#lance is Thirty but he is also Angsting which emotion will win | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

strawberry-skies-xx · 4 years

Text

forget the bottle

C H A P T E R T W O

tags: geralt / jaskier, yennefer, PTSD, post-s1e6, s1e6 fix-it, a fix-it of sorts, pyschological trauma, psychological torture, magical fuckery, mind manipulation, aftermath of psychological torture, emotional/psychological abuse, torture, nilfgaard, captured by nilfgaard, fringilla, fluff and angst, protective yennefer, yennefer ships it, idiots in love, love confessions, happy ending, solitary confinement

author’s note: scheduled tuesday + thursday posting.

main masterlist || story on ao3 || next chapter >>

-0-0-0-

Jaskier fell asleep seven songs later, woke up, and didn’t know whether he was even awake. The cell was still completely dark, there were no sounds, nothing to indicate if he was awake or in a dream. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, trying to ignore the panic dancing at the edges of his breath, the edges of his vision and his mind, and focused on the way he shivered in the cold.

He sat silently against the wall for several minutes, not knowing what to do. He didn’t know what they were going to do to him, but he had barely been here for two days and he was already longing for human contact other than that damned sorceress and soldiers. He wanted to see light, wanted to see the sky and the sun and the flowers. Jaskier couldn’t believe he’d ever taken that for granted.

He felt too much, all the time, and loneliness was no different. Heartbreak was needles, fear was spiders, dread was cold. Loneliness was just empty, hollow. Something in him that was just… a void, filled with nothing. Jaskier hated the feeling of loneliness more than most everything else, most likely because he so rarely felt it he didn’t have any defense against it. Singing and talking to nothing only lasted for so long, and Jaskier knew his limits. He wasn’t going to last, no matter how hard he tried. He was going to break to Nilfgaard, tell them everything he knew about Geralt, and he’d become their slave, he guessed. There were rumors that Nilfgaard participated in slavery. Or, he’d become some noble’s songbird. That was also a fate he didn’t want, but he supposed he wouldn’t have a choice.

Jaskier leaned his head back against the wall again, brought his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, and started singing again.

-0-0-0-

On the fourth day, Jaskier finally roused himself to move, driven by his parched throat and cracking voice. He found a bucket of water in the corner, almost spilled it when he found it with his roaming hands, and found a cup beside it. The water seemed clean - and even if it wasn’t, Jaskier would take anything he could get. They certainly weren’t giving him food anytime soon, so this was all he had to survive on.

He dipped the cup in the water, finding it cold, and pulled it back out before drinking his fill greedily, like he hadn’t had water in days - which, he hadn’t.

He filled it up three more times, and even the water didn’t fill the void of loneliness spreading in him. The water didn’t help the heartbreak needling at him, the fear making his skin itch, the dread trickling down his spine like ice. He had nothing to defend against his emotions, nothing to distract himself with except for a bucket of water and a cup, and he could feel himself falling, slowly breaking.

Jaskier sighed, feeling the exhaustion of being starved for days pulling at him, and set the empty cup down, leaned back against the wall, and let sleep take him. Or not. He had no idea if this was a dream or if he was awake, it was so dark and he was so cold and so tired.

-0-0-0-

Jaskier’s voice gave out on the eighth day.

-0-0-0-

Jaskier was curled on his side on the floor on the sixteenth day, silent and shivering and so fucking hungry. The cramps bit at him, devoured him from the inside out, and he was left with only his mind - which wasn’t even at optimal speed either.

He gave a soft whimper and curled up more, felt the cold stone press against his too-sharp, bare shoulder and too-thin feet, cried out as the sharp hunger pains lanced through him followed by the heartbreak and loneliness and fear and dread. It was all too much, far too much, and the smell of his piss in one corner he had designated wasn’t helping.

Jaskier was breaking, slowly but surely, and Fringilla and all of Nilfgaard was waiting for it.

-0-0-0-

Come on, Jaskier, came Fringilla’s voice, in his fucking mind, and he jerked awake, eyes wide and darting around the room.

He cried out, regretting the movement instantly as the hunger pains shot through his stomach and he returned to the fetal position, staying there after he realized it was all in his head.

Come to Nilfgaard. We can help you, we will help you. All you have to do is open up to us, tell us the Witcher’s behavior, came the mage’s calm voice, magic weaving around him.

Jaskier groaned quietly, burying his head in his knees. Fuck off, he thought.

You’ll see sense soon, she said, and retreated just as Jaskier felt the magic sharpen into singular intent and sleep dragged him down.

-0-0-0-

He’s not coming back for you, Jaskier. Don’t you want to get revenge? He discarded you like trash. That’s all you were to him. A nuisance, an annoyance. Nilfgaard will help you. We will help you make him see the wrongs done to you.

Get the fuck out of my head.

-0-0-0-

Jaskier tried to sing again on the twenty-eighth day, but his voice gave out on the first syllable and Fringilla’s voice replaced his, strong and smooth and so, so persuasive.

He never liked your singing, she said in his mind, magic twirling and weaving around him, fluid and easy. Jaskier envied it. Never gave it a compliment, never called it something good. He insulted it, despised it. You would do better just to be quiet, like he wanted, if you were ever to go back to him.

Jaskier threaded his fingers in his hair and pulled, added the sharp pain of it to the pain of his hunger, the pain of his heartbreak and the numb of the loneliness, the ice of the dread and the acrid fear. No, he thought weakly. Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off.

Fringilla didn’t pay any mind to his protests. He always told you your chatter was annoying. Didn’t you see what you were doing to him?

Jaskier gave a full-body flinch when the magic around him sharpened into intent, drove into his mind, and ripped out the scene he tried so hard to forget, forcing it to flash through his mind in vivid color and sound.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”

The magic left as quickly as it had come, and Jaskier started to shake as Fringilla’s voice continued. He hated this, hated it all so much, wanted to cry and scream and rage, but he was stuck in a weak human body, being starved and isolated with nothing but the same fucking mage talking in his head for hours on end. He felt the hope still glowing inside him crack as he shook, splinter as tears started falling and he went limp against the floor.

He never loved you. He is not coming for you. You can’t truly care about him anymore, not when he never cared for you. You annoyed him, you made it worse for him. Give up, Jaskier. He doesn’t care about you. No one is coming for you.

Jaskier cried, and shook, and didn’t even have the energy to tell her to fuck off.

-0-0-0-

Thirty one days passed, though Jaskier wouldn’t know that. He was stuck in a haze of near-insanity, mentally talking to himself when he wasn’t talking to Fringilla, startled by every noise - not that there were many - and his heartbeat pounded constantly in his ears, like a drum. The cell smelled even more strongly like piss, and it was a miracle Jaskier still forced himself to move enough to get himself water and use the bathroom in the same corner. He couldn’t distinguish the magical dreams put in his head, of being held down by man’s hands and forced to relive his worst, most painful memories, from being truly awake in the unbroken darkness of the cell.

He didn’t hold back on crying, now. His emotions had taken over sometime in the darkness, and they rolled over him like waves, tossing him around and ripping through him, leaving deep wounds behind. He shook and cried and lay there, his hope slowly draining, curled up and slipping into unconsciousness more often than out of it.

Fringilla stopped talking to him, but her words echoed in his head often enough, and Jaskier was beginning to believe it. There wasn’t any evidence that Geralt loved him, in any of his memories. He saved his life because he was human and Geralt thought it was his duty, there was nothing more to it. Jaskier had been nothing more than a burden to the Witcher for all twenty-two years.

He could feel the mage’s magic weaving around him still, and he could feel the darkness creeping up on him. He sighed, went limp against the floor, and felt all his thoughts and feelings and strength drain from him like water in a tub, until he felt numb. A shell, to be used and reused and filled with whatever they wanted.

You win, he thought, just before sleep took him.

I surrender. I’ll do what you want. Just please make this stop.

-0-0-0-

Jaskier woke to the sound of screaming.

It took him a moment to recognize it wasn’t his, and then he had to pinch himself to figure out it wasn’t a dream, and then he flinched at the loud clang of steel against steel coming from outside his door. It was too loud; his heartbeat pounded in his ears, the noise was too much from the silence he’d been in for a month. He curled up tight, covering his ears, feeling his breath come shorter and shorter.

Fuck. He smelled smoke. Something was burning, there was a fire. He was going to die here, he thought hysterically, in a cell cold and alone and half-mad. He wanted Nilfgaard to save him; at least he knew they needed him, they were predictable. They wouldn’t kill him, and somehow that was a comfort to Jaskier.

The door to his cell opened, the hallway glowed with fire burning orange behind his eyelids and Jaskier screamed, scrambling away from the intruder he could feel stepping towards him. It wasn’t Fringilla, he knew, and it wasn’t the Nilfgaardian soldiers, because the footsteps were too quiet.

In another life, he might’ve recognized the strong scent of leather and sword oil, but he was too scared and everything was happening too fast, the light was too bright and everything was too loud, too much.

Jaskier struggled against the arms wrapping around him, struggled with the blind desperation of a cornered animal. There came a displeased, confused grunt above him - good, he thought, they weren’t supposed to take him from Nilfgaard. Fringilla wouldn’t like it, and he had promised he’d be good for her if only to stop the isolation. He was so close to being free, as free as he could be, and now it was being ripped from him.

Pain shot through him, but that was nothing new - he was starving, on the verge of panicking, nearly hyperventilating. He’d been in pain for a while now; it had become a fact of life to him. The strong arms fought against Jaskier as he thrashed in his blind panic, and it was only when they finally let him go that he scrambled away, to the far edge of the cell, until his back hit the bucket of water. He didn’t open his eyes, finding it hurt too much in the sudden light, and he covered his ears, curling up there.

The footsteps came closer, slower this time, yet Jaskier could sense the edge of anxiety on the movements - makes sense, he thought. They were in a burning building, after all. Though, why they’d want to save him while risking themselves was beyond him.

“Jaskier,” came the deep rumble, and something in Jaskier knew that voice. But - no, this couldn’t be real. This was like - it was so similar to another time he’d been kidnapped. Some bandits, a dark cell, a burning building, the Witcher he didn’t know anymore coming to rescue him just like this. This had to be a dream. Nilfgaard was fucking with him.

He shook his head and curled up further. He was so tired of this, these dreams of things he’d been through, all the pain and hurt. Fringilla was effectively disillusioning him, ripping away all optimism he may have had about the world with cold, clean efficiency. He just wanted it all to stop.

Jaskier felt the tears coming on, and he didn’t stop them. He started shaking, silently crying - he’d stopped talking around day twenty-eight. What was the point of talking or singing, anyway, when all it got him was a sore throat. No one cared about his thoughts or opinions anymore.

This time, he didn’t fight against the arms that picked him up, even curled into the broad, armored chest that he found his body pressed against. He inhaled the scent of leather and sword oil and blood, and somewhere deep in him felt safe, like he knew this person wouldn’t hurt him.

If only I knew his name, he thought before he shook weakly one last time and fell into unconsciousness.

-0-0-0-

“What did they do to him?”

Jaskier was on something soft when he woke up, and there was talking around him. There were people around him, too, standing around his-

His bed?

He pushed himself up without opening his eyes, suddenly panicking as the memories came back. He had been taken from Nilfgaard, taken from his only shot at relative freedom, and now he was going to be taken and tortured by whoever else wanted information from him. The same vicious fucking cycle, he just wanted out. They already broke him, what more did they want? What more could anyone take from him now?

Hands came to rest in his hair, and Jaskier realized he had fallen back onto the bed and was panicking, he couldn’t breathe. The hand went back and forth, threading through his hair roughly but gently, and a voice that something locked away deep in Jaskier found soothing came with it.

“In, out. Breathe, Jaskier. In, out.”

He couldn’t help but follow the instructions, slowly dragging his breathing and his heart rate down until he could slowly open his eyes, adjusting to the light and the noise. It was a shock to his body from spending so long in utter darkness - but, he was still in the darkness. This was a dream, brought on by Nilfgaard. Fucking with his head, as always.

Huh. This was a different dream than Fringilla had ever given him, he thought as he looked around at the small, sparsely furnished cabin they were in. And, Fringilla had never allowed him to get to the actual escape when she made him relive his kidnappings and various tortures. She usually cut it off when he thought he was out, only to find himself back in the cold darkness of the Nilfgaardian cell. It was a brutally effective method of making him lose hope, he had to give her that.

There was a Witcher right next to him, someone that seemed familiar, and somehow that didn’t strike fear into him like it should’ve. Well, he always had terrible self-preservation instincts. The sorceress with violet eyes standing near a wooden table didn’t strike fear into him, either, though they both looked as if they could snap him in half.

Maybe Fringilla was ripping away his hope by giving him entirely new scenarios. It wasn’t necessary, he thought. They’d already broken him; she was wasting her energy.

“Jaskier?”

That was the Witcher. He turned his gaze on him, staring into golden eyes and white hair and a face he should’ve recognized but really didn’t. He commended his past self, though, for managing to become friends with such a handsome man. Or, whatever they were. He didn’t care for deciphering the general feeling of safe that the Witcher gave him, underlaid by the faint needling of heartbreak.

He didn’t say anything, either. Fringilla had taught him he needed to be quiet. No one cared about his thoughts and opinions anymore, and whatever Fringilla needed from him she could simply rip from his mind anyway. So could the violet-eyed sorceress, too, he figured. His voice wasn’t necessary - not that he wanted to talk, anyway. Thinking about talking and singing, being so loud and carefree, made something in him shrink away in fear and anger. He’d been so careless about others' feelings before, he hadn’t known just how to be quiet and good for them so he wasn’t annoying and a burden.

“Jaskier? Can you hear me?”

He gave a soft hum and closed his eyes. That was all they needed. The darkness was better, anyway, softer and easier. Much less to think about in the darkness - he could already feel sleep tugging at him once again.

His eyes flew open when there was a sharp pain in his side, and the sorceress was standing next to the Witcher. Her violet eyes burned, but they were also soft, holding compassion and sympathy and-

Jaskier didn’t want to think about that. It wasn’t his place to figure out others’ feelings - he was there only to give information and do what they’d like with. Something in him still rebelled at that idea, pounded against the door he’d locked it behind, but Jaskier paid no mind to it. It was locked away for a reason.

“Jaskier,” the sorceress said sharply, and he resisted the urge to sigh. Of course he wouldn’t be allowed to sleep.

The Witcher looked concerned. “What did they do? He’s not talking.”

The sorceress’s attention turned to the Witcher and Jaskier closed his eyes again, listening to their conversation in the background of the fuzziness of his head.

“I don’t know. He doesn’t seem to recognize us.”

There it was again, that recognition. Both of them seemed familiar, but their names and the memories of them were behind that locked door, and opening that locked door was too difficult. It would make it worse for him - he remembered fighting when that door was open, being hurt, screaming, unimaginable pain ripping through him.

It was better to keep the door closed.

“Can you fix him?”

Jaskier wanted to laugh. Fix him. As if he needed fixing. He had broken for them, just like they wanted. He didn’t need to be fixed.

“I’m not sure. Fringilla’s magic is powerful. She could have done any number of things to him and we’d never know unless I can get to his memories.”

These two were weird, Jaskier thought distantly. Acting as if getting to his memories was so difficult, when he knew she could just rip them from him with a flick of her fingers. She seemed to know Fringilla, she must know that Jaskier was theirs to do what they’d like with. It’s not like he had the power to defy them, anyway. His defiance was behind that locked door with the rest of his memories, and he wasn’t planning on opening it anytime soon.

“Jaskier,” the sorceress said. He opened his eyes reluctantly and looked at her. “Can I go through your memories?”

He hummed again in affirmation and returned his gaze to the ceiling, studying the wood of the rafters and the beams crossing above him, bracing for the pain of having his memories searched through. The sorceress shared a worried look with the Witcher that Jaskier still didn’t understand, before two fingers landed on his forehead and the cold, icy feeling of magic washed over him.

The sorceress’s touch was… gentle. There was none of the pain ripping through him that Fringilla had given him, he didn’t so much as whimper as he felt he’d magic poke and prod at his mind. He did twitch, though, he flinched and tensed up despite himself.

The magic poked at the locked door and Jaskier gave a full-body flinch, jerking violently away, eyes widening as he shook his head. He felt her magic retreat instantly, and she gave a small gasp when she saw his visceral reaction.

“Okay, okay,” she said soothingly, hands put up placatingly. “I won’t go there.”

Jaskier relaxed, though he was still wary, and the Witcher looked at her. “Go where? What did you see?”

The sorceress’s face fell, eyes grave and sad.

“That’s the thing. I found nothing.”

-0-0-0-

“Nothing?”

Geralt frowned. He wanted to hit something, kill something. Jaskier had left him on the mountain, and now he was here after being tortured by Nilfgaard, and it was all his fucking fault for yelling at him on that damned mountain.

Yennefer shrugged. “I didn’t find anything. He doesn’t have memories of us, or anything really. It’s just… cold and dark in there.”

Geralt sighed and resisted the strong urge to hit something right then and there. “What the fuck, Yen? How are we supposed to fix this?”

Yennefer looked at Jaskier, who had his eyes closed again and was unnaturally silent, like he had been since they found him in that cell. “I’d say he was guarding against his feelings.”

“What does that mean?”

She sighed and returned her gaze to Geralt’s worried golden eyes. “It’s a defense mechanism. People who are excessively tortured retreat into themselves. For some, it’s to prevent them from saying anything - if they don’t remember, they’re not useful. For Jaskier… I think it’s because of his feelings.”

Geralt stayed silent, though Yennefer could see the guilt flood his eyes, and she fixed him with a firm look. “What did you say to him on that mountain?”

He glanced down. “I told him… I wanted him gone.”

Yennefer watched him, but he didn’t continue and she didn’t push, though she knew there was more to it than that. She sighed. “Your bard has always felt too much. Far more than other people. Other people may be sad, but Jaskier is devastated, or lonely. If he’s happy, he’s not just happy. He’s ecstatic, joyful. You’ve seen him when he’s happy and you’ve seen him when he’s not. There’s a very visible difference there.”

“So whatever is said to him, or whatever he says himself, he feels on a far deeper level than anyone else I’ve known. And, I suppose, in that cell, he didn’t have anything to defend against his emotions, so he locked them away completely. Everything that made him feel pain was locked away, and everything that made him feel joy, or anger, or despair, was dragged with it too. We went with the rest of his memories.”

Geralt sighed. “Fuck.”

Yennefer nodded. “The Jaskier we know isn’t gone, just buried. And I can’t pull him out with magic.”

Geralt frowned. “Why not?”

“You saw him flinch, right? That’s when I touched the wall his memories were behind. He’s the one who locked away his own memories; I can’t just undo another mage’s magic here. It would be extremely painful, and also risky, to try to force him to open the door. We have to make him want to open it.”

Geralt deflated and groaned. “And how do we do that?”

Now Yennefer smirked, and Geralt knew he wasn’t going to like this. “Be nice to him. Treat him as a friend, not as someone you tolerate.”

Geralt could sense the bard’s breathing had evened out into sleep. “I don’t tolerate him,” he said defensively as Yennefer walked to the other table.

“You have to show him that,” she replied.

Geralt frowned harder, but he looked at Jaskier laying on the bed, face peaceful in sleep, and knew he was going to do it. He’d do more things than he’d like to admit for Jaskier.

“Fuck.”

“Swearing won’t heal him, Geralt.”

author’s note: because i’m paranoid that people won’t understand how jaskier broke, i’m going to explain it here. next chapter i’ll explain why he won’t come back because this kinda turned into an essay 😅

the whole premise of the fic is that jaskier feels too much. he could be completely overwhelmed and controlled by his emotions, or he could cope with them, like he does normally. nilfgaard found out that emotions were his weakness when fringilla rifled through his mind, hence the reliving memories, especially the most recent, freshest, deepest wound - the mountain.

without coping mechanisms, without light or human contact or even food, jaskier had no defense against his emotions. nothing distracted him from thinking about what geralt said, thinking about everything in his life that someone said he was annoying or too much, or left him because of it. so his memories brought on emotions and he had no defense against them.

so he locked away his memories, for two reasons. one, memories means that he fights for something - getting out of nilfgaard, getting back to geralt, etc. fighting means nilfgaard hurts him more, and solitary confinement is harsh torture. so no memories means not remembering what he’s fighting for, means no fighting, means no pain. and two, memories means he feels everything the memories brought on, and no memories means not as many feelings, like numbing a wound, hence no pain.

#the witcher netflix #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier

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classyklancey · 5 years

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The Thing | High school AU |

Pairing: Keith x Lance Genre: Angst Warnings: Possession?, somewhat self-harm (it’s The Thing causing it), anxiety mention Summary: Keith has something inside of him that he can just barely control. Lance helps keep him level-headed A/N: I made this forever ago and it wasn’t intended to be Keith and Lance. It used to be a lot more angsty but since I changed it to Keith and Lance, my poor heart couldn’t handle it the original version. If you want the other version too let me know!! If you want the original version where it’s not Lance and Keith, also let me know lol. Enjoy!!

Hundreds of screaming voices pierce my ears. The noise is so loud that I can barely focus on my own thoughts, beating down on me from all directions. My nails dig into my knees through the fabric of my black jeans, so hard that they threaten to draw blood.

“It’s a pep rally, Keith,” Lance says from my right side, where he is jumping, screaming, and just generally making a fool of himself as usual. “You know, fun stuff.”

Lance laughs and slings an arm around my shoulder, my torso slouching from the sudden weight. Sometimes, I forget just how much bigger he was than me. Lance didn’t have an abundance of muscles or anything, but his shoulders were significantly broader than mine and he was at least three inches taller.

“Get off,” I say gruffly, my face deadpan.

That earned a laugh from Lance. He looked like he wanted to say something, probably make a joke about my “dumb emo face” like usual, but the Headmaster’s booming voice interrupted him. He was announcing a school spirit contest, where the class that screamed the loudest won bragging rights. The freshman, my class, was first, and in typical freshman style, they gave a weak attempt with what sounded like only thirty students cheering and a few claps here and there.

“Better cover your ears, Keithy baby,” Lance said, before leaping to his feet again, clearing his throat in preparation. I go to respond when the Headmaster beats me to it.

“Now, let me hear my sophomores!” The Headmaster bellowed over the microphone, making me flinch from the loud volume. ‘Why is he talking so loudly when his voice is already being amplified?’

“The seniors are going to win,” I say, but he can’t hear me over the sound of his own obnoxious screeching. His voice could be heard over every other sophomore in the gym. I might have been impressed if I wasn’t preoccupied with a splitting headache that was only intensified from the noise.

I had been having an okay day for the first time in quite a bit. I didn’t have to run to the bathroom and vomit when I woke up this morning, which is an improvement from the past few days. I took some medication for my migraine and it had actually gone down a bit. For a little while, I actually believed that I was going to make it through the day without anything going wrong. But, of course, every time I think the universe is on my side, something happens and ruins everything. This time, it just so happened to be a surprise pep rally celebrating some kind of important win. Maybe football…or was it basketball? It could have been a chess tournament victory for all I care. All that I know is that I’m sweating out every bit of moisture in my body, Lance’s racket is going to make me deaf, the fluorescent gym lights are blinding, and I think I’m going to throw up my lunch. Every little thing is like a weight pressing against my head.

It’s all just another excuse for The Thing to show up.

I can’t remember a time when the Thing wasn’t with me. Ever since I was small, I was always plagued with migraines, but it wasn’t a stabbing pain like you get when you’re sick. It was a pressure, almost as if my skull was too full. Like there was something in there that wasn’t supposed to be.

The Thing rules my life. It keeps me awake at night, tossing and turning for hours. Even when I finally manage to fall asleep, it speaks to me in my nightmares. It digs around in my deepest insecurities and forces them into my head over and over again, so much that I dread going to bed at night. Whenever I wake up, there is always a fresh set of self-inflicted scratch marks on my abdomen and dried up tears in the corners of my eyes.

It doesn’t leave me alone during the day either, though. The migraines have become a constant at this point, along with a feeling of nausea, like The Thing is trying to escape from my body. It likes to play around with my personal anxieties, pointing out every little detail in the hopes that I will let my guard down enough for it to take control of my body.

The worst symptom of all happens whenever I get angry. The Thing thrives off of anger. Even the slightest hint of irritation is enough to feed its hunger for violence. The angrier I get, the more power I give it. It likes to whisper actions into my head and scream obscene words at my teachers and peers. Sometimes, if I’m angry enough, it can make things move without anyone touching them.

I’ve never been able to experience the things that most kids my age do. Up until this year, my first year of high school, I’ve never been able to keep a friend.

‘Except for you,’ I think to myself, glancing over to the boy next to me, a joyful grin plastered onto his face.

We met at the beginning of this school year, but you wouldn’t be able to tell by the way Lance acts around me. Out of all the people he could have latched onto, he chose me. A pale, shifty-eyed little freshman. I’m still not sure whether I should feel honored or extremely unlucky. Hanging around with me was probably a mistake on his part.

Lance is an idiot in the best of ways. He never noticed the way that my eyes would dilate so much that only a small sliver of gray-blue was left when I was struggling for control. He never took note of the self-inflicted scratches and picks that marked my arms and legs. After all of those times the two of us walked home from school in the afternoons together, he never realized that my shadow fell six shades darker than his own. All that mattered to him was that I was a fresh face and I could carry on a decent conversation, and he thought I was cute. I was thankful for the company, but sometimes I wondered whether extra stress was worth it.

The Headmaster is talking again. Though his voice is distorted by the aging sound system, I can still make out the words “relay” and “volunteers”.

At first, I pay no mind, but when Lance’s grin widens into something mischievous, my body tenses in a sudden sense of panic. Before I can stop him, he’s jumping up in the air and waving his arms to get the Headmaster’s attention.

“Lance, what are-”

“You can run fast, right?” he cuts me off. He already knew the answer to that. Before I can stop myself, I think back to one specific time when we were walking home.

“Keith! Start running! It’s about to start raining harder!” Lance shouts from far ahead of me, his long legs carrying him faster and farther away from me.

I roll my eyes at Lance’s shouting, figuring he was just over exaggerating since barely any rain was falling from the sky.

Suddenly, it started to pour, startling me. I gasp before quickly starting to run after Lance, almost instantly catching up to him. The Thing has given me strengths in certain aspects, such as running.

“Woah! You caught up quick!” I don’t say anything as I pass him, running all the way to my house. After a couple of minutes, Lance catches up to me, coming up to my patio instead of continuing to his house. “Thanks for leaving me...” he says sarcastically, panting as he tries to catch his breath.

I give him an apologetic smile as I unlock my door. “At least I waited for you. Want to come inside?”

Lance shakes his head as he points over his shoulder. “Nah, I shou- oh, you’re freezing.” My brows furrow at his words before I feel it, the shaking racking my body. It wasn’t because I was cold, but I couldn’t tell him that. Sometimes when I use my new strengths, it wakes up The Thing. I start to panic but try to keep it off of my face, praying he wouldn’t accept my offer to come inside.

“I’m fine,” I reassure with a soothing smile, hoping it looked soothing to him since in reality, I was panicking. Lance shakes his head as he takes off his jacket, draping it over me. “Nope. You’re cold. It’s okay to admit it.”

I roll my eyes and grumble to myself, feeling a blush take over my face as I look down at my wet shoes, momentarily forgetting about The Thing. My eyes widen as Lance’s lifts my face up to look at him, his bright eyes meeting my shocked ones.

“Red is a pretty color on you,” he whispers, his eyes moving to my cheeks. My blush only grows worse at his compliment. ‘Is he...no. He wouldn’t flirt with me. He could never like a monster like me...’

At the last part of my thought, I frown as I pull away. “Thanks for walking me home. Here’s your jacket. Be safe,” I say as I toss him his jacket back. Before he could respond, I close the door in his face. His hurt expression was all I could think about for the rest of the day. “I did him a favor...” I mumble before I let out a hefty sigh.

I quickly snap out of my thoughts when he grabs my hand. “I-I can’t!” I try to hide the desperation in my voice, but I can’t stop it from cracking. “I really don’t want-”

“Yes! Headmaster’s looking over here!” he cuts me off again, waving our clasped hands and his free hand into the air.

A spark of foreign anger pangs in the back of my head, a sickeningly familiar emotion.

Of all the times for the Thing to wake up, it has to be right now. Right now, when my nerves have already been ground down to nothing and the wild Cuban next to me has finally caught the Headmaster’s attention. I want to simultaneously scream at the top of my lungs and burst into tears. I loathe this feeling of being helpless. Lance is suddenly dragging me towards one of my biggest fears, and The Thing is dragging me towards the other, and I have no control.

‘Get rid of him,’ It says, ‘I don’t want to go out there.’

“Shut up, just shut up for once,” I hiss under my breath. Pain blossoms in my torso like a punch to the gut.

The Headmaster waves us over with a smile, and I’m suddenly pulled onto my feet. I try to resist Lance’s pulling, but he is quite persistent in getting me onto the gymnasium floor. As a final desperate attempt, I plant my beaten, dirty sneakers into the ground as hard as I can. Lance looks back at me, a little confused.

Our eyes meet for the briefest of moments. “Please,” I beg, “Please don’t do this to me.” Lance flashes me that signature bright smile and begins dragging me by the wrist to the center of the gymnasium floor. “You need to do something fun!”

It is far too late when I realize that the words never left my lips.

The hundreds of voices have turned into hundreds of eyes. I’m shrinking smaller and smaller, and everyone else towers over me menacingly. I look to Lance for support and comfort, anything to help ease this feeling of anxiousness. But he doesn’t even notice my gaze. He’s waving up at his other friends, completely enjoying the spotlight. At this point, The Thing is practically clawing at the inside of my skull, begging to be released.

I make the mistake of glancing down at my shadow on the polished floor. My eyes are frozen in horror on the dark silhouette of my left hand. I watch as the fingers clench and relax, clench and relax, clench and relax in a steady repetition. My actual hand is gripping onto the fabric of my hoodie and had been the entire time. The dread in my stomach drags every second into an hour as I realize what’s coming. Every instinct in my body is telling me to get out. I cannot break down here, not in front of these judgmental eyes, not in front of the only friend I’ve ever been able to keep.

“Don’t look so scared, bud.” Lance nudged my ribs gently with his elbow, “It’s just a little race.”

Time froze. I stared at him, my eyes blown wide and black from the dilation. “Don’t look so scared.” His voice was happy when he said it, completely carefree. Everything was just a game to him. He never took anything seriously, including me. Surely he could see the pain on my face. How could he not notice the way my body shuddered under this pressure. Maybe he just didn’t care enough to open his eyes.

I hate him.

The thought resonates in my mind, something I’ve never felt before. It wasn’t really true, well, for me at least. The Thing hated everyone and everything.

I hate him.

The phrase repeats in my thoughts, over and over and over again. It bounces around my skull in an awful dissonance until I can barely make out any words, mingling with the cheering voices of the student body.

I hate him.

Lance thrusts an object into my suddenly freezing cold hands. It’s a relay baton. The noise in my head is so loud I can barely hear him tell me that I am supposed to run first. My spine is stiff and I can feel my body go completely still, red creeping into the edges of my vision.

He gives me a look, I couldn’t tell what kind of look it was though. Concern? Confusion?

“You okay, Keith?”

I shake my head quickly, trying to control my breathing that was starting to become labored. Lance removes the baton from my hand with a nod of his head, dropping it to the floor.

“Okay, it’s alright. Let’s get you some air,” he says quietly to me, only loud enough for me to hear him over the roaring crowd. I nod my head as I let him lead me outside, leaning against him as we sit on the stairs that lead up to the gymnasium.

“Sorry...” I mumble. I don’t know why I was apologizing to him. I tried to tell him, no, but his stubborn self didn’t want to listen to me. He hushes me as he runs a hand through my slightly damp hair, rubbing my back with the other. “Don’t apologize. I should be the one apologizing. I didn’t realize you’d react like that. You have bad anxiety or something?” I sigh with a nod of my head, leaning into him more.

“Something like that...”

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waywardnerd67 · 6 years

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Last Part of Me: Chap. 3 - Aftermath

Summary: The final battle between (Y/N) and Abner happens in the same cemetery where Michael and Lucifer were supposed to fight. Sam and Dean rush to the fight getting there too late. Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel, Reader, Zeniel (OFC) Pairing: Dean x Reader Warnings: Fluff/Angst Word Count: 1747 A/N: As always this is unbeta so all mistakes are mine. Likes, comments and reblogs are splendid and I will love you doubly for them! Enjoy!

Catch Up Here: Last Part of Me Masterlist

(Y/N) felt someone pulling the hood from her head and she slowly opened her eyes. Blinking a few times her eyes came into focus as she looked around seeing headstones and brown grass everywhere. She could hear a few soft voices whispering behind her.

“Hey, you might as well speak up for the whole class to hear or be quiet. I don’t care which but choose one.” She said being met with silence, “Best choice you could have made.” She muttered.

“Hello (Y/N), it is nice to meet you finally.” Abner’s voice came from behind her sending chills down her spine.

As he walked in front of her, (Y/N) was taken back by how different they looked from one another. He had shaggy coal black hair, pale hazel eyes and tan skin. He was not tall nor muscular. He truly did not look like a threat at all which made him more dangerous.

“Abner, I presume. You know there was no reason to kidnap me. I was on my way to the meeting place of your choice.” (Y/N) said as the corner of his mouth curled into a smirk.

He knelt in front of her reaching one arm behind the chair she was tied too. She felt her hands freed and then he untied her feet extending a hand to help her up. (Y/N) ignored it and stood up in front him. Glancing around she saw that they were surrounded by his followers. She knew that running was out of the question.

“I’m sorry about the harshness of your capture. However, your pesky angel friends were onto your leaving Heaven. I could not take the chance of them taking you back there. Not before we had a chance to speak first. You can see that you can run away so do you think we could just sit and have a conversation as siblings?” He asked as he motioned to a bench at the entrance of the cemetery.

She nodded following him and sitting beside him. He started off by asking her questions of how she was brought up and when she discovered her powers. He seemed genuinely interested in getting to know her and if (Y/N) did not know better she would have given him the benefit of the doubt. However, Castiel’s profile on him was running on repeat inside her head.

“Abner, may I ask you a question?” She asked as he nodded, “What exactly is your plan for Earth? With me?”

He ran his hand over the back of his neck chuckling, “Is it not obvious what I want? It is the same thing our father would have wanted. For his children to take his place on the throne of Heaven and finally rid this pathetic world of all weakness. You and I storming this planet together in the name of Michael. Only those who pledge their complete devotion to us will roam the Earth.”

(Y/N)’s body went cold listening to his demented plan and she could feel a surge of power traveling up her veins. She stood up looking down at him, “You know I won’t follow you and I will kill you.” She said calmly as he stood in front of her.

“Yes, I know. However, you will lose your life because I am more powerful than you could even imagine. You will lose, (Y/N). I will not take any joy in killing my sister, but I will also not let you stand in my way of the mission that was instilled in me from the moment of my creation.” Abner waved his hand at the angels nearest them.

The popped away along with every angel that had surrounded them. She looked around bewildered as to why he would send them away. “What happens next Abner?” she asked as he walked away from her.

“You gather your army and I will gather mine. We will meet back here in the very spot our father was supposed to defeat his brother Lucifer. We will finally have the battle for the world. One week, sister. One week and everything comes to an end. I will see you then.” With that he vanished the sounds of wings flapping.

(Y/N) sighed heavily knowing she needed to see Castiel and Zeniel as soon as possible. One thing was for certain, the Winchesters could not be a part of this battle. They would instantly be killed and the mere thought of Dean dying was enough to make her powers go wildly uncontrolled.

She flew to the sandbox where Zeniel was waiting impatiently for her. (Y/N) could see how angry she was at her, but still engulfed her into a big hug. “If you ever do that again I swear to Chuck I will end you myself.”

(Y/N) chuckled nodding, “I promise I will never do that again. Now we need to talk with Cas about going into battle and how to keep the Winchesters out of it.”

For the better part of the next week (Y/N), Zeniel and Castiel devised a plan to go into battle against Abner. (Y/N) pulled Castiel aside after their last meeting with the angels going down to Earth with them the next morning.

“Cas, I have a special order for you and you will probably not like it.” She said as they sat down in her room.

A small smile spread across his lips, “You want me to keep the Winchesters as far away from this battle as possible, right?”

She nodded smiling, “You know me so well. You know Abner will use them against Zeniel and myself. We cannot afford for either of us to be distracted. Abner is much more powerful than I am, but to Nephilims against one then we have a chance.”

“I agree. I will do my best to keep them from the fight.” Castiel stood up walking to the door then turned around, “However, I do want to point out that Sam and Dean are a great weapon to use. Abner will never expect them to survive the fight but as we both know they are harder to kill than they look.”

(Y/N) snickered, “You may be right about that, but I don’t want to take the chance. I ca-can’t even think about if… anything was to happen to him…” her emotions were getting the better of her and Castiel nodded knowingly.

“Don’t worry (Y/N), I will keep them safe.” He said reassuringly as he walked out of her room.

She could not sleep as her nerves kept her body buzzing. She sat up writing in her journal along with a letter to Dean. She was confident in her soldiers, but she knew realistically that the chances of them winning was not good. (Y/N) did not want to leave any of her feelings for Dean unknown. She wanted them both to have some sense of closure.

The next morning, Castiel set off to the Bunker to keep the Winchesters there. (Y/N) and Zeniel were in the armory of Heaven getting ready for their battle. Everyone was silent as they put on their armor and grabbed their weapons.

She led them through the doorway to Earth and then through the entrance of Stull Cemetery. In the very spot where Sam took a swan dive into the Lucifer’s cage, Abner was waiting for her. His flock of followers stood behind him. At least thirty or so angels against (Y/N)’s twenty. The odds were in his favorite but something deep within her gave her the confidence that they had a chance.

“Hello, (Y/N). I’ll give you one last chance to join me before I rid all of you from this existence.” Abner shouted.

(Y/N) stood her ground giving a hand signal for her army to halt. She shook her head as Abner’s laughter filled the tension filled air. His face went emotionless in a spit second and he said, “Have it your way.” He motioned for his army to attack as she did.

The battle was brutal as angel fought angel. The smell of sizzling wings filled the air and charred the ground beneath them. She caught a glimpse of Zeniel with blood streaking her blonde hair. Just past her (Y/N) spotted Abner and she charge through the battling angels straight at him. A cocky smirk on his face fueling her anger that surge her powers into overdrive.

“Finally, the world can see just what that apocalypse was supposed to be all those years ago.” He said as she pulled out Michael’s sword.

Appearing behind him as if out of thin air was a long lance that she recognized from her father’s journal. “How did you get that?” she asked as they began to circle one another.

“You were not the only one he left his legacy too. It will give you the slow and painful death you deserve for betraying the beliefs of our father. You disgrace him!” He yelled his wings flashing before her.

They were exactly like hers but the arura around them was darker. He lunged at her and their battle began. It seemed as though everybody around them stopped to watch the greatest battle go down. Clinking of their weapons echoed throughout the headstones and she was amazed by the strength he possessed.

She was able to get the better of him pinning him to the ground and aiming her sword at his chest. Abner was panting and just as she was going to end it all she heard the familiar roar of the Impala. In that single moment everything changed. (Y/N) glanced away to see Dean, Sam and Castiel running towards them.

That is when her chest felt like it was on fire. Her heart was beating in her ears and her legs were losing feeling as she hit the ground hard. (Y/N)’s sword fell by her side and she stared up to see Abner standing over her.

“Goodbye sister.” He said plunging the lance deeper into her chest.

She could no longer catch her breath. Every time she tried to her chest burned and a metallic taste flooded her mouth. In the distance she could hear Dean’s voice yelling her name and she prayed to just see him one last time.

(Y/N)’s eyelids were too heavy to keep open and she felt as if her body was floating. The only sounds she could hear was her ever slowing heartbeat until there was nothing. No sound, no sights, just nothingness. A vast void. The Empty.

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