time to see the red flush spread across his general's cheeks. Of all the times he's seen his general wear red, usually blood-stained clothing, this embarrassment is a nice change of pace.

"Was on my bed," General Skywalker mutters, pulling uselessly at the shirt sleeves. They expose all of his hands, even the scarred, damaged one.

If this were the battlefield or a late night around the camp's fire, Rex would elbow his shoulder with some sort of laugh, some sort of joke to ease the tension. As it is, he has to be General Skywalker here and now, not Anakin. As it is, they're standing before the wooden doors of the throne room, waiting to be let in by the guards on either side, waiting to bow before the king and queen of Coruscant and receive tokens from each for their bravery.

Bravery. Their men had died at the hands of an enemy so nightmarish Rex still can't quite find the words to properly explain the way he shakes awake in the middle of the night like his head is breaking the surface of an ice-cold lake.

Bravery.

For surviving, nothing more.

The tense line of Anakin's shoulders proves to Rex that he's not alone in the feeling of disorientation, dissatisfaction. Why had they been called back from the front lines? What could this ceremony be except for a farce?

Where is his armor, white and blue and well-worn, well cared for?

Why had they chosen to dress him in the mockery of the royal colors, a deep gold to complement Anakin's ocean-colored finery?

"Circus monkeys," he whispered out of the corner of his mouth to Anakin, who snorts like the sound is ripped unwilling from his throat.

"Dance," is whispered back, just as the guards open the doors and the sound of voices and the light of burning candles threaten to overwhelm them both.

Escorted by the guard, they walk the clear path from door to thrones, and Rex spares a passing thought that at least they had been allowed to keep their swords. He doesn't know how else he could hide his shaking hand if he could not put it on the pommel of his sword.

Anakin walks with surety. Anakin was raised in the court, practically in the palace itself. He'd known he was to be a knight all his life, from the moment his father had been sworn in as captain of the Kingsguard of the newly created country of Coruscant, merged of the two kingdoms of Naboo and Stewjon. Anakin had only been nine, but he'd told Rex once, far too late in the night, slurring every word that came out of his mouth, "Saw the crown, didn't I, Rexie? Knew it was my life's duty to protect it."

But Rex, he'd never considered that he would become a knight, and he still never calls himself one, not if he can help it. Knights are...are regal, are noble, are born of blood just this side of royalty. Rex is the son of a blacksmith. He'd taken up arms when the enemy had invaded his town, and he'd been good at killing. He's a soldier. A captain. He doesn't know anything about court, has never even seen the castle, let alone its occupants, until today.

So for most of the time walking down the aisle, he's watching his feet or trying his best to subtly look around the room. And then he finally turns his head forward, finally catches sight of his king and queen, standing as they are together at the end of the walkway.

Rex knows the stories, the basics. There had been a kingdom called Naboo, with colors like golden harvest and a bird with its talons spread in warning on its every banner. And there had been a kingdom called Stewjon, bordering an ocean, with a lion on its sigil and deep blue staining the royal robes. And there had been a marriage alliance of the princess and prince of both kingdoms, and out of that had come no children, but the United Kingdom of Coruscant, griffin on a background of deep green on its banners and shields.

But the stories leave off how perfect the queen and king are, how poised and beautiful they look in their clothes and their jewels. Queen Padmé, the soft-hearted, loudspoken queen, wears a dress that looks as if it were sewn out the new spring growth, and her hair has been pulled back up and clasped into a spun gold net. She smiles at him and even though Rex knows she must smile at everyone, his heart picks up, going twice its normal pace. His palms feel sweaty. For the sake of his own self-respect, he tears his eyes away from her honey-soaked brown ones to look at her husband.

The king must have been who the scribes were thinking about when they came up with the word regal. Every inch of him stood straight and at attention, his slate blue eyes never straying from their approach. A golden cape is clasped around one of his shoulders, spilling over his tunic to pool around the floor. A crown, affixed with emeralds, sits heavily on his red hair. He looks warm, if tired. There is a pinch between his eyebrows, and his mouth ticks slightly down, something mostly hidden by the cut of his beard.

Anakin stops much closer than Rex would have thought appropriate, but the general does it with such confidence that he can do nothing but follow his lead, even when the general kneels in front of the king without hesitation or humiliation.

Rex, rather awkwardly in his opinion, sinks down in front of the queen, lowering his head until all he can see is the hem of her dress and the tip of her shoes.

"Sir Anakin Skywalker and Sir Rex Fett," the caller says from behind them. He only stumbles a little bit over the short syllables of Rex's name, nothing like the long, flowing names of the aristocracy. A short, strong name, his father had said. Good for a blacksmith.

(That was the thing about his father. He never said perfect. Nothing was perfect. It was suitable. It was good.)

A hand is offered is held out to him, slim and speckled in rings. He wonders if he's supposed to shake it and throws a glance sideways at his general to see if he's having the same conundrum.

Nope.

King Kenobi has held out the back of his hand as the queen has done for Rex, and the general has taken it into his own and flipped it around before pressing a kiss to his palm.

"Uh," Rex says, caught by surprise enough that he speaks out loud.

The queen laughs, a sound just this side of tinkling bells. Well. Maybe tinkling bells. Rex has only ever heard the clang of the church bells in the distance, and those don't sound the way he thinks most people laugh.

"That's abnormal," she assures him quietly enough that no one around them can hear. "You don't even have to kiss it at all, just pretend."

Oh, Queen Padmé is giving him permission? To kiss her hand? He darts his eyes back over to Anakin and the king, but Anakin is still leant down, the King still staring intensely at his bent figure as if time has stopped moving around them.

He lifts the queen's hand to his mouth and presses a gentle kiss to the fragile twitch of her bones beneath her skin.

Is this what he has been fighting for, risking death every day? This delicate pulse he can feel beneath fingers too calloused to deserve to brush her wrist?

Yes, he can understand that.

He leans back and wonders if he'll have to kick at Anakin to get him to come back to himself.

Instead, the king steps back and commands them both to rise. While Rex clambers to his feet, Anakin stands fluidly, tilting his face up and then down as he stares so intensely at the king that his words from so many months ago flash before Rex's eyes.

"Saw the crown, didn't I, Rexie? Knew it was my life's duty to protect it."

Rex wonders if it hadn't been the crown prince Anakin had seen. If that younger version of Anakin hadn't decided then that it was his life's duty to protect him.

He looks away quickly, feeling as if he's invading a moment intensely private, but the only other place to look is at the queen. Her eyes trap him and drag him in. He's quite taller than her, or maybe she's just particularly tiny.

She tilts her head with something a lot like a smile tugging at her lips, and mischief glinting in her eyes. Rex's heart, never quite slow, speeds back up. What had his general gotten him into?

And how in all the kingdoms was Rex supposed to survive this particular battle unscathed?

#i didn't get to it in this ficlet but like there was an attempt on padme's life #aand anakin interrupts her to demand to know where obi-wan waas #not in anger that he had not been around to protect his wife but fear that obi-wan had been in danger as well #anyway rex and anakin have been recalled from the frontlines to personally protect the king and queen #obikin #rexidala #obi-wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #rex #padme amidala #kiss prompts

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ghostwise · 3 years ago

Text

not a homecoming, but something like it

There are two men arguing in front of her home.

This is a nuisance, but not an uncommon one. Her neighbors are colorful and loud, so she’s used to people being in her way. Gente estorbosa. Normally she would’ve simply pushed past them to get to her gate. However, these are no neighbors of hers, and that makes her hesitate.

The two men are not speaking Antivan, but she knows enough languages to follow along, even with the street’s lively background chatter.

“This is a mistake,” one of them says.

“At least it’ll be in character, then,” the other replies.

Adelmar shifts the grocery basket on her hip, waiting. They’ll move on their own soon enough, she suspects. Or perhaps they’ll notice her and confront her for eavesdropping. Oh! Then they’d get an earful.

“I am being serious. Why would she remember me, hm?”

“You remember her.”

“That doesn’t mean anything—”

“I think it means more than you expected it to. I think that’s why you’re trying to back out at the last minute.”

Adelmar is not sure what the men are arguing about. She’d assumed their relationship to be contentious but now the shorter of the two steps close to his companion, looping an arm around his waist in an unmistakably supportive and affectionate gesture.

“If you really think this is a mistake, then let’s go, vhenan.”

Neither of them moves.

Adelmar clears her throat. Fascinating as the conversation is, she doesn’t have all day. She has dinner to get started, and her basket is getting heavy.

They turn to look at her, and she drops everything.

Tinned coffee and spices, parcels of lamb, and oranges, which roll out across the cobbled street.

“¿Zevran?” Adelmar’s voice is uncertain. She never expected to speak that name again, but those eyes and that hair…

“Zevran… Chivito. No puedo creerlo.”

The man Zevran is with has begun to pick up her groceries, although somewhat haphazardly, dropping one orange for every three he grabs. “You see?” he calls out, darting after a can and swiping it before it gets rolled over by a cart. “I knew she’d recognize you!”

And Zevran, the little boy she’d read stories to in the brothel, the same brown eyes, just taller, smiles at her like she’s singing a song and he’s in her lap again.

The scene, with all its noise and shouting in the background, and fruit rolling this way and that, feels briefly absurd. Is she imagining this? She has to make sure. She needs to just look at him. Stepping across a gap of decades (but it’s really only a few feet), she reaches for Zevran. She touches his face. Notices his tattoo. Frowns.

“Ay,” she murmurs, removing her hand. It is him.

He bursts out laughing.

“Qué gusto me da verte.”

Close by and with the biggest smile, Hamal Mahariel watches, holding the basket with all the groceries Adelmar has dropped.

It had come up in conversation, casually, a few days earlier. They had been investigating a mark, and Zevran, in the midst of planning and preparing, mentioned, “You know, I grew up near here.”

Hamal blinked. Sometimes he suspected that growing up meant something different for Zevran than it did for him. Did he mean he’d become a Crow here, just thirteen when he’d first killed?

When asked to clarify Zevran gestured at the map before them. He pointed a finger just a few centimeters from their present location.

“Rialto. I lived there before the Crows… acquired me.”

“Mm,” Hamal said, mulling it over. It was always a careful balance on his part to gauge whether it was alright to press for information, or better to let Zevran share at his own pace. But he was curious. Zevran seldom spoke of his early years.

“I’d love to see it, if you’re up to visiting,” he said finally.

“Perhaps. If we have time.” Zevran smiled warmly at him. “But really, amor, the place means very little to me. I have no childhood home, unless you count the brothel my mother worked at. I had no family. No friends. None that would remember me, anyway.”

Then why bring it up? Hamal wondered.

“Consider it a sentimental request from your husband,” he said.

Zevran rolled up the map quietly. He planted a quick kiss on Hamal’s cheek.

“That, I can do.”

Adelmar’s home is small and welcoming, with a tiny patio separating the living area from the kitchen and washroom. Her husband is away for a few days. Her children, grown and gone. She has all the time in the world. She wants to hear everything.

“How did you find me?” she asks, looking at Zevran with wonder. A part of her still can’t believe he’s here.

“We happened to be in Rialto. I… asked around.”

“You went to El milagro,” Adelmar guesses.

Zevran gestures noncommittally.

“I haven’t been there for years and years. It feels like a lifetime ago. I’m surprised anyone remembered, or knew enough to send you my way,” she said. “I’m surprised you looked for me at all…”

Adelmar takes a deep breath. She’s stirring up memories—old thoughts and feelings, few of them pleasant, otherwise she would find it nostalgic.

Quickly, she catches herself and shakes off the gloom. She sets a hand on Zevran’s shoulder.

“But I’m glad you did. I really am so happy to see you. Look at how you’ve grown.”

“I wasn’t sure if I should come,” Zevran admits. “My husband convinced me. He’s nosy. It is why I keep him around.”

He chances a glance at Hamal, who is staying well out of the way. His Antivan still being rather rusty, he’s left Zevran and Adelmar to their conversation, and is currently helping chop vegetables for a stew.

“Well I’m glad for that,” Adelmar says, looking between the two men and beaming. Little Zevran—at her kitchen table and married no less!

“I never forgot you, Zevran,” she tells him. “If I had moved a little faster, saved a little more money, I would have left and brought you with me. You were so smart. You were always moving, running around, playing. In the end, it seems we both escaped to better circumstances,” she says finally, closing her eyes and sighing.

“Thank the Maker,” Zevran adds solemnly. Adelmar smiles, pleased at his manners.

“I’m so glad you’re doing well. So tell me,” she scoots closer and looks at him eagerly, “What sort of life did you have, after you were adopted?”

“Adopted?”

By the kitchen counter, Hamal catches the subtle edge in Zevran’s tone. He pauses, holding the knife in his hand as a lull falls over the kitchen table, but he doesn’t know enough Antivan to guess what’s happened.

What’s happened is this: Zevran and Adelmar came from the same place, and know enough about that life to instantly understand that a lie has been told.

“Oh,” Adelmar breathes after a moment. “You… you weren’t adopted.”

Zevran lets out a laugh. It’s his ‘stalling’ laugh, and now Hamal is looking over, arms crossed, searching his face for clues.

“I was not adopted,” he says. “But do not trouble yourself over that.” Then, smoothly redirecting, he gets up and locks eyes with Hamal.

“Shall I boil some water?” he asks, switching out of Antivan.

The tense moment is gone. Hamal nods, glancing at Adelmar. “I’ll start the fire.”

There’s a reason why the kitchen is kept apart from the rest of the house. While the soup simmers, they bring their visit to the adjacent patio, where a cool breeze offers relief. Tree branches from the outside—from a tamarind tree growing in the street—have stretched out over the wall and blessed Adelmar’s patio with shade and fruit.

Hamal makes a face when he tastes it. Glancing at Zevran, he holds his gaze and waits just long enough to make it clear he’s less than partial to the flavor.

“So delicious, vhenan.”

Zevran laughs. “Wait until you try it in drink form.”

“If you make it, I am sure I will enjoy it.”

Adelmar, knowing she’s touched upon a shared hurt between her and Zevran, makes up for it by talking about anything else. She is particularly interested in their wedding, and is scandalized when she hears they’ve only been married a few weeks.

“I missed it!” she exclaims.

“It was quite sudden, my friend,” Zevran says, as if there’d been a chance of her attending. “Spontaneous. Just the two of us. Very romantic.”

Hamal taps the handcrafted silver band around his ring finger. He gestures at Zevran. “Él lo hizo,” he says in the most accented Antivan ever. “Muy, muy… bello.”

Dinner is delicious. Despite some language barriers, their conversation is easy and effortless. It’s also, intentionally, vague. Adelmar learns that they met in Ferelden, that they’re on an important journey, and that the journey is a dangerous one.

Most importantly, she also learns that Zevran’s heart has survived its rocky passage into adulthood, whole, if not unscathed. The core of the little boy she’d known in the brothel is there, even if he himself does not realize it. It brings her immense comfort.

The visit ends all too quickly, and though she asks them to stay the night, she isn’t surprised when they decline.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Hamal tells Zevran, who relays the message to Adelmar.

“You and Hamal are welcome, always,” Adelmar assures him. “Will you visit again?”

“If it is less dangerous,” Zevran says. “We were not followed here. But repeated visits might be difficult. Risky.”

“I understand. Not right away, then. When you can. We still have so much to talk about.”

“I would like that,” Zevran agrees.

They share one last hug, the three of them, and Adelmar watches them slip into the night.

“I need to brush up on my Antivan,” Hamal says. “But I enjoyed meeting her.”

“She liked you a lot,” Zevran says, smiling. Hamal laughs.

“You talked about me?”

“Of course. I had to show you off.” He winks at him. Then, with a soft intake of breath, Zevran looks away with his brow furrowed, the lines of his tattoo tense.

“… They told her I’d been adopted. All these years, and she had no idea. I’m almost sorry she had to find out otherwise.”

They’ve traveled for hours, leaving the city behind. Bright points of light shine overhead. The night sky of Antiva smells of jasmine and the distant sea.

“That’s awful,” Hamal says, looking at him.

“What a farce,” Zevran says bitterly. “Just like everything the Crows do. Operating in the open, but hidden from view. Buying children and lives while people look the other way.” Earnestly, his brown eyes black in the dark, he shakes his head. “It must end. It must.”

Hamal touches the lines of his tattoo, calloused fingers grounding him.

“Ma nuvenin, Zevran Arainai. It will.”

A short piece to introduce my OC, Adelmar Provencio. If you ever read my WIP For Suffering is Such a Part, you’ve met her through flashbacks already. While I love the idea of Zevran taking down the Crows alone, please consider, Zevran taking down the Crows with the support of a community, strengthened by the bonds he’s made in his life...

Adelmar plays a further role in the story, so hopefully I can write more for her!

#dragon age #zevran arainai #mahariel #zevran x warden #rinnywrites #oc: hamal mahariel #oc: adelmar provencio

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void-adjacent-particles · 3 years ago

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Content warnings: Death, gore, fire mentions, scars, murder, violence.

Totems of Undying are strange things. They’re warm, and will pulse in time to the heartbeat of whatever is holding them, emerald eyes glimmering even in the pure dark of the void’s absence of light. While Totems are made of gold, there is no malleability, they are as solid as bedrock. The emeralds and gold and magic have solidified into one unchangeable object until its use, and then it is gone.

They leave their mark on whatever uses them. For some this could be a prize, another thing to be proud of, because they survived the unsurvivable only through their own wits and forethought. To others it is a mark of shame, for ever having been in such a position to lose their life, even if it is only one of three.

On a specific server, there are those who have need for Totems in their long pasts, who have used them right before our eyes, and those who will surely use them in the future.

Technoblade was one such person to use one before our eyes. We saw him dragged from his home to a farce of a trial, facing justice on rigged scales for grievous cries nonetheless as he was pushed into a cage. The fall of the anvil, the crushing, crunching of a body that never seemed fragile until now when everyone witnessed its end. Then the sparkling cloud of green and yellow, bones clicking back in jigsaw puzzle pieces, the knitting of muscle and tendon and skin, and there is only a moment of paralyzing death before his heart skips a beat and he lives again. This is the prestige of his trick, no turn to raise suspense, and a pledge everyone who knew his name already was aware of, a promise and threat all in one that he always delivered on. Technoblade never dies, and he lives right now to kill again. Later he will be in his quaint cottage in the merciless tundra, and his own reflection will glitter strangely back at him, forcing him to examine himself instead of resting and trying to forget the lingering aches. He will stare as the night sky leaves the window more a mirror, lantern lights low, but the flashes catch his eyes anyway. His tusks, once white and bone, now seem to be fully made of gold. He taps one with his hoof, and feels the pressure reverberating subtly down into his jaws, as real as before. With a shrug, he moves his hoof away, only to watch as pink fur and skin split against the now razor sharp point of his tusks. Those tusks will remain as gilded as any enchanted apple, and as sharp as any netherite sword, until one day he will fail his audience, his pledge a battle cry he brings to one or more of his graves.

Quackity would covet a Totem in all of his paranoia, his fear of death and pain and losing even more than he already has. If he died, be it by pickaxe or nuke or strangling, desperate hands, the Totem would bring him back all the same. And all of his scars would ache in their newfound golden hue, shining and standing out even more as a testament to his inability to protect himself or what he loves. The scars would hurt, old and new, in warning of dangers to come. It only partly calms his paranoia, the fear ever present and simmering in the background of his mind, waiting to boil over and burn him.

When Tubbo or Tommy use their Totems of Undying they will appear unharmed. It is not until they bruise that it becomes obvious. A small bump against the corner of furniture, a tumble while out exploring the wild, a sharp elbow to the face, the blunt side of a weapon, they bruise the skin, blossoming into purples and dark indigos. They fade far too quickly, as if someone splashed healing potions on them. Yet then they stay at that disquieting green and yellow stage, where the next day it could appear as if they were never there, but they stay, shimmering slightly in the wrong lighting, still hurting as much as if they were fresh even weeks later. Only fading when forgotten about, and they have wonder if the bruise was ever there. If only they had Totems when they died before. Tubbo’s face would be a mess of bruised gold that would seep into the skin until only pink scar tissue remained, a starburst remnant of a festival’s fireworks, but he would still be alive, gasping for air and hunched over in that box, on that stage, but alive. Tommy would have handprint bruises around his neck, across the break in his nose, the imprint of a fist against his cheek that had whipped his head back too far, his neck slamming at the worst angle against the harsh obsidian walls. But he would have been alive, clawing his way back into life, latching his own hands around his killer’s throat, finishing the job, doing what should have been done instead of daring to imprison a dream.

George passes out if he uses a Totem. Instead of the rush of adrenaline, of life that floods the system of whatever uses one, it overwhelms to the point of just unconsciousness as his body repairs itself, fueled only by magic until his heart begins pumping and his lungs begin breathing again. Later when he wakes, maybe with cracked sunglasses, anyone who’s looking properly will see the dark bags under his eyes, a sheen of gold overlaying the dark purple of sleeplessness. When he sleeps it will be deeper, without dreams. Alarms and shaking won’t wake him. Nights will be sleepless as he examines the bags under his eyes, fretting over the burnt orange of the gold deepening, digging into his skin, around his eyes. He will continue to sleep, but days will pass, and when he wakes he wonders if next time he will simply be unlucky and sleep forever.

If Dream uses a Totem of Undying it will shatter him. He will feel every bone shake themselves into dust and back again, a glimpse of what everyone eventually returns to. His spine will burn with pain, arcing upwards to the base of his skull, spreading outwards like a deep set rot that always goes unnoticed until it is far too late and the structure crumbles. His mask shatters, likely from the final strike that killed him, but maybe just from his fall to the ground, a person one moment and a corpse the next, until the Totem brings him back. Gold lines every crack in the porcelain of his mask, across the monochrome of the glaze burned into it, bisecting an eye, a smile, a face. The green of him becomes so much more vibrant, deadly, similar to prey animals that evolve into their bright colors to indicate they are poisonous, saying if you kill me, I take you down with me.

If Niki ever uses a Totem, it would burn. She would feel it burning, more than the all encompassing pain of whatever killed her. Bright, sparking pain would race down her body, through every nerve, every blood vessel, until it was all she knew for that brief suspended moment on the precipice between life and death. She would grit her teeth through the pain, eyes narrowed as she reeled back from the magical force, only to march onward in doing whatever was necessary to achieve her goal. Later she would be looking at her hands, washing off blood real or metaphorical, and see that instead of chipping nail polish in whatever color of her choice, instead her nails would be intact, a brilliant gold. Nails that would make her appear vain, still absorbed with one final thing, or simply clinging to it. Nails that would sharpen into what some might call claws, digging into the fine wooden handles of her weapons, scoring lines that would never go away, even if the nails would upon her death.

If Hannah ever uses a Totem of Undying it will react strangely to her innate magic. Plants die off, withering away, leaving just the roots, the basis of their whole survival, to lie in wait underground until the rain falls again and the sun shines again. Any of her wounds will bloom with roses, the flowers ragged, shaped like bloodstains, but every leaf and petal will be edged with gold. The greenery of her roses’ vines will brighten and soak up sunshine more than ever, revitalizing her until her heart aches with it, until she finally lets fate claim the life stolen from it.

If Puffy ever uses a Totem of Undying, she wouldn’t notice side effects at first, aside from the usual anguish and pain from having died. The likely conflicts she had thrown herself into out of duty would capture her attention anyway, away from examining herself for any lingering problems. It wouldn’t be a problem anyway, not until she looked in the mirror and saw that all of her greying hairs from stress became gold, her mass of curls even heavier, no lock of hair without its reminder, its own thread of gold to weave into thick hair. Later, in a moment of true rest, when someone runs their hands through her hair, braiding it or simply trying to calm her, they would find that every golden thread burns and tries to tie itself around their hands, keeping them there, keeping them at her side where they could be safe.

If Antfrost or Fundy ever use a Totem, it settles on their skin like a weighted blanket, forcing their muscles to accommodate, forcing them to make room in their lives for the extra chance they stole. Later, when they rest, so much more tired with their aching bodies, they will curl up in the sunshine wherever they feel safest. When the sunlight catches just right, beige or burnt orange fur glimmers like a pelt of gold. Any breeze would be unable to rustle fur, their bodies motionless and unmovable as any statue, their breathing far shallower and subtler than ever before. If one wasn’t watching close enough, they’d assume there was a corpse just curled in the sunlight, begging for a final bit of warmth before letting go. They will start awake from nightmares with a hiss, and stretch out in the dying light to go pretend like they don’t feel that extra life weighing on them.

Phil only has one life to lose, and so he holds Totems close to his heart, always just one movement away from being clutched as the lifelines they are. When he’s killed holding one, wings splayed, feathers falling from the force of his death, mouth open and choking on last breaths, his death will hurt. It will always hurt, the moment stretching through his lived centuries and snapping back into the present, so much life to flash before his eyes that they are rendered sightless and glassy, death clouding them greedily. Flashes of gold and emerald green dance on the sheen of inky feathers and glossy eyes as dead as a doll’s. When he lives again, his wings will no longer be the cape of shadows, the midnight extensions of self that they once were. His secondary feathers will be golden now, shining in the sun, always growing back that same shade. Those gilded feathers will just be another thing his murder of crows hoards, another shiny object, but to Phil it will be a permanent reminder of how he has always only had one life, and how fleeting it is.

If Wilbur got his hands on a Totem, he would never let it go. To die again and again and again, to suffer through the agony of an eternal listless limbo, to suffer again as he is replaced by a mockery of himself… he could not stand for it. So he never lets go of the Totem in hand, his thumb worrying over the facets of its emerald eyes when he thinks, nails breaking against the rigid golden effigy. There are many reasons he would die, several from his own actions, as it was before. If he did die, he would wake choking on blood and tears, hacking and wheezing and lacking all the grace and charm he once had. It wouldn’t be until he coughed once again into his hands that he would see his blood, no longer a dull red, now glimmering and golden. And he laughs, as he now resembles a god in all but the immortality, his blood turned to ichor in its molten sunlight, its deep dark shades of beauty and riches, and he keeps choking on his blood as the Totem works still to restore a body dead for the fourth time.

When Ranboo uses a Totem of Undying the magic will seep into his skin, counteracting strangely with his biology, trying to strengthen him, trying to mark him however it can. So the short black velvet of fur he received from enderman genetics will spread, the skin and fur stronger, in hopes of protecting him. It seeps like ink, a slow spread that burns as if trails of water settled on his skin. It hurts, and he hides for days, coming out with his green eye just a bit brighter, black crawling up the white side of his jaw like an outstretched hand. His own hand will reach out, and under the white skin on his forearm will be golden veins, burning with life stolen from a Totem. He forgets using Totems every time he does, the experience is so jarring and intense as it changes the fiber of his being, as with every use he appears more enderman than whatever else he is. One day, far in the future when he goes by another name, he will look in the mirror and see two emerald green eyes, his entire body the black void of fur his endermen kin have.

Foolish is a being whose entire being had always been defined by death. Once, it was the carnage, the lives lost in droves, sent into Her embrace prematurely in their violent ends. Then Foolish changed and became a Totem of Undying himself, a god now more mortal than even he knew by resisting his domain. When he died the denial was almost too much to bear, the Egg trying to worm its way into his mind when it realized this weakness, a grief for what he lost. If he dies again, he will likely have a Totem in hand, maybe even one of his children, held close as he fears an end, selfishly cannibalizing the life force of one of his own in order to extend his last two lives. There will be no markings from the Totem. He is already one of them, eyes of gemstone and skin of metal, created and made of that space between life and death, the lull after a last heartbeat when the next is expected, the resting note in the song of life that he has conducted himself, has cut short himself, destroying all in his path without a single goal in mind in his times as a Totem of Death. There is no scar or blood or feathers or bruise to mark him, because he is a Totem. A Totem given sentience and life, given free will and thought, but at the end of the day a living doll, and the now lifeless, apathetically terrified look in Foolish’s emerald eyes is enough to show just what measures he took in order to survive another death.

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yandere-sins · 4 years ago

Note

Could I request some yandere Sukuna from jjk crushing on one of Yutadoris sorcerer teachers and before she realises it, sukuna has taken over yutadoris body and I’ll let you decide the ending

Thank you for requesting! :3 I hope you enjoy it! Sukuna is second best boy for me from the series so I am always excited for him ^-^

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

Up till now, you hadn’t had the chance to build an opinion on the creature that Itadori was. Perhaps, it wasn’t your place to judge him at all, but having been assigned as one of the people teaching him the ways of the Sorcerers, you almost felt obligated to have some kind of opinion.

The truth was, he was a good kid. Anyone with a few social skills could see that. Though he was young, he took what he was doing at the Jujutsu High seriously, and despite being immensely chipper, for someone who would be executed at some point, he wasn’t a bother to have around. Even if this wasn’t the way of life he wanted, he pretty much committed to it now.

And yet, of course, you feared him.

You feared that someday, he wouldn’t be able to keep the threat residing inside of him at bay. You feared he was a ticking bomb on two legs, no matter how well he appeared to have it under control. No one could assume what was going on beneath that carefree expression and cheerful smile. What Sukuna was doing underneath the farce that was this sweet boy.

At first, you thought it would get better the more you knew him. The first meeting had made all hairs on your body stand up straight, but even then, you didn’t run from it. You might have looked pretty disgusted the first time Sukuna spoke up through a mouth on Itadori’s cheek, but otherwise, you had kept your composure.

No matter if you were a graduate from this school, or if they trusted into your abilities enough to teach the kids, or if you believed in yourself and your skills, it all meant nothing when you thought that you’d have to restrain the monster hiding inside of Itadori. How long would you be able to withstand it? A second? Two? You could be relieved if Sukuna made a quick process of you, but you feared he wouldn’t.

Glancing over your shoulder, you watched Itadori jotting down the things you were writing for him on the board. A yawn escaped him casually before he went back to taking his notes. He looked just like any other student. As if he was taking a typical class on an everyday topic, but you couldn’t shake the feeling. You knew you were being watched.

The thought that it wasn’t Itadori who watched you was actually worse than if it was him.

Sighing, you brought your eyes back forth to the blackboard, simply hoping that it was just your imagination running wild. You really, really did not want it to be true. However, sorcerers were specialists when it came to cursed spirits. You should have known better than to push away your intuition like that.

On the other side of the room, Yuji couldn’t help but wipe some sweat off his brow, relieved that you didn’t see it. Sukuna - as always - was a pain in the ass to deal with. If he wasn’t running his mouth, he at least seemed to think he deserved to see what was going on, eyes crawling over Yuji’s skin no matter how hard he tried to stop them.

Turning his head, shielding the eyes with his hand - nothing ended his attempts. Yuji was so glad that you were focused on your task of teaching him, refusing to spoil him with your gaze all the time. Why Sukuna decided to take an interest in you, not even Yuji had been able to get that question out of the cursed spirit. However, every lesson it got worse. Usually, Sukuna would stay put if it wasn’t Fushiguro that Yuji was talking to, but you seemed to make him restless.

Catching a glimpse of the clock over the door, he sighed in relief. Only ten more minutes left before this would be over once more. Even though Yuji had no problem talking, you and he had yet to really get to know each other. You were careful, and with Sukuna acting up, so was Yuji. He almost expected you to not like him very much for apparent reason, so how in the world could he have explained to you what was going on without it freaking you out?

“Hey, I think you shouldn’t teach me anymore because Sukuna is stirring up my body!” sounded weird AND suspicious. It would have probably earned him a re-evaluation or execution right away. Yuji knew that if he wasn’t able to control Sukuna anymore, that would be his end, and he had yet to reach his goal. He should have told you then and there, but something held him back.

Something that decided it was time for more action than sitting out this precious time with you.

Yuji’s hand tensed before it drove forward hard, letting go of the pen between his fingers. With a tender click, it fell to the ground, rolling towards you and catching your attention. Surprised, you glanced at Itadori, who smiled nervously at you, clutching his own hand, and you raised a brow, wondering if he was having a cramp or something.

Picking up the pen, you walked over to your student to return it, putting it in front of him on his desk, as Itadori managed an awkward, “Thank you!” while trying to take it. His movements seemed unnatural, sort of revolting as you could see his muscles tense and release beneath his skin. This was weird, right? You weren’t imagining things this time, or were you?

The answer was taken from you as his hand suddenly flinched, body jolting over the table to grab for your wrist, and you barely had the time to react. You knew what you had to do, jujutsu was like second nature for you, but the surprise hit harder now that your body was actually trying to have an opinion on Itadori.

Still, you were going in for the kill. If it had to be you or the boy, then you were your priority, no matter how much your heart already seemed to regret having to do this. What you didn’t expect was... he was faster. “Ita--?” you managed to press out before you were hit roughly in your face.

Your eyes shut close as his second hand reached for your head, fingers clawing into your hair and skin, sinking into the hollows of your skull and digging in. Despite it all, you managed to open your eyes again, one covered by the palm and clouded in darkness, the other one staring right into what you hoped - and at the same time feared - where two red irises staring back; Two that belonged to the same face, but different pairs of eyes.

“Unfortunately, I think this lesson ends prematurely. A shame, I do like watching you even if it’s just from the back.”

Even though you could not assign the voice to anyone you met before, your body froze up almost instantly as you watched the face back away from you, showing you half of a lopsided grin. The expression spreading out on his face was none you would have thought Itadori was capable of. “You can’t blame the boy, he was trying so hard to keep me away from you,” the person before you spoke, and the unappreciated realization of who was standing in front of you took over your mind.

Sukuna.

Almost instantly, as you thought his name, black marks began to spread over Itadori’s skin, crawling deep down to his chest and appearing back on this arms. “I finally found a fine woman, and yet it took me months to get to you. We have to commend him for that, don’t we?”

The more he talked, the less you felt incapable of moving. Despite the fear feeling like a blizzard freezing you up, you warmed your body with thoughts of who you were. You were a graduate of this very same school. You had survived so many spirits, but seen so many good men fall. If this was your turn to die, you wouldn’t go down like prey in the eyes of your hunter.

Gripping his wrist with both your hands, his grip tightened unbearably so, but you pressed the words out of your mouth anyway. “What do you want?” you brought forth through gritted teeth, and Sukuna’s lips curled into an almost pleasant, yet condescending smile. “Just you,” he explained, suddenly letting go of your face, making you stumble forward.

But the next moment, you felt his pointer against your forehead. In a wondrous moment of clarity, you realized what was going on. You’d not let him have his way and give that spirit what he wanted, but it was too late to make use of your abilities and blow off his arm or your own head in an attempt to flee. All you got was darkness and the feeling of everything around you collapsing to the ground as you blacked out.

“Fuck,” you winced as your mind slowly regained conscience. The ground you were laying on could only be described as fluid, but it wasn’t wet at all. Nevertheless, when you opened your eyes, you jolted up and into a seat, seeing all the red that covered the surroundings. If not for the buzzing energy of this place, you might have thought you were dead. With the memories of the happenings returning to you as you tried to remember, you wished you actually were.

“Finally awake, I see,” a voice called out, amusement and mockery laying in its tone. Your eyes caught the sight of the hundreds of skulls first before it managed to lift high enough to see the special grade cursed spirit splayed out enthroned on them. “Welcome to my world,” he grinned, and it made a shudder run down your spine while you began glancing around carefully.

“What did you do?” you asked, seeing nothing but darkness and bones wherever you looked. “Why am I here?”

“Ah, so many questions,” Sukuna sighed, your head snapping forward as you heard footsteps in front of you. “Isn’t it great that we’ll have a lot of time to clear them up?”

You didn’t react to this, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing you would humor him. Still, you eyed his hand suspiciously as he squatted down, reaching out to caress your face. You almost feared a cut from his sharp nail along your cheek, but nothing happened, and you noticed his eyes almost transfixed on his finger on your skin. “Where’s my body?”

“Safe,” he mumbled, appearing to be in thought. But just as quickly, his eyes snapped up to meet yours again. “Figured it out already, haven’t you?”

“What could someone like you want from my soul, even dragging it here for no apparent reason?”

“Told you, didn’t I? I just want you; the rest is a surprise!”

Standing up again, Sukuna spread his arms open as if he was inviting you in to them. “Don’t be so stiff, Darling. We’ll have fun here!”

“Darling?!” you croaked in disbelieve, spouting the words which were absolutely revolting to you. “Don’t worry,” Sukuna chuckled.

“You’ll come to like me soon enough.”

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iclaimedtobethebetterbard · 4 years ago

Text

the sky’s open wide, i’m running with the wolves - chapter 1

Fandom: Sanders Sides Characters: All the sides, background Remy, background c!Thomas Rating: Teen & up (see Warnings) Relationships: Platonic/brotherly Virgil with Logan and the Creativitwins; platonic/parental Patton & Virgil; platonic/brotherly Logan and the Creativitwins with each other; platonic/parental Janus with Logan and the Creativitwins; background endgame Moceit. Warnings: Probably some language; references to Christianity; non-graphic violence. Word count: 1570 Notes: Wolfwalkers (2020) AU! You don’t need to have seen the movie to enjoy this, though.

Read on AO3!

My writing masterpost

start - previous - here - next - masterpost

Summary: When Patton is charged with hunting down the wolves in the woods, he believes he is protecting his young son Virgil. But Virgil is afraid to watch his father vanish into the woods, and sneaks after him. When Virgil runs into three wolf cubs who hold the secrets of the forest, he has to make a choice: obey the rules he’s known all his life? Or try to help the three shapeshifting boys find their missing father—even though Virgil's always been taught that the only safe wolf is a dead one? As Virgil explores the wonderful world his new friends show him, and uncovers the lies his town is built on, he may be too late to realize that his choices will cost him more than he ever bargained for.

Chapter 1

Remy would never have particularly considered himself a God-fearing man. Oh, he said his prayers and went to church, of course, but it was more a comfortable habit woven into the fabric of his life than something he devoted much thought to. Even at nineteen, he preferred to occupy his day-to-day thoughts with such matters as the tending of his sheep, the comfort of a nice dry pair of woolen socks, the avoidance of wolves, and, most of all, the brewing of a good cup of tea.

Remy was good at his job. He tended his sheep; he stayed well away from the woods. Everyone knew you didn’t mess with the woods. Stay away from their territory, and keep up the deal of old, and always be safe. He had never put much thought into this, either; it was much more important, in Remy’s eyes, to consider the fine taste that a brew steeped just right could carry.

He never expected his thoughtless respect for the woods to pay off.

The first time Remy saw a Wolfwalker, he was twenty-five years old and had started to wonder if he even believed they were real. But after that day, he never doubted again.

After all, how else could one explain the way the huge, snarling gray wolf, poised to deliver a killing bite to one of Remy’s finest sheep, had heard that commanding howl come from the woods, and put its tail between its legs and run back home in response?

Remy had watched the wolf run, standing frozen in fear and shock—and then he’d seen the Wolfwalker. A tall, tremendous wolf standing at the edge of the treeline, easily twice the size of the largest man, with dark gray fur and eyes gleaming yellow, a jagged scar running down one side of its face. Lean and powerful. Remy instinctively knew this was no ordinary wolf.

Remy had never considered himself a God-fearing man, but staring at the Wolfwalker and the way it commanded the pack of ordinary wolves surrounding it, he thought to himself that perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to pray a little harder.

“Thank you,” he croaked out when the Wolfwalker turned its eyes on him. “Thank you, m’lord—bless ye—I’ll never cross your territory, you may be sure of that—thank you for protecting my sheep—” He barely even knew what he was saying, babbling out his thoughts in more than a little healthy terror.

He wasn’t quite sure if the way the Wolfwalker bowed its head was a nod of acknowledgement, but the next moment, the Wolfwalker was leaping away, the pack of wolves trailing in its wake. And not a single sheep of Remy’s had been harmed.

Remy didn’t see the Wolfwalker often; over the next decade or so, he crossed paths with—him? Remy somehow got the feeling it was a him—perhaps half a dozen times. Every time he came away filled with awe and fear and a renewed sense that though the Wolfwalker was terrifying and fearsome, Remy would far rather live under his odd protection than whatever farce could be provided by all these guards the new Lord Protector kept bringing around.

Before he knew it, Remy was nearly thirty-seven and his appreciation of a good cup of tea had only strengthened over the years. He went to church and said his prayers with gusto, and every night he glanced out to the woods and gave a little nod of respect. For the Wolfwalker and, these last few years, the little cubs that followed in his wake.

As long as the people kept themselves to themselves and stayed out of the woods, Remy knew there was nothing to fear from the wolves.

***

“I don’t want you to go!” Logan clung to Janus’s wrist, digging his heels into the ground and trying to physically hold him back.

Janus lifted his powerful arm and picked the near-teen right up off the ground with almost no effort at all. “This is terribly grown-up of you,” he informed his eldest son dryly.

“There are too many humans,” Logan insisted, dangling from Janus’s arm, the little claws of his hands pricking at Janus’s skin. “You said only the forest was safe!”

Janus drew a long breath. “And that has been true for time immemorial. But things have changed. I like it no more than you do. But I need you to stay here and look after your brothers, you understand me, Logan? I will find us a new forest, a safer one, without any humans who want to cut and burn the trees or trap us with iron. And then I will come back and get you three, and we will go there.”

“But this forest is ours!” Logan protested. “No other forest will be ours like this one is.”

“Logan,” Janus said, and his voice bore an undercurrent of a warning snarl now, “I am doing what I must to protect my cubs.”

He didn’t know where to go, only that they couldn’t stay here. Not with the way the humans kept getting bolder and bolder and venturing deeper into the woods. Between Logan’s poor eyesight and the twins’ recklessness, and the way all three of them were only cubs and couldn’t defend themselves well yet, Janus was getting twitchier and twitchier by the day.

Logan stilled, an unhappy look on his face. “Can I come with you, at least? I can help! I’m very good at figuring things out! We could find a new forest together!”

“No,” Janus responded at once, his heart rate quickening at the idea. “I don’t—” He broke off and reconsidered what he was about to say. “I need you to look after the twins,” he said at last, striving to keep his voice casual.

Not casual enough. Logan stared at him, a look of dawning horror on his face. “You think you might not come back!” he accused.

Janus refrained from speaking the curse he wanted to let out. Logan had always been far too observant. “Of course I’ll come back,” he lied through his teeth, running a comforting hand through Logan’s tangled hair. “I only want to make sure the way is safe for my little ones first.”

Logan had spoken the truth a moment ago: there were too many humans these days. Janus wasn’t sure it was possible to safely venture past the borders of the forest anymore. He wasn’t sure there was anywhere left to take his little ones.

He wasn’t sure he would survive this search.

But it wasn’t like there were any other options left at this point. “Logan,” Janus said, kneeling down and putting his hands on the boy’s shoulders. He focused on making his voice honey-sweet and sincere. “I’m going to keep you safe, you understand? I would never abandon you. You are in charge of keeping your brothers safe until I return, but I will be back in a month or two.” Janus held the little boy’s brown eyes and tried not to think of humans with their traps and spears and guns and the way that once Janus left the forest he would have nowhere to hide.

“I will come back,” Janus told Logan, and he put his whole heart into his lie. “I promise.”

***

“I don’t want to move to some stupid village.” Virgil kicked his feet against the edge of the wagon petulantly, poking a piece of straw through the bars of his kestrel Thomas’s cage.

Patton sighed and reached back to ruffle his son’s hair, not taking his eyes from the winding dirt road. “I know, kiddo. We’re going to have a better life there. The Lord Protector offers a handsome salary to Hunters who can bring down wolves. They say the town is terrorized day and night, and they need to rid the forest of these pests so they can safely harvest the wood and expand the borders of the town.”

“But I hate when you go hunting!” Virgil crawled up to the driver’s seat beside Patton and clung to his arm. “I’m always so scared you’ll get eaten up! Or step in a trap! Or fall off a cliff! Or drown! Or—”

“Hey, there. Hey, now.” Patton wrapped an arm around Virgil’s shoulders. “Breathe, child. Breathe for me.” He murmured soothingly for a few minutes. “Now, come on, tell me: who taught you to draw a bow and arrow?”

“You,” Virgil mumbled.

“Good lad. And who taught you to track?”

“You did.”

“And what do you think? Am I a good Hunter? Haven’t I always kept you safe as can be?”

“Yes, but—”

“Virgil,” Patton interrupted, gentle but firm.

Virgil fidgeted for a moment. “It only has to go bad once, and you’d never come home again!”

“It’s a good thing I’d never do that, then,” Patton said, chucking Virgil under the chin and chuckling. “I mean, I have a sturdy little lad to look after, I must always make sure I hasten home to him at the end of the day.” He drew Virgil close and gave him a protective, reassuring hug. “Nothing’s going to get your Papa. I promise. I will always protect you, Virgil, you hear me? And today, the best way to protect you is to find ourselves a new home out here. We’ll make do, never you worry. I’m sure you’ll have lots of new friends in no time!”

Taglist (ask to be added/removed!):

@theimprobabledreamersworld @private-snippers @fivehargreeves05

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bondsmagii · 3 years ago

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Keeping up a farce friendship with someone who abuses me because they would significantly harm and emotionally blackmail me if I left.... I entrusted them with deep personal trauma and its now ammo against me. its hell.

I'm gonna be blunt with you here: if they're in a position to physically harm you, then tread carefully and seek whatever protection you can find before making a move to get yourself out of there. however, if the harm they can do to you is emotional or psychological, get out of there. I know it'll be tough, and I know it'll suck, and I know it'll hurt, but trust me when I say you can weather it through and the benefits of being away from them will soon outweigh the emotional toll their behaviour will take on you.

abusers are cowards. the very first thing you need to understand about abusers is that they're weak and they're cowardly. unfortunately some abusers deal with this by straight-up physically attacking those weaker than them, but when it comes to emotional shit, they're helpless. all they can do is play their stupid little games in the hope that you'll see it as more convenient to continue humouring them. if you finally have enough, watch how quickly they lose control of the situation and fuck off. yeah, they'll tell everyone they meet that you were the abuser, but who cares? you'll be out of that situation, you know your own truth, your own friends will know the truth, and trust me when I say that everyone who believes the lie will also soon find out the truth.

I'm speaking from experience here. when I broke up with an abusive ex-boyfriend of mine, he went to our friend group and told them that I was the abuser, that I'd been abusing him for the whole time, that I was doing all kinds of fucked up shit -- he spread really malicious lies about me, all creepishly sexual in nature, probably as punishment for the fact I refused to sleep with him (I'm not into that shit). I lost pretty much all of my friends and was a pariah for years. as recently as a couple of years ago, he was apparently still sending people to "check up" on me. but you know what? it did not matter. aside from a few minor annoyances, it has not impacted my life. all of his best efforts to hurt me succeeded in minorly annoying me a few times, and then becoming nothing more than a running joke in a few Discord servers I'm in.

as for emotional blackmail? I cut off an abusive friend once who insisted she would kill herself if I left. she went as far as to self-harm and send me pictures to try and guilt me into staying online with her. I still told her where to go, and to this day she's alive and seems to be doing quite well. we were not good for one another, and one of us had to put our foot down. she did not kill herself, and she never had any intention of doing so. it was a panic response to her loss of control over me.

abusers pick easy targets. that's not to say it's your fault and you're allowing it to happen, but they pick people who don't fight back. when you do fight back, people like this throw a tantrum for a few months and they they find a new victim and focus on them instead. you become a footnote. if you weather the initial unpleasantness, you'd be surprised at how quickly they become completely insignificant to you. you have already survived the terrible things you confided in them; they are in the past, and they have no more power over you just because your abuser is spitting reminders at you. block them, cut them off, get out of there, and rest assured that no matter how rocky the road might briefly get, you can weather through it and it will be worth every moment. trust me. I've done it twice.

#anon #asks

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chews-erotically · 4 years ago

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Waxing Gibbous

Pairing: Ezra + femNurse! Reader

Rating: Hard M / 18+ ONLY

* Warnings: Assault/violence/ mentions of masturbation/ blood/ gore/ comfort/ injury

* Summary: In the field, you are found. Ezra reveals his duality.

* Word Count: 1611

* I cannot begin to thank all of you enough for reading this. It means absolutely everything in the entire universe. For the first time in so very long I feel as though I’m doing something that makes me happy. I love you!!

PART THREE

“Shit!”

Acrid steam poured from the ruined sac before you. Unsure of how you could be so adept at harvesting while practicing in the tent, yet so clumsy in the actual field, you stood and stretched your back. It was unbearably hot today; your suit was clinging to your skin like cling film. It was stifling and you were tired.

Ezra was soon to return with replenished water bottles, you supposed, having trekked south of you to a stream you’d come across a few days prior. You estimated he’d been gone around twenty minutes.

Since the events with the Sater had transpired the tension between you had seemed to grow exponentially. You’d found yourself idling on Ezra’s face more than you cared to admit to yourself. You’d unintentionally begun cataloguing the nuances of movement contained in his hands, the reactions on his expressive face to the things you said. More often now, you took note of that dark intensity returning to flash across his features when he thought you weren’t looking. This did not scare you; rather, it left your skin feeling too tight for your body, your core aching and burning until you had no choice but to shut yourself in the refresher and furiously bring yourself off, biting at your sleeve to muffle your guttural scream when you came seizing and shaking on your fingers. Something you’d once thought shameful now left you somehow ravenous. When you’d re-entered the common space of the tent you’d done nothing to hide the flush in your face or mussed hair. You’d shot Ezra a wide smile as he’d quirked his brow, his expression otherwise unreadable. You’d exited the tent as you felt suddenly faint- is this who you were now? Ezra made you feel wild and alive, like you had finally managed to snap out of a trance. Or wake up from an unending, uninspired dream of safe decisions and mediocrity.

You mused on this in your suit on the Green, the suit still bearing faint tepid stains from your original sin. You were not paying attention, having almost certainly made up your mind to make Ezra aware of your feelings when you returned from the day’s work.

Thus, you were doubly taken aback when the stone connected with the side of your helmet. With a dull cracking noise you fell to the dust. Your head ricocheted against the interior of your dome. Your ears rang; you tasted blood. How did you get here?

A steel-toed boot connected with your ribs, forcing the air from your lungs. You gasped, you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t force air in. Pain exploded once again, exquisite in its intensity. A cracking sound- bone or helmet? You curled in on yourself, stunned, trying to process what this was that was happening to you.

Get. Up.

Part of you wanted this whole farce to be over. The Green, the tent, this unseen assailant. Just end it. If this is how it’s supposed to happen, who are you to challenge fate? You could only hope for quickness, the pain is too much, this life is too much, you are a fool, how could you even consider someone like Ezra could want you. You are a weak, sniveling, invisible slug. You are going to die. You will rot and fester and become toxic, like the air on this cursed moon. Unknown and forgotten.

Get. Up.

Another kick, this time to your kidney. This time you found your air, cried out. It was weak, pathetic. You noted the mist of blood across the window of your helmet, so similar to before, except this time it was on the inside. It was yours. It caused a switch to flip on in you, sudden panic blooming in your chest. All at once your body called back to its evolutionary directive to survive.

It took everything within you to move. Blinding pain behind your eyes like needles as you rolled onto your front, then onto your knees. Your stomach roiled- you swallowed bile as you craned your head upward to finally view your assailant.

It was the Sater. Of course. The dose of sedative you’d shot into his thigh had not been enough to kill him, merely incapacitate him long enough for you to escape with the precious med kit. He had recovered and now he had found you, and he was going to kill you. This so perfectly encapsulated life on the Green that you could have laughed. It was almost poetic.

You could not hear his words, but you could see his sneer. He cocked his leg back to land another blow to you as you squeezed your eyes shut and waited. The blow did not come.

Instead, you heard the sound of bodies connecting, and an unearthly snarl.

Ezra.

You opened your eyes and Ezra was upon him, a frenzy of fists landing over and over wherever he could reach. The Sater was overcome, had no time to react. The sounds that escaped Ezra’s mouth through your connected channel were almost inhuman in their ferocity.

You watched through the pain of each shuddering breath as he yanked the air hose from the Sater’s helmet, then grasped wildly at the connecting clasps of the helmet. Finding the seal, he pried frantically, finally freeing the dome and exposing the Sater’s face to the atmosphere. His fists connected with whatever was revealed, ruining and rupturing.

You had known that Ezra had sometimes had to be brutal in order to survive here. You knew that you had had to do the same. But seeing him like this, the unleashed rabidity of his rage unleashed on another was almost too much. As Ezra exhausted himself upon the Sater’s demolished face you found yourself having to turn away. The blows finally slowed in frequency and intensity when it became increasingly apparent that the Sater was no longer breathing.

Ezra stood and gazed down at the body of the Sater, his lip curled. He turned to you, to where you knelt in the dust, and his expression melted into a mask of pain. It was almost as if the Sater had been pummeling him. You blinked and then he was beside you, his hands were on you, so unbelievably gentle as he swept up your stomach, moved carefully across your shoulders and down your arms. You met his gaze, mortally exhausted, and thought that perhaps you could still die here. Your ears rang and your head throbbed. Your stomach and chest ached, and you wondered from a faraway place if you could be bleeding internally.

Ezra was crying, his eyes were red and swollen. He must have been crying while he killed.

Through the beating static in your brain, you heard his voice asking if you thought you could stand.

You had tried, but a wave of nausea and vertigo had you swooning back toward the ground almost immediately. Ezra caught you and held you close against the breast of his suit until you felt a bit steadied. His heart thrummed wildly in his chest, and it served to center you.

“We have only to trek back to the tent, sweet Dove. I will carry you if need be, but we cannot negotiate an alternative option.” Your nod was almost imperceptible, and you began a stumbling, shambling walk back to your tent. Ezra kept his arm close around your waist and draped your own limb across his shoulders. When you finally entered the interior he assisted you onto your cot. He helped to divest you of your helmet and suit before hastily removing his own, his eyes never leaving yours. Each wince of pain was answered by his own sympathetic sounds and mumbled apologies.

“I am so sorry, sweet girl. My Dove, my Star...I will spend the rest of my life and whatever is beyond making it up to you….”

You were too sore and numb to be embarrassed as he undressed you, carefully inspecting every inch of your skin before covering you back up. He carefully cleaned the dried blood from your nose and mouth, pausing briefly to cradle your face in his large, warm hands. He rested his forehead against yours before placing the ghost of a kiss at your hairline.

You knew you were concussed, and so Ezra kept you awake. Kneeling on the floor He used dulcet tones and soft inflections to keep you engaged. He told you what he knew of the ancient Greek myths and incestuous dealings between gods and men. He expounded on the constellations and how the old prospectors would time their harvests according to the position of the stars in the sky. He told you of his childhood home on Earth and growing up in a poor parish in Louisiana. He talked about his only sibling, his older brother Isaiah, who he’d worshipped and followed blindly into the realm of prospecting before drink and women left him dead in some back-planet alleyway, robbed and stabbed.

Finally you begged in mumbling tones to sleep, your eyes weighed down and feeling full of sand. Ezra acquiesced, but not before pulling his cot to join with yours. He lay on his side next to you, grasping your hand carefully as if it were glass. He moved his thumb over your skin in circles that soothed you as your eyes closed and eased you into dreamless slumber while Ezra’s deep, even breathing anchored you to his side.

Tags: @yespolkadotkitty, @rzrcrst, @mrpascals, @cyaredindjarin, @ifimayhaveaword, @lackofhonor, @giselatropicana

#chews-erotically writes #ezra x reader #Ezra Ezra Prospect

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mollymawkwrites · 3 years ago

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I just read (and reread sgdfhjlkl) your prison fic for watb and I'm having. Feelings. Primarily about cultivating vulnerability and tenderness in an oppressive and toxic environment which 😭

This AU is giving me so many questions tho. Presuming they continue building a relationship (which of course I'm going to presume) how will it progress? What kind of psychological toll will it take on them to keep up the performance, on Geralt particularly? I imagine it being painful for him to have to be so cold and forceful with Jaskier, especially as they grow closer, but does the greater objective of protecting him make it bearable? I feel like Jaskier would be more able to compartmentalize it, but could it get to be too much for him as well? What happens if it gets to a point where Geralt can't hide his affection for Jaskier, will that be used against them - not only by fellow inmates but by the guards? The wrath of the system is what's getting to me the most. Will Jaskier keeping Geralt "under control" as it were (meaning not tearing through new cellmates on a regular basis) be enough to maintain the status quo or will the guards find it more entertaining to play with them? Splitting them up, putting Jaskier with other more violent inmates or just torturing him themselves to torment Geralt? Will it get to the point where Geralt just tears the entire prison down and they run away to live out their days on the lam, maybe settle down on a lovely little coast in Mexico? (we can only hope) Also, what are they in for in the first place? Will Jaskier get out before Geralt? If Geralt's been routinely assaulting (or murdering??) other inmates is he EVER getting out? What will Jaskier do?

The whole situation has me thinking about the (woefully short) story of Butch and Wesley from the documentary "The Fear of 13" (which is very good, highly recommend and I think it's available on kanopy rn) where they were lovers on the outside and when Butch was arrested Wesley intentionally committed crimes so they could be together. Eventually they got separated and one of them was going to be moved to a different prison so that last night they sang to each other from across the cell block and the (usually tyrannical) guards let them have their goodbye. It's so soft yet tragic and I have so many feelings and I wish we knew what happened to them.

I'm sorry this is such a massively long ask, I've literally been thinking about this all evening and had to make some kind of comment 😅 your writing is lovely and I will definitely be reading more of it! (so maybe I'll be assaulting your inbox again soon dfghjjkl)

Gods Anon, I had such trouble keeping plot from sneaking into this fic, and you are not helping! I've been thinking about it all day long because of you!

I think Geralt would suffer greatly, both from his own self-loathing at "forcing" Jaskier to do things he couldn't possibly want to do with a monster like him 🙄 and from the opinion everyone else around them has of him. Jaskier would try to make him understand that he is very much willing, but Geralt's skull is thick and that would take some time for them to even be able to admit to themselves that they are in a relationship together. Of course having to keep up the act of the White Wolf and its pretty young prey would blur the lines in their relationship: what is an act and what is real? They both enjoy the roughness and the name-calling and the role play more than just for show. I think Jaskier too feels guilty about forcing sweet Geralt into it. Lots of guilt on both sides and no way to deal with it healthily in this violent, toxic environment.

I can see them managing to create a little bubble of happiness together though, despite the guards expecting Jaskier to keep Geralt on a leash and the inmates constantly poking at them to see if something gives. Once they get to talk and explain that they both very much want to be with each other outside of their farce, that, would the circumstances have been different, they would have asked the other on dates and had a sweet first kiss and maybe a house and a dog (not me crying about my own AU), they find a balance and a way to keep other people's venom from chipping at their love. Maybe they find allies too, jail can't be filled only with enemies after all...

As for why they are in jail for in the first place, I have to admit I hadn't settled on an explanation as I was writing it. I think Geralt has been set up by someone, probably Stregobor, because of an event similar to what happened in Blaviken? So while his "crimes" are not as bad as anything Jaskier might be imagining (and oh, imagine the angst potential of Jaskier torturing himself over what the man he is falling in love with could possibly have done to have end up in jail), he still sees himself as a monster who made the wrong choices and is not deserving of Jaskier's love.

For Jaskier, I'm not so sure, to be honest. What do you think he could be in for?

Although I am a sucker for angst, I couldn't survive a bad ending, but I don't have a clue on what could happen to them. They could escape, helped maybe by Eskel and Lambert on the outside, or some of Jaskier's shadiest friends; or Jaskier could find a way to have Geralt pardoned, and Stregobor in jail/killed at the same time, because that's what the fucker deserves.

I haven't heard of that story you talked about, but I'll make sure to check the documentary, it sounds very beautiful and heartbreaking. As I was writing the fic, I remembered that movie with Jim Carrey and Ewan McGregor, I Love You Phillip Morris, that I used to love as a kid. I might watch it again, for... Inspiration ;)

Thank you so much for your ask, and please, don't hesitate to assault my inbox again, it made my day! (Though I might have to add another WIP to the list now.... sigh)

#ask answer #long post #penguinlegs #fic writing

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theculturedmarxist · 4 years ago

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By Gary Brecher.Republished from the Radio War Nerd subscriber newsletter. Subscribe to Radio War Nerd co-hosted with Mark Ames for podcasts, newsletters and more!. Posted with THE EXILED.

There’s a gigantic, well-organized, extremely violent fascist group with tens of thousands of active members in Germany right now.

And nobody notices.

You’d think all the fascist-hunters would have sniffed it out by now, but it goes right by them as if these guys were invisible.

Which is odd, because this group is not trying to hide, or pretending to be harmless. They’re not shy about it, and it’s not just talk. They have quite a record. They’ve been rampaging for decades, and if anything they’re stronger now than they used to be. They’re closely linked to CIA and Nazi groups; they’re very busy beating, burning, and murdering minorities of all kinds, and boast quite openly about hating literally everyone who’s not a member of their own ethnic group and sect, even suggesting that members go on “hunting expeditions” against minorities which they’d already almost wiped out back in the 20th century.

This group recently held massive, open rallies in the cities of Germany, and it’s only in the last few years that the government has even attempted to ban the public symbols and salutes of this massive fascist group.

There’s something grotesquely comic about this. We have a swarm of fascist-spotters who’ve spent the last few decades waiting for fascism to emerge in Germany when it was marching around, shouting at the top of its lungs, beating minorities, celebrating genocide, and supporting ethnic cleansing right in front of their damn faces.

I’m talking about the Gray Wolves. And I defy anyone to find a more successful, out-front, no-kidding, massive, effective, ruthless fascist organization anywhere in the world. They’re adapting quickly, and even have their own fierce Wiki defenders.

Here are a few highlights from their long, successful career:

In 1978, Gray Wolves started pogroms against Alevi Kurds in Maras (also known as Kahramanmaras) in South-Central Anatolia.

Location is important here. Maras is due north of Aleppo across the Syrian border, NW of Kobane, and above all just up the road from Gazantiep. Gazantiep is a key city for right-wing Turkish nationalists, a city dominated not just by people who are ethnically Turkish but who identify as rightwing Turks of the most intensely nationalist kind. This kind of population lives in a state of siege, glories in that feeling, and is almost always willing to lash out against the sea of minorities they imagine surrounding them. That’s why Gazantiep keeps making the news as a nice convenient safe house for IS and their Turkish allies, some of whom killed 57 Kurds at a wedding in 2016.

It’s important to emphasize that people who are ethnically Turkish are not a bloc. Some of the bravest people on earth, languishing in the Turkish state’s prisons or buried in unmarked graves, are proudly Turkish by ancestry.

And then there are the young men who join the Gray Wolves. Those men are murderous fascists, and it’s cowardice to pretend not to see that.

Violence by these men against minorities has never stopped, but it hit its peak — more like the highest peak in a mountain-range of a graph — in 1978, before the Anglosphere had any handle on sectarian violence in the Middle East.

The target of the Gray Wolves in Maras was a double minority: Alevi Kurds. Alevi Muslims are often considered heretics by Salafists and other Sunni fundamentalists. They were massacred with impunity in Ottoman pogroms. Erdogan’s AK Party, which very much wants to revive Ottoman practice and Ottoman borders, openly considers the Alevi heretics fair game for the Gray Wolves’s death squads.

Those who were killed in 1978 were not only Alevi, but Kurds — and the Turkish state, which embraced Wilsonian ethnic nationality with a vengeance, a terrible vengeance, hates Kurds simply for being Kurds. So the Kurdish Alevi of Maras were a natural target twice-over.

The campaign against them built up for weeks, as pogroms usually do, with the unpredictable pace partly a result of working with unstable, violent mobs but also part of a strategy to terrorize the victims, who never know when things will go from bad (very bad) to even-worse.

The details of the massacre are very typical, sickening but not unusual:

Witnesses to the massacre.

Seyho Demir: “The Maras Police Chief at the time was Abdülkadir Aksu, Minister of the Interior in the last AKP government. The massacre was organised by MIT (the Turkish secret service), the Nationalist Movement Party (MHP) and the Islamists together… As soon as I heard about the massacre, I went to Maras. In the morning I went to Maras State Hospital. There I met a nurse I knew…When she saw me, she was surprised: ‘Seyho, where have you come from? They are killing everyone here. They have taken at least ten lightly-wounded people from the hospital downstairs and killed them.’ This was done under the control of the head physician of the Maras State Hospital. Everyone knows that such a big massacre cannot be carried out without state involvement. In the Yörükselim neighbourhood they cut a pregnant woman open with a bayonet. They took out the eight-month foetus, shouting “Allah Allah” and hung it from an electricity pole with a hook. The pictures of that savagery were published in the newspapers that day. The lawyer Halil Güllüoglu followed the Maras massacre case. The files he had were never made public. He was killed for pursuing the case anyway. Let them make those files public, then the role of the state will become clear.”

Meryem Polat: “They started in the morning, burning all the houses, and continued into the afternoon. A child was burned in a boiler. They sacked everything. We were in the water in the cellar, above us were wooden boards. The boards were burning and falling on top of us. My house was reduced to ashes. We were eight people in the cellar; they did not see us and left.”(EZÖ/TK/AG)

All accounts agree that the massacre not only happened with state collusion but state encouragement. No one was punished. Many were, in fact, promoted, and hold high positions in Erdogan’s government today.

That’s the pattern here: the Gray Wolves as the street-fighting wing of the state. The parallel is closer to Indonesian Islamists in 1965 than the SA in 1930s Germany, but so many people have trouble taking any fascism clearly unless it can be soldered to 1930s Germany that I may as well make the analogy for, as they say in the academic biz, heuristic purposes.

The Gray Wolves ideology is very widespread and acceptable in many (not all) communities in Turkey. This leads to a lot of more or less lone-wolf killings (as it were), as when a soldier who was a member of the Gray Wolves killed a fellow soldier for being an Armenian a few years ago.

Older readers might remember the attempted assassination of Pope John Paul II back in 1979.

The assassin was one Mehmet Ali Agca, a longtime member of the Gray Wolves.

He had a track record of killing leftists and other enemies on behalf of the “Idealists” (seriously, that’s what the Wolves call themselves):

“The weapon used in the Feb. 1, 1979, murder of a Turkish newspaper editor, Abdi Ipekci, for which Mr. Agca was convicted, was supplied by a member of the Idealist Clubs, according to the Turkish authorities. Other members helped Mr. Agca escape from prison. Still others prepared a false passport for him. And on the day of the killing, he went to the National Action Party offices.”

Note the familiar pattern: Ali Agca kills a leftist editor who’s annoying the Turkish state, gets caught, and manages to escape with a lot of help from Turkish intelligence.

They hardly bothered to hide their collusion in the escape. The Turkish state was killing a lot of leftists, a lot of intellectuals, a lot of minorities — the usual suspects for classic fascists like Ali Agca.

But as you older readers might recall, nobody in the media talked about Ali Agca as a Turkish fascist. He was, for Cold-War purposes, smeared as a Bulgarian agent.

The “Bulgarian connection” never made much sense, but it served the US/UK/Israel/Saudi intelligence agencies’ PR purposes. Remember, Turkey is NATO — very, very NATO.

NATO might survive the loss of many other small European states, but it could not survive losing Turkey. So the US/UK state will always side with the Turkish state and help them cover up fascist atrocities, blaming them on the Soviets until those useful patsies took their final dive.

Blaming Bulgaria rather than the obvious suspects, the Gray Wolves to which this thug Ali Agca had been murderously loyal all his life, was especially bizarre since there was an obvious sectarian motive: the Gray Wolves hate Christians, as they hate all other minorities, ethnic or religious, and make a point of staging provocations at all occasions when the remnants of what was once a huge Christian minority dare to show themselves in public.

Orthodox Christians are the Wolves’ preferred prey. They prefer not to do anything too bloody to high-profile Western targets like a pope, but when you squirt sectarian hate into weak minds and itchy trigger fingers for generations, some of the lads are going to pick the wrong victim.

Perhaps that’s what happened when Ali Agca went from NATO-approved murderer of leftists and Kurds, to shooting the Pope. We’ll never know, because it was quickly twisted into the ridiculous “Bulgaria did it” farce by the guys who enjoy a few cocktails with their opposite numbers from Ankara at all those NATO conferences.

And we’ll never know how much daily violence this massive fascist gang inflicts. Occasionally the Turkish state gets irritated enough to send a suicide bomber or two to kill Kurdish peace demonstrators, as it did in Ankara in 2015, killing 86 demonstrators and maiming a hundred more. But that state, our NATO ally, supports a whole madhouse of Arab and Turkmen jihadis as well as its own stable of disposable Gray Wolves assassins, so it may never be clear whether it was the Wolves, precisely, who pressed the detonators.

But it’s a statistical certainty that somewhere along the long line from greenlighting an attack like this and sending red-hot ball bearings splattering into the bodies of teenagers with peace banners, many of the men involved were members in good standing of the good ol’ Wolves.

Violence by the Gray Wolves is a constant in Turkey, usually unreported — especially now that Erdogan’s party has imprisoned thousands of journalists and intellectuals, and terrorized the rest into quietism or collusion. We may never know how many Kurds are murdered daily in the southeast of Anatolia, because no one who matters, in the Turkish state or its many powerful allies in the West (e.g. the Michael Flynn story) want you to know about it. It’s rare for those stories to make the news at all, but God knows you can’t forget them once you’ve read them.

In fact the Gray Wolves are going mainstream, and winning a lot of votes.

Fascism is mainstream in Turkey, getting more mainstream all the time — and has been since the violent dissolution of the Ottoman Empire. The Gray Wolves have quite a pedigree, a classic fascist genealogy.

Fascism is often strongest in the ruins of a defeated empire, and that was the situation in the former Ottoman Empire in the 1920s. The Empire had once ruled from Central Europe to Iraq, flowing and ebbing over the centuries (with a peak in the 16th century). At its peak, it was a fearsome conquering force.

There’s a great novel by the Albanian writer Ismail Kadare detailing the unstoppable waves of special forces that the Empire could unleash on strongpoints that held out against conquest.

The Ottomans took a long time to fall from that 16th c. peak. They were still around, partly because Britain and France always supported them against the bogeyman of the late Victorian Era, the Russian Threat.

Propped up by the two big powers of Europe, the Empire managed to survive a coup in 1908 by young officers who would go on to a career in defeat and genocide, because they guessed wrong on which side would win the oncoming Great War.

The Young Turks, as these officers were called, sided with the up-and-coming, efficient military of the neighboring empire: Germany. They guessed wrong, but not before they managed to exterminate the harmless Armenians who had recently been patronized as Turkey’s “model minority” for their docility. And this genocide went so well, so quietly, that Hitler, contemplating the genocide of the European Jews, allegedly demanded of any squeamish nay-sayers “Who remembers the Armenians?”

You get a lot of horrible echoes like that in this story. At any rate, no one cared to remember or notice the extermination of the Armenians, but the winners at Versailles were typically vengeful against the former Ottoman Empire — not by any means for wiping out the Armenians, but for being German allies, and losing.

Britain and France, now joined by the US, were as vengeful toward the former Empire as they had been lenient during its bloody final years. Ottoman rule over non-Turkish territory was erased. For a few years there was some doubt whether even Anatolia would remain a Turkish state.

Then, as most of you know, came Mustafa Kemal, soon to become Kemal Ataturk, a hero of Gallipoli (a Turkish/Ottoman victory that stood out proudly in the great defeat).

Ataturk was a typical elite young officer of the early 20th c. Those were very dangerous people, those young officers. Often impressive individuals, but completely ruthless and immensely fond of violence. That goes for all of them, right across the Continent — Hell, right across the world.

Ataturk formed a nucleus of former officers from the Great War. (Again, the international echoes are clear enough; suffice to say that these guys were the most dangerous, formidable demographic in a few generations, perhaps since the emergence of the Napoleonic elite.) They fought well, and then they went about making Turkey a monoethnic state, without mercy.

For a while, that state was professedly secular, but since it had already killed or driven out most religious minorities, the monoethnic state became, under the AK party, avowedly mono-sectarian as well.

The current chant of the Wolves many, many supporters is “My heart is Turkish and my soul is Muslim!” You must be both: ethnically Turkish and orthodox, Sunni Muslim as well. No mercy for anyone who fails either test, which means that a lot of Kurds, a lot of Alevis, a lot of secular Leftists, end up dead or in prison.

The evolution of the Gray Wolves is a classic fascist Genesis story, and the behavior of its hundreds of thousands (perhaps millions) of supporters is classic fascist violence. Why don’t more people notice that?

I hate to speculate, because the range of possible answers all boils down to cowardice, conformity, and the odd Euro-centrism one finds in the strangest places. They don’t get noticed because they’re not European, maybe? Fascism of the 1930s was European, and that’s the only kind amateurs notice? Odd, because Turkey is European enough to be the cornerstone of NATO.

This would not be the first time that the interests of what you could call the NATO Deep State aligned all too perfectly with the more gullible pockets of the Left. In fact, it’s very closely related to the phenomenon of not noticing, or trying very hard not to notice, the sectarian ultra-violence of the Syrian “rebels.” But this time, since Turkey is a NATO ally, it’s the violence of the state and its fascist proxies that is ignored. I struggle to come up with any other reason that the Gray Wolves get so little attention.

All I know is that we have a massive, ultra-violent, highly effective, classically fascist movement killing minorities every single day, and there’s an odd silence about it.

I would love to ask one of the innumerable online fascist hunters why they hunt stray curs and slink silently past the cold stare of the Gray Wolves. Perhaps it’s not so much any of the excuses I suggested above; perhaps some hunters just prefer smaller, easy prey to the real thing.

Gary Brecher is the nom de guerre-nerd of John Dolan. Buy his book The War Nerd Iliad. Hear him read his comic memoir Pleasant Hell in audiobook format.

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renaerys · 5 years ago

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All right Anon. Since my blog was hacked and I had to delete and remake it, I know I lost some Tumblr-exclusive posts from back in ye olde Naruto heydays. Here’s a TobiIzu prompt I did for my friend Nicole called “Eclipse” that I managed to dig up in my Google Drive. It is 2013 quality (i.e., without the benefit of 7 years’ additional experience, so I’m sorry about that), but this is how it appeared as originally posted. Hopefully this is what you were looking for! :)

Eclipse (TobiIzu)

Generations later they would talk about Senju Hashirama and Uchiha Madara, the eternal rivals and fiercest of friends who created a kingdom and nearly destroyed it with their own hands. They would talk about Uzumaki Mito and how she saved them from themselves for as long as a person can be saved, going so far as to seal Hashirama’s love and Madara’s hatred within herself. But the sun and the moon have shadows even if no one can see them beyond the blinding light.

Senju Tobirama did not always hate the Uchiha. Some he even grew to depend upon. Every yin needs a yang.

“Suiton: Suishouha!”

At seven years old, Tobirama was well on his way to achieving notoriety as an heir to the illustrious Senju clan. His prowess with water techniques was unheard of at his age, and his father was more than happy to reap that advantage in any way possible. In a world where a mother’s protests fall upon deaf ears, Tobirama became more comfortable with the wails of his dying enemies than the sweet songs his mother used to sing at night as he fell asleep.

“Hhhnnngg!”

Strangled cries of those unlucky enough to be swept away with the deluge gurgled, unintelligible, as water filled lungs and doused fires. Tobirama drew his short sword and followed the path of his technique, searching for any Uchiha that had survived the flood. What he did not expect to find was one unharmed and charging straight for him.

“Damn you!”

The clang of steel made his ears ring as a young Uchiha soldier slammed into him with all the might in his small body. Twin daggers sparked against Tobirama’s own weapon, and he stumbled backwards under the shock force. Overpowered, he had to roll with his attacker’s momentum to avoid slitting his own throat. On their feet and panting for air, Tobirama got a look at his opponent and the fury boiling in his red eyes.

Red eyes.

“Sharingan...”

The unnamed Uchiha shook with rage. “You killed him. You killed my little brother with that, and now I’m gonna kill you!”

A flurry of hand seals had Tobirama taking a step back, unsure of what was coming until the Uchiha boy inhaled a deep breath and released a great mass of roiling fire. It careened straight for him at impossible speed, and Tobirama had to turn tail and run. His boots sloshed in the mud created from his earlier technique and an idea struck. Channeling his chakra, he called upon the muddy water beneath his feet to rise up behind him in like a shield. The collision with the great fireball was stunning. Steam hissed and mud melted, the water mixed in with it barely enough to keep the fire at bay.

“Tobirama!”

Butsuma’s familiar voice was a welcome sound. He and a young Itama joined his second son just as fire and water fizzled into a mess of charred mud and the smell of bog. Tobirama brandished his short sword at his attacker, ready to deliver the killing blow now that his father was watching.

“Izuna, that’s enough.”

Everyone knew Uchiha Tajima, the leader of the Uchiha clan, by face and name. He placed a hand on the boy’s—Izuna’s—shoulder in silent warning.

“He killed Kemuri!” Izuna said, taking a step forward with every intention of burning Tobirama alive.

Tajima did nothing to betray whatever he felt about the loss of one of his sons. It didn’t surprise Tobirama much. Lives were expendable. If the leader of a great clan were to break down every time he lost men, he would have no time to fight between the mourning. Tobirama shifted, thoughts wandering to his younger brother standing next to him. What if it had been him?

“I suppose I should thank you,” Tajima said, dark eyes fixed on Tobirama and a cruel smirk threatening to bloom. “Your actions have awakened Izuna’s Sharingan.”

Tears fell from Izuna’s transformed eyes and Tobirama had to wonder. Had he done this? Had he given his enemy a better weapon?

“Let’s end this, Butsuma,” Tajima said. “You’ve lost enough men for one day.”

“I should say the same for you,” Butsuma said, one hand on the hilt of his katana.

Tajima’s smirk widened. “Until next time, old friend.”

Izuna held Tobirama’s gaze, red on red as a promise of vengeance sealed in brother’s blood passed between them. Tobirama found himself leaning closer to his own brother, a silent warning.

“Tobirama,” Butsuma said once the Uchiha had withdrawn. “The next time we clash with the Uchiha, kill that boy. Forget about the others. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Father.”

“We can’t afford to let that one grow stronger now that he has the Sharingan.”

The battlefield was a wasteland of mud, soot, and maimed corpses. Uchiha and Senju alike lay in piles, their armor warped with heat and some bloated from drowning. It was always the same story when they crossed paths, and no one ever seemed to get the upper hand in the long run. Destined to fight forever, Tobirama sometimes wondered about the point of it all. But Butsuma was right. If the stories were true, the Sharingan could mean the difference between a win and a loss for the Senju.

And so Senju Tobirama resolved to ensure Uchiha Izuna’s death the next time they crossed paths.

xxx

The day Kawarama died Tobirama was fourteen and still struggling to make good on the promise he’d made his father. Madara had set the field aflame, and Hashirama’s animate wood had only made it worse. Ever the faithful right hand, Tobirama shielded the newly christened Senju leader with his body, hands poised in the fortieth and final seal of the water dragon technique.

“Tobi!” Hashirama said, worry and relief melted together as his little brother bought him precious time to regroup.

But light never strays far from its faithful shadow. Tobirama barely had to time to block the knife to his throat, hissing as it nicked the unprotected skin below his chin. Izuna had a tendency to sneak up on him like this. It made double-teaming Madara impossible.

“Now we’re even,” Izuna said as he pushed harder, screeching metal hurting Tobirama’s ears as they vied for dominance.

In a dirty move, Tobirama kicked hard, forcing Izuna to leap backwards to avoid a blow to the stomach that could have cost him. Fire and water, brother for brother. To say water could douse fire was to underestimate the heat of Izuna’s hatred.

“We’ll never be even!” Tobirama said, redirecting his water dragon technique.

Sharingan spiraled red and black, red and black, and a piercing scream filled the area. Tobirama yelped, hands burning as though the skin were flayed off his palms. Sparks jumped across the body of his water dragon, the electricity having cut deep welts in his hands that blistered and smoked. Izuna, drenched from head to toe and panting, crackled with lightning.

“Lightning trumps water,” he said, water dripping from his long ponytail.

The fighting never stopped. Senju and Uchiha were doomed to repeat history, of this Tobirama was certain. Every time they clashed, more and more of their ranks fell under enemy fire and water, lightning and earth. There was no end to the slaughter and the power, each side becoming stronger only to discover the other catching up.

It wasn’t until Hashirama called a temporary ceasefire that Tobirama realized he’d never actually had a conversation with Izuna that didn’t involve them trying to kill each other. Negotiations were a farce when the Uchiha were involved as far as he was concerned. And yet, while Hashirama and Madara exchanged terms that everyone knew would never be enough to satisfy both sides, Tobirama and Izuna waited outside the chambers, silent and itching to hurt each other out of ingrained habit.

“This will never work, you know,” Tobirama said after nearly a half hour of silent brooding. “It never has before.”

He didn’t know why he’d decided to comment on something so futile. It was obvious to both of them without him pointing it out. Uchiha and Senju would never see eye to eye. There was too much bad blood between them now to reconcile. Hashirama was delusional and Madara was perhaps even more insane to hear out this ludicrous negotiation. Izuna did not respond right away, and Tobirama scowled. He should have known better.

“...And yet, they never stop trying.”

Izuna kept his dark gaze to the ground ahead, torches lending a soft glow to his angular features as they waited on either side of the door to the chambers. All around them, crack patterns danced upon carved stone with each flicker of firelight. There was no one around—Tobirama and Izuna had made sure their brothers would not be disturbed—and yet they spoke in hushed tones.

“It’s useless,” Tobirama said. “After all the Uchiha have done, there will be no forgiving.”

“Ah, and you’re an innocent bystander in all this. Hypocrite.”

The hilt of Tobirama’s sword called to him with an almost audible hum. A part of him wanted nothing more than to drive it through Izuna’s precious eyes right there and now. And yet, he paused.

“You’ve become more vicious over the years,” he said, finally voicing what he’d long suspected. “The older we get, the more hateful you are. Not that I’d expect anything less from an Uchiha.”

Izuna chuckled. “And you’ve become cantankerous. You’re just getting older.”

Murmuring filtered through the heavy wooden doors despite the soundproofing. It did not bode well for their brothers’ talk. Still, they would not move until summoned. They had set aside their mutual animosity and bad blood for this, and neither would betray his brother and leader. If nothing else, they shared that fierce loyalty.

“This will never work,” Tobirama said at last.

“Tell them that. They’re living in a dream world in there. But they’ll wake up. They always do. Hard to sleep when people are screaming all around you.”

“Is that all it is then? A dream.”

“What else would it be? You killed my brother and I killed yours, just like our fathers before us and their fathers before them. The sooner you accept that the better.”

Tobirama frowned. He didn’t like agreeing with Izuna, his brother’s murderer and the bane of his existence for as long as he could remember. He couldn’t help but think that with Izuna out of the way, Madara would stand no chance against Hashirama and himself.

“Funny, isn’t it,” Tobirama said. “We hate each other, and yet we understand each other perfectly. There is no one who knows my sentiments the way you do.”

“You don’t know this hatred,” Izuna said, averting his eyes once more to stare into the gloom. “...This hatred is a curse.”

“Curses can be broken.”

Izuna bared his teeth in a smile, and when he met Tobirama’s gaze once more it burned like the fire illuminating the room. This Sharingan was different, and Tobirama half drew his sword upon instinct.

“There’s no cure for this curse,” Izuna said, making no move to attack. “It will kill me, and it will kill you, too. That’s the only certainty in this world.”

Tobirama was about to ask him what he meant by that when the doors burst open.

“—can’t ever reach a compromise this way!” Hashirama shouted from within.

Madara stormed out. “Who would take those terms? You’re as stupid as you look. Nothing’s changed.”

Izuna and Tobirama exchanged a look before the former tailed after his irritable brother. Hashirama emerged soon after, youthful features twisted in frustration and a little despair. It didn’t suit him at all, but Tobirama kept that thought to himself.

“At least he didn’t attempt to attack you this time,” he said instead.

“I just don’t understand, Tobi. I know he agrees with me, I just know it. But he’s so stubborn! He just won’t give into anything.”

“He’s an Uchiha.” He’s not your brother.

“You make it sound like they’re another species.”

“They are.”

Hashirama sighed and rubbed his eyes. “They’re not. They’re just... Madara’s just looking out for them, that’s all. We’re not so different from them in the end.”

Tobirama said nothing to that. For the first time in his life, he found he could not refute it with complete certainty.

xxx

“What did you mean?”

Blood fell to the ground as Tobirama’s short sword made contact with Izuna’s cheek, so light and delicate. The Uchiha sneered and pulled back, wiping it with a free hand.

“About what?” He fired off a rapid round of hand seals even as he questioned his eternal opponent.

“About the curse that can’t be broken.”

A searing jet of fire careened toward Tobirama at high speed, and if not for the grueling training he’d forced upon himself he would not have survived it. With only a single hand seal he created a water dragon from out of thin air to defend him, catching the fire before it could incinerate him where he stood. The collision birthed a wall of steam, hissing like a brood of angry snakes as fire and water clashed in an age old battle, neither able to overwhelm the other without taking equal damage. At seventeen, they were still stuck in a stalemate.

Forced to shout over the roar of their attacks Izuna said, “Love and hate aren’t so different. The more I hate, the stronger I become. And you make it so easy!”

Tobirama grit his teeth and pushed more chakra into his technique. The water dragon became engorged, slowly but surely pushing back the fire. He would have to be careful lest Izuna resort to lightning. That trick would only work once. All of a sudden, the air around Tobirama became heavy with heat, drawing sweat and turning his cheeks red. A low rumble resounded from the other side of the clash until black tongues peeked out from amidst the orange flames. They grew into thick shadows and slithered into the maw of his dragon, evaporating the water on contact. Alarmed, Tobirama swore and attempted to up the power.

It was no use. Stygian flames reared up and consumed his dragon until they forced him to release his technique and leap to safety. He’d never seen anything like it. Far hotter than any normal fire, there was something spectral about those flames.

“Izuna!”

He stood rooted to the spot, gaze slowly shifting. Tobirama felt a cold chill creep up his spine at the sight of his longtime rival with blood falling from his eyes like tears.

“There’s no cure for this curse.”

“This is what we are, Tobirama,” he said, drawing his twin daggers and advancing. “You and I...we’ll never escape it. Now fight me!”

No one would talk about their battles in the histories. Hashirama and Madara would change the landscape with their power, and Tobirama and Izuna would be there to pick up the pieces. Shadows follow their celestial masters, hiding behind the light.

xxx

“There’s something about the Uchiha that I think you need to know.”

Hashirama looked up from the paperwork he was reading by the light of a thick tallow candle outlining the terms of an alliance with the wealthy Uzumaki clan. He’d insisted on doing it himself even though Tobirama was better with this sort of thing. In any case, it mattered little. Uzumaki Mito, their closest contact and the clan representative, would smooth out any kinks Hashirama overlooked.

“Must we talk about this now? I know your opinion of them already, and I’m tired—”

“I think there’s a reason they are the way they are.”

Hashirama put down his pen and gave his brother his full attention. “Of course there is. We’ve wronged them for generations, as they’ve wronged us. It’s not like they’re doing this for fun.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Tobirama said, thinking on how best to phrase it. “They... It’s like they grow stronger the more they hate.”

“...I would assume so. Hatred is a powerful motivator.”

“No, I mean, they become physically stronger. That new Sharingan isn’t normal. You know it.”

Hashirama smiled a little. “Well, it’s certainly nothing to sneeze at.”

“Izuna said they were cursed. That I don’t understand his hatred.”

“You were speaking with Izuna? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say anything to him that didn’t involve a death threat.”

Tobirama stared at the wall of the small tent set up on the outskirts of Uzushiogakure, the Senju’s current outpost. His shadow flickered under the light of the candles, erratic.

“You don’t know this hatred.”

Why do you always have to be so stubborn?

“This won’t last forever,” he said. “One day, it will catch up to us. That’s what curses do. They fester.”

Hashirama was silent for a long while, and he wondered if his brother understood. “Then we’ll break the curse. That’s what I’ve been trying to do for so long. We’ll do it, Madara and I together. We will.”

“There’s no cure for this curse.”

The sun and the moon would always be the stuff of fancy, leaving the ugly truths of the world to the darkness of shadows. Tobirama left his brother to his dreaming without another word.

xxx

Years later they would talk about how Madara finally came around and made peace with Hashirama. They would talk about how Mito smoothed relations between the two leaders as a voice of reason and gentle influence. They would never speak of this day, the total eclipse of shadow over light, the first step into the abyss. Not until it was too late to turn back.

“Izuna!” Madara screamed in the distance.

His blood was surprisingly warm for someone so coldhearted. It caressed Tobirama’s hand, loosening the grip about the hilt of his sword. Even as he plunged it deeper through Izuna’s chest, his free hand came up to push too-long bangs out of his eyes. Gone was the angry red of the Sharingan. A cough drew bloody spittle.

“T-Tobirama...”

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. They were equals, Senju and Uchiha, yin and yang. One could not exist without the other. One had no meaning without the other. A tight feeling in his throat made it hard to talk without his voice cracking.

“You were supposed to avoid that,” Tobirama said, kneeling them on the ground and supporting Izuna’s weight. “Any idiot could have avoided that.”

“I’m n-not an idiot.”

He was angry. So angry. “Damn you. Damn you to hell.”

Izuna smirked, blood dribbling down his chin. “Then I’ll wait for you there.”

Tears burned as Tobirama felt Izuna grip the hilt of his sword, only blood separating them. That was always how it had been. They were connected in every way but by blood, and in death he was sure of it.

“I suppose...you do know me...best.”

“Izuna, I—” I’m sorry.

“I know. I kn-know.”

Madara and Hashirama were running toward them, coming to their aid for the first time. The world was upside down. It should have been Madara, not Izuna. Shadows are incorporeal. They cannot die.

I am not my brother.

Izuna pushed the sword deeper and twisted it, dark eyes glazing over with the shock of pain. And still he smiled. Tobirama had never seen him smile. Hot tears dripped onto his hand, mixing with Izuna’s blood.

“Maybe...curses can be b-broken...after all.”

Not like this.

He was gone before their brothers could reach them.

xxx

It was a beautiful day in the Hidden Leaf Village. The sun was warm and a light breeze carried the scent of wildflowers to Tobirama’s porch where he sat enjoying the lazy afternoon. It was too hot for his Hokage regalia, so he’d discarded it over the back of his chair. He sensed her long before she turned the corner onto the street leading to his small abode.

“Mito.”

The redhead smiled and took a seat next to him. “Contemplating again, Hokage-sama?”

He stiffened. “Please don’t call me that.”

“It’s your title.”

“It’s my brother’s title.”

Mito’s smile faltered. “It’s yours now. He would be proud.”

Tobirama sighed. After all was said and done, he and Mito were the only ones left. It made no sense. How could shadows linger without light to guide them? He supposed he would lose his mind if not for her.

“How do you do it?” he asked. “Every day...how do you do it?”

Mito put a hand over her navel, perhaps without thinking, and Tobirama could almost see her eyes run red with the Kyuubi’s hatred as it tried to consume her. How did one overcome something so potent?

“I remember what it was like to love,” she said. “But it’s impossible without knowing hatred. Otherwise, you can’t tell the difference.” Knowing eyes as verdant as the forests her husband raised for them seemed to look right through him. “Izuna understood that, and I know you do, as well.”

Tobirama clenched a fist at the memory of his late rival. His enemy. The only one who had ever understood him. Darkness may give light a place to shine, but it can never receive the same courtesy in return. They’d never needed it, anyway.

“I can’t be Hashirama. I’ll never be like him.”

“You don’t have to be. Just don’t forget him. Any of them.”

How could I?

Mito smiled and rose to leave him in peace, but his voice stopped her.

“He was wrong, you know. The Uchiha’s curse couldn’t be broken in the end. That’s why I have to do what I’m doing.”

She watched him with an unreadable look in her eyes. After all that she’d been through with Madara and Hashirama, he supposed she could understand better than most what it meant to live with a curse.

“You’re wrong. You succeeded where Hashirama failed. Stop blaming yourself for saving him.”

He let her go, too stunned to refute her statement. He could not, just as he could not bring himself to disdain Uchiha Kagami when he saw so much of his uncle in him. And he wondered if Izuna had seen Konoha, would he have smiled the way he’d smiled in death?

The sun began its descent toward the horizon. Soon, the fireflies would be out and children would run through the streets to chase them, their laughter filling the air. Tobirama would watch from the shadows as he always did.

“You and I have the best view of the light from where we stand in the shadows.”

He sighed, a smile fighting to spread. It was easy to imagine Izuna next to him here, his silent companion in the darkness even now. He never really was alone in the end.

“Yes, we do.”

#naruto fic #tobiizu #hella old fic i did 7 years ago wow the time where doth it go?#read more got messed up so reposting

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izaswritings · 4 years ago

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all that’s left in the world | chapter four

Title: all that’s left in the world—

Synopsis: —is me.

Neku’s been shot and Shibuya is threatening to go the same way as Shinjuku, but just because the first Game is over doesn’t mean they’ve forgotten how to play.

Or: Neku deals with a nightmare city and his most annoying (and mathematical) partner yet; Shiki and Joshua commit an escalating number of illegal moves, Beat and Eri hunt down a stray Reaper, and Rhyme watches and waits for the counter-attack. Shibuya refuses to go down easy.

Fandom: The World Ends With You | TWEWY

Warnings: cursing, references to past murder a la Reaper’s Game, mild body horror (in a Noise-human fusion case), and implied erasure. Nothing super graphic, but be warned! Please let me know if there’s anything I missed.

AO3 Link is here!

Previous chapters are here!

part four: neku

I can’t hear a thing.

I hate it. I hate it. Where did everyone go? Where did everything…

It’s so quiet. Help me. Please, help me.

…

It’s too quiet.

Neku stares at the message for a long time.

He doesn’t move, but his fingers tighten, stiff around the phone. Kill the Composer of Shibuya. No mistaking that one. No mistaking the signature, either, or the time limit counting down on his hands. Yeah, okay. Okay.

There’s so much about the situation that infuriates him, but somehow, it’s this that makes Neku want to break something. Kill the Composer—be more original, he thinks, and grits his teeth. Always, always, kill the Composer. Well, poor fucking luck for her, then. Even if Neku wasn’t inclined to disregard every word Coco says by virtue of the whole being-murdered-again thing, this would cinch it. Why do people always pick Neku for this? Does he just have “potential assassin” written on his face or something?

Neku isn’t going to kill Joshua. He got his chance, months ago, and it was a way better set up then this farce: his friends taken, Shibuya on the line, Joshua a liar and a killer and still smiling, mild, like Neku’s anger was something vaguely amusing. A gun in his hands and a countdown to boot.

Neku hadn’t taken the shot, even then. He’s made his choice; he’s sticking with it. Joshua is an asshole—a liar—someone Neku is probably never going to be able to fully forgive. But he was Neku’s partner, too. And even this Neku can’t deny: the Game was horrible, but it changed him. He has friends now. He can see the world now. Sometimes, when he lifts his hands and closes his eyes, he can hear Shibuya’s music.

And yeah—it matters, too, that Neku’s still here. Because he lost, he’s pretty sure. He lost the Game. But Neku is alive and breathing and so are his friends, and they all have their memories, and even Rhyme...! And Shibuya is the same, except not somehow, Shibuya is brighter than ever and its almost blinding.

It’s not enough for Neku to forgive Joshua. It doesn’t take away what was done. But... it says something. About everything. That maybe Neku isn’t the only one who was changed by those three weeks.

Kill the Composer. Punch the Composer in the face, sure, but Neku clicks off the phone with a scowl. Sucks for Coco. Neku’s not playing this Game, thanks.

...Which is easier said than done. Sho Minamimoto, for example. And, you know, the time limit. Neku already knows what he’s not going to do, but that does leave the question of how the hell am I going to get out of this one.

Pi-Face must have been looking at the mission mail too, because now he’s laughing, a manic sort of snickering that makes Neku go still on pure instinct. Minamimoto, he’s found, only laughs like that when he’s about to, say, murder people, sick Taboo noise on them, or recite ten lines of pi and summon imaginary number explosions or some shit. Bad news either way.

“TANGENT,” Minamimoto shouts, and Neku blinks. “Fucking finally! This Game’s already getting zetta old, but this isn’t a bad solution at all.” His smile is full of teeth. “This is an equation I can get behind.”

Because facing Joshua worked out so well for you last time, Neku thinks, but keeps his mouth shut. He’d definitely noticed, with the ease of hindsight, how Joshua had killed Minamimoto—not with those burning beams of light that left scorch marks in the streets, but with the cars, the vending machines. And the casual way Joshua had dismissed him, that day in the throne room—I liked keeping him around—well.

Neku knows he couldn’t beat Joshua, even if he wanted to, which, no. And Neku beat Minamimoto once before. It... well, yeah, it doesn’t speak well of this guy’s chances, probably.

But again. Never, ever saying that aloud, holy shit.

“Whatever,” Neku decides, because as annoying as Pi-Face is, they’re partners whether Neku likes it or not, and he knows how these things work. Minamimoto, still grinning, closes the phone, shoves it in his pocket, and starts walking away. Neku stares after him. “What?”

And... no, yeah, he’s actually leaving. Oh, god.

“Hey,” Neku snaps, and races after him. “Where are you going? We have to stick together.”

Minamimoto squints at him and then turns away. “What, you’re still here?”

“Yes, I’m still—” Neku bites off the rest of it. Must get along with partner. Must get along... nah, screw it. “We’re in a pact. We can’t fight the Noise alone. We have to stick together—”

“Nah,” Minamimoto decides, and keeps on walking.

Neku stares after him, struck with a sudden and dizzying appreciation for Shiki. Had Neku ever been this bad? Had Neku been worse? How the hell had she not strangled him two minutes in?

He takes a deep breath. “Look,” he snaps. “I don’t like this much either, but if something happens to one of us, the other is screwed. I don’t like this any more than you do, but if we’re going to survive and figure a way out of this we have to work together.”

Still nothing. Neku narrows his eyes. Shit, okay. Math analogies, math analogies... “Unless you think you can make a working equation with just you.” Does that make sense? Well, whatever.

It works, at any rate—Minamimoto pauses, and after a moment he looks back, considering. Neku crosses his arms and scowls, trying to ignore the sinking sense in his gut. This might even be worse than his week with Joshua. For all of Joshua’s many, many irritating moments, he’d at least recognized and understood the basic principle of stick together. Death by no-one completing the mission had been a problem on day two, but Neku at least never had to worry about death by negligent partner who won’t recognize we’re in a pact.

After a moment, though, Minamimoto snorts and turns back around. “Zetta annoying,” he decides. “You better not slow me down, you useless radian. I don’t have time to proof. Though I guess you’ll be some help when I get around to crunching the Composer.” He grins, at that, cracking his knuckles.

Neku’s not really surprised by that response, but still. “What, you’re actually going to do it?” Try to do it. Same thing.

“What,” Minamimoto mimics, “you aren’t?” The smile returns, all teeth. “Either we crunch the numbers, or the numbers are going to crunch us. Constants don’t get a say in how they’re used.”

Math-speak for you’ll help me kill the Composer or I’ll make you, probably. Neku crosses his arms, unimpressed. “Sure,” he says, doubtful. “Either way, we have a problem.” He gestures around them the destroyed buildings and ruined streets. “I know Shibuya. This isn’t Shibuya. How the hell are you going to find the Composer? We’re not even in the right city!”

Minamimoto shrugs. “A possible miscalculation,” he allows. “I’ll figure a solution.”

You inspire so much confidence, Neku thinks, irritated. “Like what, exactly?”

Minamimoto snorts. “None of your concern,” he says dismissively, and starts walking away again.

Oh, yeah. Just as bad as Joshua. Maybe worse, because at least Joshua didn’t make Neku do math. Ugh.

Neku scowls at Minamimoto’s back and follows, resisting the urge to drag his feet. For all of Pi-Face’s easy dismissal of the worry, Neku’s still stuck on it. This place... it’s familiar, sure, but not in a good way. It’s ruined, ash and dust and smog choking the air, Noise filtering about the edges... but he can still recognize it, if only sideways. Those strange visions that had been blacking out his sight all day... yeah, Neku knows this place. This was the city that got destroyed in the dreams.

Why am I here?

He’s almost certain, now, that this is where Coco was trying to lead him and Beat; she’s succeeded in dragging Neku here, at least, but he still doesn’t know why. Why kill Joshua? No, wait, wrong question. Why try and kill Joshua like this? A Reaper’s Game twisted beyond recognition, and a mission to kill Shibuya’s Composer in a place that clearly isn’t Shibuya. Can they even leave this place? Is this just a trap to get them erased by an impossible mission with a definite time limit? But then—why seven days to complete it? She could have set it to five minutes and dusted them that way.

It doesn’t make any sense, Neku thinks, and tugs once at his hair in frustration before letting go. He’s sick of this. Plots and plans and Neku stuck in the strings, and damn, he did not fucking miss this.

For a moment his hands shake. He squeezes his eyes shut, and exhales very slowly. His eyes are burning. And that’s—that’s fine. This is fair, isn’t it? He’d thought he was done with Games, but now he’s back here again, so it makes sense, it’s fine, he just needs…

He just needs a moment.

The air is so stiff here. Silent and empty. Every inhale is tinged with dust, and the city itself is a dead place—no wind, dead air, stale and settling and starting to rot. It’s hollow in a way that echoes. It aches. He misses Shibuya so suddenly it dizzies him. The crowds—the music—the world.

I didn’t ask for this.

But it doesn’t matter. Not really. Neku’s made his decision, and he’s going to stick to it—his only concern is getting out of this. And hey, track record, right? He’s done the impossible before. He can… he can figure this out.

He opens his eyes, and exhales again. He grits his teeth and pulls himself together. Okay. He can do this. He will do this. He’s going to figure out this new Game and he’s going to come back to Shiki and Beat alive and well. If Coco thinks she’s got him beaten, then she’s got another thing coming.

But still. As he picks his way across the ruined landscape, Neku can’t help but feel, with a sinking sense of dread, that there’s still so much worse to come.

They explore the city for a while, in silence—Minamimoto leading, like he’s forgotten Neku is there, and Neku trailing behind, keeping one eye on his irritating partner and one eye on their surroundings, wary of an ambush.

The city is... awful, Neku thinks, and the longer he stays here the more it makes his skin crawl. The streets are totally empty; the Noise are either everywhere or nowhere at all. No more strange, distorted symbols in the air; no more chance of avoiding them. They always watch them pass with blank, gleaming eyes—and that’s another thing, too. The Noise aren’t right. The Noise are dead silent.

Everything, Neku is finding, is dead silent.

The Noise don’t make—well, noise. There’s no wind—no birds—nothing. Even their footsteps feel muffled and dim, as if Neku’s walking on cotton, unable to make any noise louder than a whisper. When he speaks, it feels like he has to shout to be heard—like the total silence of the city is swallowing his voice whole, taking it all in, giving nothing back.

The worst part, though, is that there’s no Music.

When Neku left the Reaper’s Game for good, and first awoke alive and well on the Scramble Crossing... memories, and friends, and nightmares hadn’t been the only things he’d taken away from the Game. Sometimes, when Neku closed his eyes and put his hands over his ears and just let the murmur of the city wash over him, he could hear it—a song, or the Song, Shibuya in entirety, a music he could never really describe and could hardly imagine living without. It was chaotic and chiming and... Shibuya. Just Shibuya.

It was a comfort. And now it’s gone.

And he knows—Neku knows, logically, that even if there was Music here it wouldn’t be the same—this isn’t Shibuya, isn’t home. But even so, he’d rather hear an unfamiliar song than this... nothingness. This absence. This void in the air where music used to sing and people used to laugh, and just—there’s nothing, now. There’s a lack. There’s a hole.

I can’t hear a thing, he thinks, and it feels like his thought and yet it feels nothing like him at all, and for a moment the silence presses down on him. Panic coats his tongue. Despair squeezes at his chest. It’s less pain and more an echo if it; someone else’s words, ringing through him. For a moment his vision washes out into white.

I hate it. Where did it go? It’s too quiet. Come back. Come back!

Neku stumbles forward. Again. It’s happening again. He can hardly breathe. He presses a hand to his temple. “Who are you?” he whispers. He’s almost certain, now. This isn’t him. This is someone else. But who? “You keep—calling to me, who—”

Please help me. Static fuzzes in his ears. His eyes burn. Help me. Oh, god. Oh, god, please, someone help me—!

“Useless radian,” a new voice snaps, and the echoing words cut off with a snap, so quick it leaves Neku almost breathless. “Get up.”

He’s on his knees, Neku realizes. When had he fallen? He presses his hand against the concrete, gray and ashy beneath his palm, and lifts his head to glare.

Minamimoto looks unimpressed. “I don’t bother with inherently flawed calculations,” he warns, and then grins. “Match the parameters or get deleted, yoctogram.”

How nice, Neku thinks, dryly. Now he’s not sure if the headache pounding behind his eyes is from the echo, or just from listening to Minamimoto talk. Or both. Asshole.

“I’m fine,” Neku says, finally. His hands are shaking. He curls them against the concrete, and tries to remember how to breathe. “I… I’m fine.”

Minamimoto snorts. “Who gives a digit? Just get up. There’s a problem.”

“Huh?” Neku pushes to his feet, wavering a little. His legs feel shaky. He’s not in pain anymore, but the memory of that hollow ache is enough to make him shiver. That voice. That fear. Those visions, again. Just what is going on?

Minamimoto runs a hand back through his hair and grins, unsettling. “We have a new addition.”

“What?”

Minamimoto lifts his chin towards the far end of the street, seemingly unconcerned. Neku follows his gaze. They’ve stuck to the main roads, thus far; this one is three lanes wide and shadowed by empty skyscrapers turned hollow and half-eaten, like they’ve been decayed from the top-down. The fog of white dust makes it hard to see, but if Neku squints…

A blurry shadow of a figure lingers at the end of the road.

Neku blinks. Not just a figure. A humanoid figure. Moving. Holy shit. Is that… is there really someone else here?

His blood runs cold. Coco? Or… could it be—the girl from his visions?

But there’s something off about the figure, and Neku finds himself reaching for his pins before he can think better of it. He doesn’t trust this. Too much about this Game isn’t right—not just the missions, but even the rules of the world turned on its head. All of his pins work even when he’s not fighting the Noise. He doesn’t have a Player Pin, but he’s definitely in the UG. The Noise no longer pull them into an alternate dimension; they’re fully formed and waiting and watching, with eyes blank and white like a dead pin. And the silence, too...

No. This isn’t right. And as the figure shuffles towards them, Neku steps back and pulls a Lightning Rook to his hand, because he’s not so sure that’s a person, either.

Minamimoto is grinning, though something has turned sharp at the edges of his smile. “Ugh.”

“What is it?”

“I miscalculated.” He studies the figure and slides back into a stance. For a moment, he seems to blur at the edges. “Should have carried the evidence to its conclusion. Tch, embarrassing. This was simple math.”

Neku squints at the figure. They’re shuffling forward, coming into view, and when he sees them in full, he blanches. “Is that—”

“Yep.” Minamimoto makes a harsh noise in his throat, looking disgusted. “Inversion. The system’s all screwed up. Noise in the RG, UG in fractions... and sometimes you get equations that just don’t work out.”

Inversion? The hell? But there’s no time to ask. The figure is close enough now to see in entirety and— oh.

Neku can’t breathe.

They look—they must be—that’s a person, isn’t it? A businessman, he thinks, with slicked back black hair and a pale gray suit, jolting faintly with every step. They must be a person. Except they have a Noise’s colorful scrawls winding all the way down their arms and face and there’s wings peeling out bloody and painful from their back and sharp teeth jutting from their gums and oh, fuck, Neku never wanted to know what a human-Noise combo would look like and he’s really not happy to have found out now.

The Noise humanoid opens up their mouth and screams. There is no sound, but the air grates. Neku slams his hands over his ears, and in the distance, Sho Minamimoto is laughing.

“Caught between the frequencies, are you?” he says, looking delighted. “So zetta cool. Zetta sucks, too. Don’t worry. You’re about to get deleted.” He draws back his hand. To Neku: “You better not slow me down!”

Neku falters. “Wait,” he says. “Wait wait wait, that’s a person, what happens to them if we—”

“Ugh, do the math!” Zetta shut up, Neku thinks back. “What do you think happens to Noise-possessed people when it all gets Inversed?”

Neku stills. Noise-possessed people. Which means...

He draws back his hand. Okay. Okay. He doesn’t understand most of that, but... if they defeat this person, will that help? Will the Noise leave them? Will they go back to normal?

He doesn’t know. What he does know is that looks painful. Either way, Neku isn’t going to be able to back away from this.

Minamimoto laughs and throws himself into the fight with a sharp, vicious war cry of “Infinity!” It is familiar in a way that makes something in Neku ache; he stills, and refuses to look beside him. Joshua isn’t there. Joshua isn’t with him. In fact, he hasn’t really seen Joshua in almost a month, not since the Game ended.

And yet. For a moment, he can almost hear the laughter.

Neku shakes his head. He’s not fighting Minamimoto, he’s fighting with him, and he needs to start acting like it. Neku reaches for his pins.

“You better be right about this,” Neku snaps, and attacks.

Lightning Rook in one hand, Electric Warning, Velocity Attack, Raven, and two healing pins. Neku flips them through his fingers, watching Minamimoto dart across the area, and sets his feet. He still has the Fusion pin—he’d made sure to check, and thank goodness for that—which means so long as he times this right, they should sync up and hopefully be able to…

He preps the lightning in his hand, and then Minamimoto appears right in front of him.

“Shit!” Neku jerks his hand away—the lightning flashes and bangs, gone wild, darting up and out of range, crackling harmless in the air. What? What!? “Watch where you’re going, asshole!”

Minamimoto just cackles. “Useless components should just stay put!”

“Hey, wait!” In the distance, the Noise opens its mouth in a silent scream, and the world warps like putty. Pi-Face grins like a shark and vanishes from view. Neku curses at him, and throws himself down.

The air explodes above his head; Neku ducks out of range and then rolls back on his feet, angry now. “Are you kidding me?” he demands, to no-one, and reaches for his pins again.

The lightning jumps for his fingers eagerly. The power is a head rush. Neku grits his teeth and blasts at the Noise again. Despite all of his annoyance, the weight of the pins in his hands is a comfort. It’s almost soothing. He hates this, he hates fighting, but—

But Neku has missed this, too. That breath of power, that static on his tongue… he’d missed it. Why? He doesn’t want to. But he finally feels settled, feet flat on the ground. Minamimoto is an annoyance, this new Game a mystery, Coco a threat—but here in this fight, Neku is steady. I can do this.

Minamimoto cuts him off again; Neku switches pins with a mutter and throws himself out of range of the Noise’s shockwave. The silent screaming thing is seriously starting to vex him. He takes up the pin again, aiming—

Pi-Face, sneering, flickers into view and kicks the Noise back. “So zetta slow!”

Neku grits his teeth. “Would you just—hey! We need to sync up! Stop getting in the way!”

Minamimoto scoffs. Neku clenches his fists. “You—”

And then Minamimoto is gone again—and then he is right in front of him—and then he is kicking Neku right in the side, hard enough to send him flying back. Neku just barely gets his arm up in time to block most of the blow; his whole forearm sears with pain. Minamimoto is grinning again, sharp and wild.

Neku stumbles, catches his feet, and stills, his pins burning in his palm. Attack your partner is never the mission. It’s never the mission. It’s never—

“What the hell are you doing?” Neku says, quietly. “Do you have any idea—”

“Cooperation is trash,” Minamimoto says, far too gleefully. “We’re looped in the same equation, sure, but I crunch the numbers. Get in my way, you get factored out.” He steps away, turning his back, piece said. Neku sees red.

Raven has always been a favored pin. Neku tosses a streetlamp at him.

Minamimoto dodges, of course—and when he turns back around, his expression is frightening. “You are so—”

“Partners!” Neku snarls, talking over him. “We’re in a pact, you… we have to work together!”

“Crunch! That opinion was garbage. I’ll throw it on the pile.”

Must. Not. Murder. Partner. “You’re not a Reaper anymore. You don’t have the wings, we’re in a pact, you have the same fucking timer I do—either we fight together, or we’re going to lose.” He takes a quick, tight breath. Sota. Nao. All those Players, even the Reapers… but Neku can’t afford to die here. “Work with me here. You don’t want to die again, right? Well neither do I! So help me! And let me help you.”

Asshole, he adds, internally.

Minamimoto looks like he’s considering it, which of course— of course! —is when the humanoid Noise attacks again. Go figure. Fucking fantastic. Neku wants to bang his head against a wall.

But when he rises from his dodge, Minamimoto flickers into view beside him again. He looks annoyed. Grudging. And his face twists up, but he says: “Fine. Whatever,” and it is not the glowing confirmation Neku was hoping for but god, damn, he’ll take it.

“Finally,” Neku mutters, and flips a pin. “Then let’s do this. If you take it from behind, I’ll blast it from the front.”

Minamimoto scoffs again. He vanishes without a word. Neku rolls his eyes, and sets his feet.

Lightning in the air, Minamimoto’s taunting insults, the Noise’s silent screaming and the warping air—but while they are not entirely in sync, this time it’s enough. The Noise is slowing, wing tattered and limp, face fuzzing from view—and the Fusion pin warms against Neku’s wrist.

He activates it. “Get ready!”

“Fucking finally! So zetta slow!”

“Argh, you—!”

It’s like stepping into a web. Lines and angles and numbers and—and Neku grits his teeth against the overload, the power slipping through his fingers, and reaches back. Equalities, balances, equals to. He clicks the numbers into place, and feels power burning through his hands.

(And for a moment: something is off. Something is wrong. A power that is neither his nor Minamimoto’s. Something else. Someone else? Not quite a pact, but… like moving in sync. A mirroring.

A connection.)

Something shatters.

It’s like white noise in his ears—the empty static—the imaginary plane. For a moment there is a hole in the world, in the sound, in the noise—there is music, sharp and rhythmic and singing through the air—and then they are back, and his ears are ringing, and there is a person, Noise-less, lying slumped on the street.

Neku blinks fast. The bitter taste of ozone lingers on his tongue. He breathes past it, and rushes for the body. “Hey! Are you okay?”

No answer. Oh, shit. Neku kneels by the man, reaching out, and freezes when his hand passes right through. “Wait—wait, no—”

The man fades away, as fragile as a dream. Neku doesn’t move.

Behind him, Minamimoto makes an interested sound. “So, the Inversion takes it all. Noise or nothing. A full circle.”

Neku curls his fingers. He still doesn’t know what the hell this Inversion thing is, but he’s starting to get the gist. “You mean…” So there was no saving the guy? Either existing as a fusion with Noise, or not existing at all? Is this what’s become of all the people in this place?

Neku grits his teeth. He bows his head.

Minamimoto makes a scornful noise and turns away. “Let’s go,” he says, dismissively. “We’re subtracting time.”

Neku clenches his jaw and rises to his feet. Right, he thinks. Right. It’s not over yet. Whatever happened here, whatever this is… he still has time to figure this out. Maybe… maybe he can find out what happened to this place, too. To these people.

He’s not playing to win, after all. He’s playing to finish this. He can add one more mystery to the list.

But for all his determination, his mood has soured. Minamimoto is walking down the street, casual as he pleases, but Neku lingers on the road, subdued, bitter despite himself. He looks up at the sky, and thinks of the mission mail, of that almost-presence during the fusion, the almost-whisper in his ears.

High above him, the sky flickers cold and red. The clouds churn like boiling water. When he blinks, he can see the afterimage of it on his eyes, like an imprint of the Reaper’s skull, glaring down at him. Burning.

“Hey,” he says. “Are you there?”

He waits. But no one answers.

Neku blinks the red from his eyes until the sky is gray and cold once more, then turns and walks away.

#twewy #the world ends with you #neku sakuraba #sho minamimoto #joshua kiryu #twewy fic #fic: all that's left in the world #iza fanfic

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fthisshiiimout · 5 years ago

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" Hope is a dangeous thing" Michael Guerin's words of wisdom! He said it to Max and said it to Maria! But I really hope every single MALEX fan took it to heart cause it was really meant for US!

I dont care what people say in this fandom anymore. "I dont want to hear spoilers" " no spoilers" " you should tag your shit as a spoiler" NO IM NOT GOING TO! Ya know why?? Because Carina herself wouldnt have shown her shit if she didnt want SPOILERS OUT!! DUHH! And Im ranting because Im sick of the headgames with this show..it ridiculous..no wonder why people in this fandom are dropping like flies.

And Im sick and tired of the back and forth between M/M and M/A. Im sick of the headgames with the showrunner as well! One day its " Oh its Maria..shes his light" and whatever else is spewed. And the next its " Ohh Michael and Alex there journey is from darkness to light" and whatever other bullshit is spewed. Cause in reality its all Bullshit to keep Malex fans and Miluca fans to keep watching and fighting. If you ever cared to look at the ratings for season 1 they were abysmal. Only the first 2 episodes got over a million viewers. Which is horrible..but in full disclosure Theres only 1 CW show that has really any kind of following ( and hint hint its not Supernatural..That shows ratings are going down faster then a hooker on payday). Believe me I did the research. I dont understand why they are putting it after a tanking show if they want more viewers ( No disrespect to Supernatural, my daughter and husband love this show). But I digress..

The show runners know where there bread is buttered on this show and it is with MALEX fans. It even overshadows the Liz/Max shippers and Definitely over shadows Michael and Maria. Hell Vlamis and Tyler realized it pretty quickly..Vlamis made a sold out Merch line because of it. And they are the captains of this ship because they see the potential of how big it can be. Hell even the CW pr team figured it out! Thats why in the trailer we saw Malex and no Miluca?? Its not rocket science to figure this out!

So why now are the showrunners literally shitting on the LGBTQ+ community by taking away the only couple that represent that population on that show?? Then placating the community with "ooh Alex gets a new love interest" and the obscure and downright awkward " oh someone who Identified as straight in the beginning of the season will not be at the end". What a FUCKING FARCE! Like really?? As a community are we that desperate or obtuse?? Did nobody roll there eyes at this bullshit? Or am I the only one? We have a perfectly "cosmic" gay ship in front of us! Yes with baggage..no denying that..but thats the drama of TV I get it.

The reason is because the showrunners have no plans to make Malex anymore. There I said it and I SAW IT FIRSTHAND! In 2x01 Michael told Alex straight up they "were done" it was pretty cut and dry and lasted all of 2 mins...good to know Malex fans get two mins of heartbreak..that should tell you something. While Michael and Maria had 3 scenes..maybe more together. Granted they were not together at the end of 2x01 but According to Heather they will be trying to " ignite the spark between them" for the entire season. And that they're love is " exciting and blah blah blah".. No one gives a shit. Least of all me. But you can clearly see thats where its headed.

Also in season 1 there were some big hints too that I myself overlooked but they were glaring but subtle like the Max/Cam love scene intertwined with the Michael/Alex scene and the song playing in the background..that was telling... You dont see Max and Cam together. Or 1x12 prison scene " Cant love me" playing in the background and the words Michael spit at Alex..I dont think they were complete lies. Michael felt them on some lvl. And Alex's own words " Sometimes the world ends with a wimper, Guerin".. Those were all meant for Malex shippers as well.

And what about this "see if we can " be friends" or " we didn't even know each other" bullshit! I hate those lines..Like really?? Michael moved back to Roswell when he was 11..which meant that they went to school and living in a small town grew up together. At least for 7 or so yrs. They must have knew each other just for the simple fact of the Liz/Max dynamic..I grew up in many a small town i know this dynamic well. EVERYONE LITERALLY KNOWS EVERYONE! Maybe they didn't really hook up till the end of senior year. But they knew each other and I can almost bet that Alex admired Michael's protectiveness and Michael admired Alex's strength. And they also must have known about each others abusive pasts to a point..logic dictates that. And relationships have been built and survived on less.And if the showrunners wanted to make them " friends" for a time I could even tolerate it..tolerate being the operative word.

But no Michael's gonna "light the spark" with Maria..because in reality thats what the showrunners want. They dont give a shit about Malex working through their shit like logic adults would. And that's fine It just frustrates me that I was sold a lie..and every Malex shipper was too. Wake up fellow shippers and see it too. Or dont..Lies are comfortable like a warm blanket on a cold night. Everyone has some delusion they cling to..much like hope.

My last frustration with the ending of this ship will be that it is laid solely at Alex's feet. "He kept walking away", " He abandoned Michael for 10 yrs", "He left him behind", "I love him, I probably always will..but hes tied to all these horrible memories in my life. All the things his family did to mine. Coming back to him always feels like a crash landing" or the newest and deepest when Alex was giving him the file from Caulfield " Manes men did this to her".. Its always going to be Alex's fault. I wonder if Tyler knew the full extent of the way Alex was gonna be shit on. I dont think Tyler being openly queer himself would be ok with that kind of representation of the Gay community. Its pretty jarring... Honestly I can almost guarantee they probably " promised" him a more normal gay relationship with this new " character" Forrest. Whatever the case may be its still bullshit. Michael seems to hold no responsibility to it.

And Michael will still get the girl and be in his hetero relationship with Maria..because Im asking the question..is he really bi? Evidence in the show doesn't specifically back that up. The only man we see him with is Alex..I havent heard or seen him with other men. Even Michael himself said "Its just him..screws me up".. So maybe "Pan" is a better description?

So RIP Malex! It was good while it lasted.."cosmic" even..but the showrunners killed you off before you even got the opportunity to take flight! ( This is a rant about the showrunners and writers for the fake promise of Malex. I seriously have no issue with Maria or the actress per se...and if the showrunners wanted M/M they should have just started in Season 1 with them).

#roswell new mexico #roswell cw #roswellnm #malex #alex manes #michael guerin

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dothwrites · 5 years ago

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spill your blood upon the floor

Dean/Castiel--Hitman AU (some violence)

---

The taste of copper in Dean’s mouth is an unsurprising, but still unwished for, development to his night.

Knuckles slam into his mouth once more. Dean turns his head and spits. He licks his lips and tastes blood, thick and rusty, on his tongue. “Keep on going, if that’s what it takes to get it up,” he sneers.

Again, not surprising when Mook #3 slams his fist into his face.

It was supposed to be just a simple recon job--snoop around, take a looksie, and then get out. No muss, no fuss, and Dean’s back at his safe-house in time to catch up on the latest rerun of Dr. Sexy. But instead, he’s got his hands tied behind his back and his ankles tied to the legs of a rickety chair that’s quite frankly seen better days. Somehow, they’d managed to trip an alarm and then there had been guys rushing in. Dean had gotten a quick glimpse of Cas before he disappeared.

Fucker could have at least waited, Dean thinks, scraping his wrists raw against the rough rope.

“What is Michael planning?” His interrogator’s voice isn’t as calm and collected as it was when they started this little farce. Fuck ‘em. They can all burn in hell as far as Dean’s concerned.

“Fuck off,” he says, rolling his eyes as he shifts his wrists. He’s going to have marks for days, but he thinks that he felt a little slack in the ropes.

“Why were you here?”

Dean shrugs. It’s hard with what he’s fairly certain is at least a cracked rib, but he manages the gesture well enough. “Vacation spot?” he offers, and once again, with the pithy, knuckle-filled retort from Dumbass.

He’s been here enough times to know how this goes: Dumb and Dumber will beat him up, knock him around a little bit, maybe even bring out something kinky like the knives or the blowtorch. He’ll wrestle free of the ropes, because in thirty-three years he hasn’t yet found the pair of cuffs or ropes that will hold him. He’ll leave here--a little bloodier and bruised than he was when he entered, but Henchmen 1-3 won’t survive long enough to get their hourly cut.

Dean’s rate is too high to waste him on low-profile shit like babysitting headquarters, but if he were in their spot he knows what he’d do. You ask once. If you get an answer that you like, fine. If you get an answer that you don’t like, fine. It ends the same--two in the chest, one in the head, wipe the gun and toss it in the river.

Fucking amateurs.

So he’ll sit here, and take a beating, because fuck it, what else was he going to do with his Friday night? He does want to know where Cas buggered off to. Not that he was expecting loyalty, but he would have thought that Cas would have stuck around to at least report the details of his death to Michael.

Thing is, Dean wasn’t supposed to survive his partnership with Cas. No one had previously. Cas killed his last partner (granted, his last partner was a traitor intending on selling the whole organization out) with a cold knife through the throat. No regrets, no qualms. Man he worked with for five years, dead on the floor, and all Cas did was stare at the body for a second before walking away.

Dean’s heard the other stories--Cas killed his own brothers, Cas burned down Raphael’s whole organization. Cas spent so long on Raphael that when he was done, there wasn’t anything left to identify--just a pink smear on the floor. He doesn’t know how many of the stories that he believes, but he does know something for sure.

Cas is crazy.

Not the kind of crazy that they all are, the kind that laughs after an adrenaline rush, the kind that gets a little hard from the pain, the kind that always pushes it just that little bit farther just so you can see if this time’s really it. No, Cas is crazy crazy, batshit crazy, shove a penknife in someone’s eye and laugh crazy. The rabid dog kind of crazy, one of the ones that you have to put down before it turns around and bites you.

Cas ripped a guy’s throat out with his teeth once. Dean saw it. Hands tied behind his back, dark hair fisted in some meathead’s fingers, and the asshole was just pounding Cas’ face. Cas was laughing, huge belly laughs. His teeth flashed white in the mess of red and then there was--Well. Dean had known the amount of blood that was in a human body, but it was different when most of that blood was dripping down Cas’ chin and throat.

That was when the first hot, dark curl of something twisted through Dean’s gut.

He hadn’t been under the impression that he and Cas were really tight, but he’d at least thought that Cas might stick around. Sometimes Cas looks at him, with that heavy, purposeful gaze, the kind that makes Dean wonder whether or not Cas is going to kill him or fuck him, and there should be something that happens, but. Nothing ever does.

Dean’s head snaps back as another punch lands on his cheek. The skin splits open and blood flows down his face. He can take more. He has taken more.

“You think that you can last forever?” Mook #2 sneers. Dean doesn’t bother trying to hide the roll of his eyes.

Out of the corner of his eye, a shadow separates from the rest of the wall.

Dean lolls his head forward to hide his grin. Blood drips in a steady stream from his nose and mouth onto his lap, but he can’t stop the delighted little squirm in the pit of his stomach. It touches something darker in him, something that he doesn’t look at but out the corner of his eye whenever he catches sight of himself in a mirror.

“You’re just a hired hand, you’re not family, not--”

When Dean was younger, back before his entire life went to shit, he saw a tornado touch down one time. Even from a mile away, he could see the cloud of debris tossed up in the wake of the storm. He could smell the violence of it, appreciate the sheer destruction held in something so ephemeral.

Watching Castiel Novak fight is like watching a storm. Nothing is wasted--not the knife that slices into a hamstring and then a throat, not the gun that fires a clean shot through Mook #1′s throat. Mook #2, realizing his tenuous position, starts to run towards the exit, but Cas doesn’t even let him get three steps before he’s on him. Jesus, Dean’s expecting it, and he doesn’t even catch the moment when Cas shifts from kneeling on the ground to tackling the running man down.

“We can give you what you want,” the henchman gurgles. His breathing is cut off in no small part to Cas’ hand wrapped unforgiving around his throat. “Whatever you want--information, money? Drugs? I can make sure that you--”

Cas turns to look at Dean. All of that fearsome focus is narrowed to a single point, to Dean, and yeah, Dean’s a little fucked up. Cas never takes his eyes off of Dean, not when he slides the knife between the man’s ribs, not when he withdraws it to the soundtrack of a slow death rattle. Dean gets a little chub from the sheer disregard that Cas shows the man. Like his life means nothing. The way that Cas stares at him, it’s like Dean’s the only thing on the face of the earth that could ever matter.

Dean’s no fucking saint. He loves it.

Cas unfolds, slowly, like a threat. He never speaks as he stalks over to where Dean’s still tied, face like an oncoming storm. Blood drips off the blade of his knife, leaving tiny little spatters in its wake. They’ll have to burn the building down afterward, but jesus, it’s worth it, to watch how Cas’ lip curls in a silent snarl.

Cas is crazy. Dean fucking loves it.

“Hey Cas,” he says. The arrogance in his voice is a bad idea, but Dean could no sooner stop that tone than he could fix the synapses that fire wrong in Cas’ brain. “Was wondering when you’d show up.”

Cas lays the flat of his blade against Dean’s throat, smearing his skin with another’s man’s blood. He presses, just hard enough to almost nick the skin but not quite.

“You’re reckless,” Cas says, his voice honey-whiskey gravel. Jesus, Dean could come from that voice. “Insouciant.”

Dean leers. “Tell me something that I don’t know. You at least got what we came for, right?”

Cas’ face is unreadable. The knife slips in his hand, but Cas doesn’t slip. He deliberately moves his wrist, lets the blade cut into Dean’s neck. “I should have left you,” he says.

The words sound like they’re meant as a warning for Dean, but the tone is wrong. The tone makes it sound like Cas is speaking aloud and working something out for himself.

A hand shoots out and fists itself in Dean’s hair. “I should have left you,” Cas hisses. Bright pain sparks along Dean’s scalp as he shakes him once, hard.

Dean’s lips pull back from his teeth in a smile that’s half pain, half sneer. “And you didn’t. Why?”

Thing is, Cas is crazy. He was supposed to kill Dean. Dean knows that the assholes in Michael’s organization were betting on how long he would last--some of them had him lasting a full two weeks, while others put his survival rate at a few hours. Joke’s on them--six months in and Dean’s still alive, still staring at the face of the storm, fearing it. Wanting to taste it.

If Cas were a normal person, with normal emotions, Dean might be able to read his expressions. But Cas is Cas--looking into his eyes is like peering into the deepest depths of the ocean and hoping that nothing peers back.

The ropes fall away from Dean’s wrists--when did Cas even move? Without ever taking his eyes off of Cas, Dean bends over to work at the knots around his ankles. Cas stares at him. He has a bloody knife in his hands, his fingers are filthy with the remnants of other people’s lives, and yet there’s something feral and hunted in his posture.

“Fucking watch yourself Winchester. Next time I won’t come back.”

Cas stalks away. Within a few steps, he’s blended back into the shadows, like he was never there. Dean stares after him for a minute, until he can calm the rapid beat of his heart. Then, he picks himself up from the chair and rolls out the discomfort in his joints.

Blood trickles down his neck, intimate as a kiss.

Physical love is unthinkable without violence. --Milan Kundera

#destiel #destiel fic #destiel fanfic #dean winchester #castiel #dothwrites #supernatural #this came out a lot saner than i meant it to #but oh well

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