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liketwoswansinbalance · 1 year

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Simony

Summary:

Rafal was fed up with Rhian’s delusions of True Love. After the Vulcan fiasco, after following where the stories go at night, after seeing Gavaldon, Rafal reaches his breaking-point sooner in Rise, and decides to confront Rhian.

This is a canon-divergent fic, by the way.

⸻

Simony (noun) = the buying or selling of something spiritual or closely connected with the spiritual.

⸻

When Rafal returned to the Schools, still in an unrecognizable state after the brothers’ renovations, he knew he had to find Rhian, to communicate. Yet, there stood Good, pompous like a cathedral.

Rafal paced outside the glinting castle for a moment. His brother had sold himself out, twice, for faithless, unworthy lovers, and he’d tarnished himself and his soul in the process.

Rhian was his perpetual foil. Rafal always had to clean up his brother’s messes, do the dirty work his brother wouldn’t deign to do, stain his soul when his brother wouldn’t sully his hands. Wrap up everything when Rhian couldn’t.

He flung open the doors to Good’s foyer, and headed down an oddly vacant glass hall to another chamber, where he had sighted Rhian. With a conversation he would cast out Hook, purge one brother of impurities, and confirm the Evil of the other.

The wall of glass before him shone, the row of lancet windows casting long shadows. Rhian looked ethereal in the light, like a spirit.

His golden, wild-haired double turned to him. “Rafal?”

“Of course you’re here. The ringleader of the corrupt Evers,” Rafal said staidly, too drained to deal with false pretenses. “Where’s your right hand?”

Rhian paused. “Here, with me.”

There Rhian was, seeming as pure and untainted as perfectly blown glass. The walls behind him looked more the pure white of sugar glass, with distortions and cracks. He was backlit by the light streaming through the high, arched windows, haloed by it even. The dust motes swirled like powdered sugar. His soul was not unmarred, but it wasn’t stained irrevocably, unforgivably. He was marked by only cheating.

Rhian cut a striking figure albeit a dark one, with his face shadowed. Meanwhile, Rafal stood opposite him, not bathed in light but shrouded in shadows. With his suit that matched Rhian’s, Rafal stood out. Earlier, Rhian had doffed his royal blue jacket, and now, he only wore his white shirt, buttoned at the sternum, collar shielding his throat. On the dimmer side of the room, Rafal looked a smear of soot, sore and scalded.

He stepped forward and Rhian shrank from him. Rafal felt like he’d been impaled.

Rhian’s face crumpled, and he spoke. “I wish you’d stop attacking me and antagonizing your students. Even the Storian is on Good’s side, and it must have a reason.”

Rafal's head spun as the harsh light glared, illuminating Rhian. Yet, it obscured him in shadow. Even this grandeur and light had forsaken him, just like the Storian and its tales. The Pen always abandoned Evil, condemned it. Rejected and denounced the Evil brother. Always. He was hurt, not the villain. He was reactive—trying to prevent the downfall of the Schools and felled by his supposedly virtuous brother—this couldn't be an Attack.

Rhian’s hands shook as he continued. “I’ve only tried to improve Good. To bring glory to my Evers’ tales.”

“And what's all this? A new School, or a vanity project?” Rafal spat.

Rhian shook, more intensely than before.

“I was never consulted, so I shouldn't need to seek your permission for any changes I'll make to my Schools.”

Rhian recoiled, and his vitriol struck Rafal like live coals. “Your Schools? You abandoned them. And me.”

Rafal’s hands were cold, as always, he supposed. Rhian's voice was weak and sputtering out now, like a smoldering match, the last embers of warmth. His brother had always been his beacon, keeping him in check.

“I fix everything.” Rafal berated. “And then what? Do I get any credit? I don’t care whether I do. I don’t care what anyone thinks of me. But I’d appreciate basic respect for what I stand for. Yet, you seem to weigh the value of your life against what your reputation is. One day, you’ll let your precious Ever followers, the standard-bearers, the bards, the minstrels, wax poetic about you, write epics, compose ballads. Do you want your subordinates to hail and herald you like a martyr, Rhian? Like you’re Good’s one and only savior?

“I don’t believe it. You're too vain. You frame me as the one to be hated and scorned. A role I've been relegated to. To let rot and turn to dust in the storybooks. Why do you think I moved all of Evil’s tales to the upper shelves of our office?

Not all Nevers are villains. I may be a Never and a villain, but I never thought I'd be your villain. Oh, you underestimate how much the students revile and fear me.” His jaw tightened.

Rhian withdrew further under his incisive gaze. Rafal was always more perceptive than he gave him credit for.

"And, you've sold yourself out in the process of chasing your infatuations. You've betrayed your own soul, Rhian, and me. You've lost your true nature, your integrity and my trust.” Rafal stilled, swallowed, and continued on. “You've been corrupted. You've discarded your true nature and better judgment, for a man who ultimately betrayed you, and another who, who doesn’t have your best intentions at heart.”

“How would you know?” Rhian blared.

Rafal took another step forward, thrust out an arm, and blasted Rhian back onto the floor. Approaching smoothly, he loomed over Rhian, and hooked his hand under Rhian’s chin, lifting it to meet his gelid eyes. “I almost drowned to know that which you don’t.” He dropped his hand, and Rhian’s head nodded forward like a sodden mass.

Rhian quailed in Rafal’s grip. Rafal’s suit flickered to black for a moment, burnt and blackened, a scorched figure against the white, and Rhian shook his head vaguely, as if to dislodge water. Surely, he was hallucinating.

Rafal’s hand quivered, like he’d been singed. His eyes seared as if he were about to be burned to death, by the heat of his own built-up resentment and his brother’s corruption that he failed to prevent. He was hollow and numb, like an effigy. Yet, there seemed to be something off in his brother as well. Rafal’s heart throbbed with simultaneous fear and purpose.

His vision was momentarily veiled. Under the harsh, white light, all the flaws and rot beneath the surface of their relationship were laid bare. They were a specter of what they’d once been. Rafal’s face went dead cold.

And then, clarity in denial:

“I'm not Evil—I can't be," Rhian choked.

“And I'm not Good. I wasn’t, even when I had you.” Rafal’s finger burned with a black glow, blotting out the light in the echoing, empty room. He shot a Stun Spell at Rhian.

“I don't want to die.”

Rafal seized one of Rhian’s wrists to keep him from moving. “You’re human, Rhian,” Rafal said as he touched his brother’s face gently. “As in mortal.” He drew a dagger from his side, and held it steady above Rhian’s heart.

“No, Rafal! I forgive you. I love you,” Rhian gasped.

“And I loved you.” Rafal plunged the dagger cleanly into Rhian’s heart as Rhian stirred one last time. The rise and fall of Rhian’s chest quickened. His blood pooled when Rafal removed the dagger. His heart kept pumping regularly but rapidly, to compensate for the blood loss until it stopped.

Rhian’s body splintered into pure, golden light, dissipating in the air.

The burning, bright blue sky was unsettlingly placid as Rafal fled Good. The idyllic landscape around him unleashed a torrent of nausea in Rafal’s throat, for everything else in the world looked right, as it should. Right and good and balanced. No one had yet realized what changed.

It was The End. The End of Ends. For all of time. At least it had an End. Their tale has closed. It had been open for too long, he knew. He’d see The End printed on his tale’s last page soon enough.

Then, Rafal crossed over from Good, and stared at his reflection in Evil’s moat. Its dark waters undulated languidly like the Savage Sea in miniature. His gelid resolve died. Immediately, remorse flooded him. His face broke from its calcified expression. Rafal’s eyes widened. He couldn’t grasp his actions. He could only think of his stained, bloodied hands, and his brother’s stab wound welling up with blood. His jaw pulsed from having tensed it, and his face had gone white at the black depths of his soul.

His hands were pale, shaking, and blue-veined. What had he done? The only person who had ever loved him, gone. Because of him. His blind rage hadn’t been tempered or balanced by his equal as it always had been. No, Rhian brought this upon himself. He’d not placated Rafal. That was Rhian’s role, to appease his temperamental twin. But why was it that the instant Rafal left, he'd lost control? Was Rafal just as responsible for keeping his brother in check as well? His eyes burned and his windpipe closed. Then that meant he’d interfered with the Balance. That it was his fault. Not solely Rhian’s. Searing rage at himself compressed his chest. He couldn’t breathe.

The Storian would make him pay the price for his original sin. Because, Good and Evil relied on each other as much as they were locked in eternal war. And the brothers had breached their blood-sealed vow. The vow that overrode that war, and sustained the Balance. The very Balance he’d fought so long and hard to protect. That he’d destroyed in one, singular, rash move.

Rafal had been stupidly short-sighted for all his knowledge of the prophecy. All for the want of a truce. All for the want of an apology. All through the fault of a bet. The fate of the Woods had ridden on the outcome of a bet. A simple, petty, childish bet. Imagine that. What a tale. Staked on something so small and insignificant, blown out of proportion.

What were they now? Brothers torn asunder. Once pillars, that stood for Good and Evil. Stable and constant. Once equals. And now? Nothing. Nothing at all.

Love had burned Rafal, every time, like a sorcerer of the New tales, lashed to a stake.

There he sat, eyes burning with tears. And there he sat, never to trust again. Not anyone. Not even himself.

⸻

Note:

If it's not obvious, and I didn’t explain it well enough, Rhian violated the Balance. And, the Balance was the sacred thing that was sold. Because Rhian sold himself out, meaning, his true self, or what his true self was meant to be, the image of Good. He might have once been saintly and pious, but now, not so much.

Songs I was inspired by:

“Fearing and Loathing” by Marina

“the last beautiful thing I saw is the thing that blinded me” by Paris Paloma

#deathfic, #fratricide, #rhian martyr fic

Alternate title I considered: “Original Sins and Simony.” Because it would have been the pair of them I considered. Yet, I thought “Simony” was more impactful alone.

This whole thing was written for the sake of narrative parallels. And highly specific imagery. And for the drama and mood. I’m not trying to be melodramatic. I’m just giving the situation the grievous graveness I thought it deserved, with actual drama, if it comes across the way I intended.

I'd love to know your thoughts and reactions, and receive feedback in general.

Also, this is mostly based on memory and a gradual outline. I’ve had this concept for a long time, and didn’t go back to check Rise. So please forgive any errors. Though, if you notice any errors, kindly let me know, so I can fix them.

Lastly, did anyone catch my reference to book one? Comment below what it was to see if you got it. I’ll reveal it a bit later.

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supernaturalfreewill · 4 years

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Words: 5,232 Sister!Winchester Reader x Gabriel Warnings: violence, intense scenarios, violent imagery A/N: So... once upon a time I was writing two series at once... Mess Is Mine and Fangs and First Impressions. And I said to myself, "Self, we are never going to write two series at the same time again! This is stressful!" And yet, here I am today, already writing two series (The Wrong Bed, Sam x Reader which is almost done! and Even in the Darkest Heart, a Demon!Dean series) and now I'm being dumb and chucking in a third. This was supposed to be a One Shot but as we've already established on this blog I am apparently incapable of writing short fics. So HERE YA GO! New Series. Don't ask me how many parts it will be because I literally have NO IDEA. :) But having a steaming slice of Gabriel, straight out of the oven.

Your name: submit What is this?

White. Clean, blank, pure white. That was all you were aware of suddenly. It was blindingly white and as you sat up and then pulled yourself to your feet, you saw that it was like an expansive room, painted in the color of freshly fallen snow, unmarred by any track or trail. All was pure white.

“Hello?” The only answer you received was the lonely echo of your voice, so distorted by the time it bounced back that it was almost unrecognizable. Where the fuck am I? you wondered. You started to walk, but as everything was the same, the sensation of moving was unaccompanied by any visual cue that you actually were moving. This was so unsettling and disorienting that you ceased your tentative steps quickly. Your heart started to race a little faster and a disturbing thought popped into your mind. Am I dead?

_ _ _ _ _ _ “I need a large bore IV, wide open. And up her oxygen percentage. Her numbers are tanking!”

“Sir, you really have to stay back. Sir! You’re not allowed beyond these doors!”

Dean watched helplessly as your unconscious body, straddled by a doctor with their hands pressed firmly down onto your abdomen, was hurried through a pair of swinging doors, flanked by an army of medical personnel. Dean finally registered the nurse in front of him and stopped before he collided with her outstretched hands. “Where are they—”

“They’re taking her straight into surgery. Are you next of kin?”

“Yes—My brother and I. She’s our sister! I need an update! As soon as you have one!” Dean urged.

“Do you give us permission to perform life-saving actions like resuscitation if necessary?” The words came out in a fast tumble and Dean didn’t even process them before he answered.

“Yes, goddammit! Do whatever you have to—she has to be okay!”

“We’ll let you know as soon as we know anything,” The nurse turned and ran down the long hallway, the swinging doors closing finally behind her. Dean paced a tight circle, a bundle of nerves and rage.

In about 20 minutes, Sam came running up and spotted Dean collapsed in a chair in the little seating area, endlessly bouncing his knee. “Hey—what’s going on? They wouldn’t let me leave—I almost punched out a security guard,” he said desperately. Sam had fresh stitches in his forehead and he was developing quite the bruise around one eye.

Dean let out a heavy exhale. “They rushed her right into surgery.” Dean rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin. “Are you okay?” he asked, finally looking up to inspect Sam’s stitches.

Sam collapsed into a chair beside his brother. “Fine. They said the concussion is probably mild. Nice to be numbed for stitches for once,” he said, but his eyes kept darting back toward the doors and he was wringing his hands. “Did you hear anything yet?”

“No.”

The Winchesters sat in a heavy silence for almost two hours before a doctor came out.

_ _ _ _ _ _

You were becoming so anxious by the lack of anything and the horrible thought in your head that this was it, this was dying, that your heart was absolutely racing in your chest now. Sitting still didn’t seem like a good option, but the thought of trying to move again through all that blank nothingness seemed just as bad. “Hello?!” you yelled once more, this time as loud as you could.

“Hi there.”

You jumped with a startled gasp and spun around, one hand on your chest out of fright and surprise. There was a figure there. He had a small, warm smile on his face and his irises seemed to blaze golden and light brown. It was strange—you felt an overwhelming sense of calm as you looked at him. Your heart rate had slowed to its usual pace and you no longer felt that bubble of rising panic in your chest, threatening to burst. You were keenly aware that in your profession, a seemingly kind face didn’t necessarily mean anything—and yet, he had somehow stopped your wounded whirling.

“Who—who are you?” you asked, finally able to recover from your surprise and find your voice.

His smile widened on one side, curving up in a crooked half-smirk. “Well… I suppose you can call me your guardian angel,” he said.

Your brow only furrowed down in confusion. “Where… are we?”

“Difficult question to answer. We’re nowhere and yet, in some sense… kind of everywhere to you right now.”

The wrinkles on your furrowed brow deepened. “Am I—am I dead?”

He threw his head back and laughed heartily, while you merely looked on in perplexity. “Now, what kind of guardian angel would I be if that were the case?” he asked you. He suddenly stuck a hand into his pocket and pulled out a large Twix candy bar, bouncing a little unconcernedly on his toes. He opened it and took a big bite, before meeting your eyes again.

“I’m sorry—but who are you?” you asked again.

He let out another small chuckle and you watched as the corners of his eyes crinkled this time in a broad smile, but he still didn’t give you an answer.

“If I’m not dead, what exactly is happening?”

He tilted his head a little and looked at you for a long moment. “Do you remember that man in the bar?”

And suddenly it was like you were there—sensory overload. You could hear the drone of the music in the background and smell that heady scent of beer… And there was the man. You saw his face clearly, and now you saw that he had been watching you.

“I see him,” you said, and suddenly you were back in the white space. “Saw him.”

The figure nodded. “Well, he wasn’t just a guy in the bar.”

Now, you tilted your head a little in an unspoken question and your eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“He was the thing you were hunting. And he figured out that you were hunting him.”

As soon as he said it you heard a crack like thunder and a flash like hot, white lightning. Your body jolted and there was a searing pain in your stomach. You looked down saw an expanding circle of dark crimson on your shirt, and when you pressed a hand to it your fingers came away stained bright red, sticky with blood. Now when you looked back up at the figure he wasn’t smiling anymore and there was no sign of the candy bar or wrapper. He raised two fingers and snapped, and the searing pain disappeared along with the scarlet stain on your shirt.

“Sorry about that,” he said. His voice now was lacking the playful lilt it had before. It was soft and serious. “That can happen from time to time. Reality leaks in a little bit.”

Suddenly, you understood and then you remembered. You had heard his footsteps behind you, first at a distance and then quickly, running. You had turned and then… the crack of the gun going off and echoing in the lonely parking lot—the flash of the muzzle. More gunshots, must have been Sam and Dean shooting back—they had been ahead of you going to the Impala. But you were already on your knees, bleeding, clutching your stomach and struggling to see anything through the searing pain.

“He shot me,” you said.

“He did,” the stranger said.

“But I’m alive?”

“Yes.” A long silence stretched where you both just looked at each other, and you were reeling from the implications.

“So, is this real or all in my head?” you asked him.

He smiled again, just a small one, and it lit fireworks of light off in his eyes. They were mesmerizing. “Why can’t it be both?” he asked. “We’ll be seeing each other again. I promise.”

“But—wait!”

_ _ _ _ _ _

Sam and Dean both jumped to their feet when the surgeon came out through the swinging doors and eagerly ran to meet her.

“Y/N is going to make it,” she said. The brothers both heaved huge sighs of relief. Sam crumpled half over and put his hands on his knees, forcing in air. Dean shut his eyes and clenched a hand into a fist. “She’s very, very luckily to be alive. The bullet lacerated her liver and she lost a lot of blood but it missed her hepatic artery by mere millimeters. If that had been hit, she would have bled out in minutes,” the surgeon said. Sam straightened back up stiffly and exchanged a look of horror and desperation with Dean. “She’s in critical condition and we will keep her in the ICU until she is more stable, but she’ll be okay. Thank goodness you two got her here so quickly,” the surgeon said.

“Thank you,” Dean said forcefully.

“Yes, thank you so much,” Sam added. The surgeon nodded and headed back through the doors. The Winchesters stood there in silence after the doctor left until finally Sam broke it.

“That was way too close,” he said.

Dean swallowed hard at the lump in his throat, but it wouldn’t lessen. “Way too damn close,” he said, his voice breaking a little. He wandered back over to collapse into the chairs. Sam sank down next to him and glanced over at his big brother.

“At least the shifter is dead,” Sam said. “Yeah. But we still have to deal with the cops,” Dean growled. “Afterall, we did kill someone in a parking lot…”

“There was surveillance at the bar. It was clear self-defense. We have nothing to worry about,” Sam reassured him.

“Well, not nothing,” Dean said. “You know what a pain in the ass it is going to be trying to keep Y/N from doing anything to heal up?” A faint touch of a smile reached his eyes as he looked over at Sam.

He nodded. “She is a Winchester.”

_ _ _ _ _ _

You were finally moved from the ICU, and Sam and Dean snuck in early, even before visiting hours, so they could be there when you woke up. Sam had a huge bouquet of sunflowers on his lap and Dean had brought your favorite herbal tea. You woke up slowly, still a little foggy from all the painkillers, but you immediately sensed the two figures in your room. Sam noticed you stirring first.

“Hey,” he said sitting up. His voice was soft but you could hear the smile in it. “You’re awake,” he said, climbing to his feet and coming to stand beside your bed. “Brought you something to brighten up the room. I know they’re your favorite,” he said, setting down the huge bouquet on the side table.

You blinked heavily a few times and managed a weak smile at him, “Thanks. It’s good to be up and have my room brightened,” you said. You put your hands down on the bed and tried to sit up a little more but immediately winced and hunched over, a hiss of breath drawn in through your teeth, drawing concerned looks from your older brothers.

Dean was immediately at your other side. “How are you feeling?” he asked. His voice sounded extra gruff to your ears, and you knew it was likely due to worry.

“I’m doing well for someone who has staples holding their guts in,” you said dryly, a small wry smile creeping onto your face. Neither of your big brothers laughed. “Oh, come on! I’m kidding!”

Dean swallowed at the lump and tightness in his throat again but it didn’t abate. “Really though? How’s your pain?”

You shook your head. “I’m fine. Really. You can stop giving me those classic Winchester furrowed brows. I’m okay. They have me on the good drugs,” you added with a small smile. You noticed the paper cup clutched in Dean’s hand. “Is that for me?”

“Oh, yeah. Your favorite tea.”

You grinned at him and accepted the cup. “Thank you.”

Sam sighed heavily beside you, and you could sense your brothers exchanging a glance. “Listen, Y/N…” Sam started. You lowered the cup from your lips and looked at him.

“Stop,” you said holding up a hand. “Before you say anything else, I need to say something.” You struggled to find the words. You wanted, no—needed them to hear every word you were about to say. “This is not your fault,” you said, deliberately turning your eyes to Dean and catching his green ones. “I mean it. This was bad luck. It could have been any of us. I was just the slowest walking to the Impala. My legs are a lot shorter than yours,” you joked. “Alright?” A heavy, thick silence held the room in suspension, feeling like a stifling summer evening heavy with humidity. “I mean it. None of us saw this coming. It isn’t anyone’s fault except the dickhead who shot me.”

Sam was staring at your face and you caught his eyes, which were a little sad and glistening more than they should have been for the light. “We’re your big brothers though,” he said. “We’re supposed to protect you.”

“We thought we lost you,” Dean said.

“But you didn’t,” you retorted. “And you did protect me—you saved my life. They said if you had waited for an ambulance I might not have made it.”

Dean’s jaw clenched and you watched the muscle in it twitch. “Did they tell you?” he asked you, his green eyes holding yours—and you saw fear there, something you rarely saw in his eyes—not that it was never there. He just never let you see it. “Millimeters and it wouldn’t have been fast enough.” You looked down at your hand on the comforter of the hospital blanket.

“Yeah, about that, actually…” you started. Sam’s brow creased even more in the middle. “There’s something else that happened I need to tell you about.”

“What is it?”

“I think while I was in surgery—or maybe even before, I don’t know for sure—but I saw something,” you said, wrapping both your hands around your paper cup again, soaking in the warmth of the tea.

“What do you mean?” Dean asked, apprehension growing with every word your spoke.

“It’s kind of hard to explain. I was in this pure white room… and at first there wasn’t anything there. It was just empty but then this… figure appeared.” Your brothers watched your eyes grow a little distant.

“A figure?” Sam repeated. You looked up at him and nodded.

“I asked him who he was and he told me that I could call him my ‘guardian angel’,” you said, now looking over at Dean and trying to read his reaction. His face seemed to darken and you watched the muscle twitch in his jaw again.

“It was probably just your brain trying to process what was happening to you,” Sam offered. “You almost died. The mind does crazy things when the body is in shock—trust me, I know,” he said sincerely. “And so does Dean.”

You shook your head. “No,” you said, vehemently. “It wasn’t that. It wasn’t. It was real. I’m telling you; it was—” you sighed heavily, not even knowing how to explain without sounding stupid. “—it was happening in my head but this figure, I don’t know… There was something about him. I think he really exists,” you said.

“Did he say anything else?” Dean pressed you.

“I asked him who he was and then I asked him where we were and he said something like, ‘We’re nowhere and yet, in some sense everywhere.’ Whatever the hell that means,” you said, fiddling with the sleeve on your hospital gown. You hesitated, knowing the next question you asked would be hard for your brothers to hear. “Um. And then I asked him if I was dead… and—it was the strangest thing. He laughed and he made some joke about it.”

“He made a joke? What the hell?” Sam repeated.

Dean shook his head. “What kind of joke?”

“Like, ‘oh, how good of a guardian angel would I be if you were dead?’ Oh! And it gets weirder… then he reached in his pocket and pulled out a candy bar.”

Now, Dean and Sam both straightened up involuntarily and looked at each other long and hard in some kind of silent communication. “What? What is it?” you asked. “Come on. Don’t do the silent, telepathic thing. I hate when you do that,” you said.

Sam swallowed hard. “What did this figure look like?” he asked.

You tried to call up an image of him in your mind, and as soon as you shut your eyes you could see him as clear as day. “He has sort of warm brown hair. It’s a little shorter than yours, Sam, kind of swept back. And he has these—these eyes that look like they’re golden brown or amber. A little stubble on his face and he has this cheeky sort of little smile…” You opened your eyes again and looked at your brothers. Their expressions made it quite clear they knew exactly who you were describing.

Dean ran a hand over his face and licked his lips. “You said he pulled out a candy bar?”

“Mhm. I wouldn’t get that detail wrong,” you said.

Sam shrugged and his eyebrows lifted. He shook his head, a little disbelieving.

“What?” you repeated, looking between your brothers. “Who is it? What’s going on?” You were met with stony silence again. “If you two don’t tell me right now I’m going to climb out of this bed and if my stitches rip out it WILL be your fault!”

Dean sighed heavily again. “Alright! Alright! Calm down, turbo!” You sunk back against your pillows again. “Yeah, I think we know who you saw. But—I mean—” Dean looked to Sam who shook his head again, apparently having no explanation. “It doesn’t make any sense.” You gave a questioning look.

“We knew him. Before we knew about you. It was definitely not your mind inventing this, but—he’s dead as far as we know,” Sam said.

Now it was your turn to gulp at the tightness in your throat. “Dead?” you repeated. Sam nodded.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “It’s complicated.”

You laughed sardonically and let your head fall back against your pillow, feeling suddenly tired. “Isn’t it always with us?”

“You’re tired. You obviously need to rest so we can talk about this later,” Dean said, putting a hand gently on your shoulder.

“What?! No! You’re not just gonna say that and expect me to be able to—to sleep!” You looked between your brothers in annoyance. “I’m serious! Cough it up! If you think I’m giving the two of you time to concoct some bullshit cover story you have another thing coming.”

Sam closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Alright. Just—relax. We don’t need you getting all worked up… You remember that trickster we told you about? Way before we found out about you?”

“The one who made you watch Dean die over and over again?”

“Yes, exactly,” Sam said.

“…Wait, you think that figure I saw was this—this trickster? That’s way too powerful for a—”

“He wasn’t a trickster,” Dean interrupted. “He was an archangel playing at being a trickster.”

Your jaw dropped open. “What?”

“Gabriel. It was the archangel Gabriel,” Sam said. You stared at him like he was insane. And then you looked over at Dean, who was refusing to look at you and instead staring, brooding, at his boots, chewing on his lower lip.

“Pardon my French but fucking--Gabriel?? THE Gabriel?”

Sam nodded. He could see your mind starting to spiral. “Whoa, whoa, whoa—he said he was my ‘guardian angel’. You don’t think he was being serious, do you?”

Dean shrugged. “We don’t know. We don’t even know if he’s back. He’s supposed to be dead. Sam and I basically watched him die. Besides, just because he said something like that doesn’t mean anything. He loves goofing around,” Dean said, and you heard some bitterness still in his voice.

“I don’t think saving my life is goofing around,” you retorted.

“We don’t know for sure that he did that,” Sam said. “We need to be careful here. There could be some other agenda. I mean, he was dead. So, if he is actually back that is a big enough mystery right there to warrant being concerned. Resurrections tend to have a catch.”

“I didn’t even know archangels could die,” you said, a little sadly. “Why did he—?"

“He died to save Dean and I,” Sam said. You let out an exhale in an audible rush of air. “Y/N, did he say anything else?”

Now you couldn’t think. Your mind was spinning. You pressed your palms over your eyes. “Umm, yeah he—I asked him if I wasn’t dead what was happening and he walked me through the shooting. The guy in the bar… the parking lot—” you suddenly shuddered and your eyes flew wide open. You pressed one hand over your incision.

“You okay?” Sam put a hand gently on your arm.

“It was like I was there. I could see everything as if in the actual moment. I saw the man in the bar watching us. I heard him running up behind me when we were in the parking lot. And then I could feel it again…” You trailed off and the room stayed silent for a long moment, each of you grappling again with how close to true disaster and devastation you had all come. Sam reached out and grabbed your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“But he just snapped his fingers and it was gone—the pain and everything.” You looked over at Dean. “I heard more gunshots—after I was shot. Did you and Sam—?”

Dean nodded solemnly. “We got him. He’s gone.”

That answer was weighty. You were glad that he was gone, but you wondered about the implications. “Are you and Sam going to get into trouble? I’m guessing there is an investigation and—you killed someone. What if—” Dean smiled fondly at you and chuckled a little. “Are you really worried about that? You almost died, and you’re worried about Sammy and me dealing with the cops? It’s all taken care of, okay? There were surveillance cameras in the lot. They caught everything. It was a clear case of self-defense. Don’t worry.”

You nodded and let out a relieved sigh. “Good. That’s really good. Who is going to wait on me hand and foot if the two of you are in jail?” you joked.

“Y/N,” Sam said, his tone again serious. “What else did Gabriel say?”

“Right. Umm, I asked him what was happening if I wasn’t dead—if it was real or all in my head. He said ‘Why not both?’ and then he told me—” you suddenly remembered his last words to you and the beeping on the heart monitor increased to match the rushing of your heart. You gulped. “He said we would be seeing each other again. What do you think that means?”

Sam shook his head and looked to Dean, whose face was stern and serious. “I don’t know.”

“Do you think it was really Gabriel?” you asked. “I mean, it could have been something else pretending to be him, couldn’t it?”

Sam rubbed a hand over the center of his chest, where a tightness seemed to be taking hold. “I don’t know. We don’t know. But you should get some rest now. Dean and I will look into this, okay?”

They both kissed your forehead and made sure you were comfortable against your pillows before retreating to the hallway, hoping that you would take their advice and get some sleep while they investigated.

Dean pulled out his phone and pressed the speed dial number for Cas, who was back at the bunker. Cas answered on the first ring.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, hey. Sammy and I are just leaving the hospital.”

“How is Y/N?”

“Well, you know, as good as can be expected. She seems to be in good spirits though.”

Cas breathed a sigh of relief into the phone. “Good. That’s very good news. I feel so… useless,” he said a little quietly.

“I know,” Dean replied. “But there’s nothing to be done about that right now. And none of this is your fault.” There was a beat of silence where Dean guessed Cas was still wishing as hard as he could that he would somehow magically regain his angel mojo. “Hey, listen, though… there does seem to be something else strange going on…”

“What do you mean?” The angel’s voice immediately deepened with worry.

Dean ran a hand back through his hair. “Y/N said when she was unconscious that she had some sort of dream or vision or something. She is fairly convinced that it really happened.”

“Okay…” Cas’s voice was uneasy.

Dean quickly related the whole story to Cas with as much detail as he could remember, but purposely omitted the key moment—the candy bar. “This figure claimed to be her guardian angel.” “Well, that is odd because the human idea of a ‘guardian angel’ is quite rare in actuality. Only a very, very small number of humans would ever be given that kind of special protection and they would have to be very important.”

“Right. But we asked her to describe who she saw and guess who it was?”

“Dean, you know I don’t like guessing games—”

“Frickin’ Gabriel. The archangel.” Dean waited for Cas to say something but the line was quiet. “Cas? Cas, are you still there?”

On the other end, standing in the front room of the bunker, there was a very good reason Cas was silent.

“Hello, brother.”

Standing before him was the very being Dean had just mentioned.

“Oh, why don’t you just go ahead and tell Dean-o you need to call him back.”

Cas was so shocked that he gulped and did just that without thinking.

“Cas, wait! What’s—” Dean let out an annoyed sigh and Sam’s brow contracted low over his eyes.

“What was that?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Cas just hung up on me all of a sudden. He sounded weird,” Dean mused, frowning down at his phone. He redialed Cas’s number but it simply rang and rang.

Back in the bunker, the angel stared in shock at Gabriel. “Wow. What exactly have you done to yourself, brother? I mean, I was never a big fan of the trench coat but even that was better than this,” Gabriel said with a grimace, taking in Cas’s sweatshirt and jeans. “Yikes. But, I’ll admit I do kind of dig the scruffy look you’ve got going on with the beard.”

Cas’s dark eyebrows were casting a heavy shadow over his cobalt eyes. “Gabriel… How—how is this possible?” he asked, stepping back slightly. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Well, I was dead. Dead as a door nail. But—then, all of a sudden, I wasn’t,” he said. He walked casually over to the table and hopped up to sit on it.

“What—” Cas gulped anxiously. “How?”

“Beats me. Dad up to his old tricks again if I had to guess. I was given some specific instructions though…” he added mysteriously.

Cas didn’t say anything and just studied him. He seemed to be quite the same Gabriel that Cas remembered. “What were they?”

“Oh, come on, Cas! You never did have much flair for the dramatic. You really think I’m just going to sit here and tell you? No, no, no… especially when you’re the only one here…” he said, glancing around. He jumped back down onto his feet. “Listen, don’t bother calling those flannel-swaddled jawlines back—first of all because your phone is broken—”

Cas glanced down at the screen on his phone and it was cracked and did not light when he pressed the button on the side. He gave the archangel an annoyed look.

“And second of all, because they will know when it’s time for them to know. Which, by my calculations, will be when they get back here in three to five days once Y/N is able to leave the hospital.”

“Dean said she saw you when she was unconscious or… dying,” Cas said. It was hard even to get the word out.

Gabriel smiled. “Did he now? How interesting, don’t you think?”

Cas was getting irritated with him for playing coy. “Enough, Gabriel. Did you save her life?”

He pointed to himself. “Did I? Y/N had some sort of vision of a mystic figure? Sounds like a classic near-death experience to me. Who’s to say if it really happened at all?” He smiled serenely at Cas again. “Where is Y/N’s room? This way?” he asked, pointing down the hallway. Cas frowned at the question but Gabriel only took off in that direction.

“Gabriel,” Cas called after him, rushing to catch up. “I don’t have my grace but you do. Why don’t you go heal Y/N now?”

Gabriel gave Cas a doubtful look. “Yeah, I’m sure that miracle would go completely unnoticed by the hospital staff… Look, brother, as much as I would like to simply go and fix her, take away all the ouchies, I can’t yet. Y/N is going to have to wait until she’s released.”

Despite his usual playful tone, Cas thought he saw real concern in his brother’s eyes while he spoke of you. “Well, is it true?”

Gabriel was continuing his hurried walk down the hall, poking his head into every room to see if it was yours. “Is what?” he asked carelessly over his shoulder.

“You told Y/N you were her guardian angel!”

Surprisingly this stopped him in his tracks and he turned to face Cas, his lips pressed together into a thin line. “Castiel, you know how rare that is. I mean, they hardly exist. Only a handful over all the millennia,” he said softly. There was a strange light in his eyes and Cas studied his expression carefully.

“That didn’t answer my question.”

And in response to that, Gabriel only smiled.

Part 2

#gabriel fanfiction #gabriel x reader #gabe fics #archangel #supernatural fics #reader insert #spn

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marlahey · 4 years

Text

I wish I had a steadier hand (or the words to bring you back again)

a little voice fic pairings/characters: sam/bess, my genuine gasps of pained adoration, sam’s truly incredible apartment is a character in and of itself warnings: sad sad sadness, yearning you could make a whole blanket out of episode tags: missing scene(s) set in/immediately after the end of 1.07 (ghost light) lyrical title courtesy of: quiver – lonas notes: I am a fucking wreck. goodbye forever. also I just get the sense that once samuel had tacit permission to touch bess, he’d never stop. can we tell that I am touch-starved sad quarantine bitch or what? dedicated to @moxyphinx who did not bat an eye when I asked her to exchange numbers and immediately listened to several voice notes of rambling, incoherent emotions. thanks for making me feel so seen, shawna. thanks as always to @missgoalie75 for going ‘Fuck you’ at the exact scene I wrote at 3am on thursday. best beta there is. a canon-based mirror to you got a friend in me; they’re very similar because an episode actually gave me nearly exactly what I wanted for the first time in my life and if I tell y’all that I screamed.

* They arrive at Samuel’s apartment. Bess has no idea how they got here. She doesn’t know a lot, right now. The weight of his arm around her back’s been so constant (for the last...hour? How long did it take them to walk back?) that when the door closes behind them and Samuel finally releases her, Bess feels like she might float away.

“Bess.” His voice is distant, distorted, like she’s underwater. “Bess.” She starts. Samuel’s tugged her down to sit on his bed. The soft thread of his blanket tickles her bare legs but that too, somehow, is removed—as though Bess is outside of herself, watching the way Samuel ducks his head to catch her eye. “What do you need?” The full glass windows throw amber streetlight across the apartment, cutting sharp shadows over his face. At least he’s not asking if she’s okay. Bess opens her mouth to reply but nothing comes out. The memory of her father screaming at her in the street crests up, a tidal wave.

Samuel draws her in, absorbing the sound of her choked sob. He cradles her head as she falls into the curve of his neck and Bess has never felt quite so fractured, before. Can she shatter and sink at the same time? His voice pulls her back to the surface, low and urgent just above her ear. “We don’t have to talk about it. If you want me to, I’ll take this to my grave and we don’t ever have to speak of it again. If you want to go home, I’ll take you.”

Panic seizes inside her chest, that urge to flee. Bess shakes her head, trying to stand, but Samuel won’t have it. He cages her in with his body, unyielding, the refusal absolute. “Hey, hey. C’mon Bess. Just talk to me, okay? Do you want to look for him?” He pulls back, his grip still firm around the soft bends of her elbows. The light reflects oddly in Samuel’s eyes; they bore into her. “If you wanna go back out there right now, I’ll help you search all night until we find him.” (She believes him. She can feel the truth of his words in her bones.) Bess hiccups. It feels like she’s gasping for breath. He brushes her tears away, pushing back her hair. Beneath the worry there’s something so tender in his expression that it stuns her into stillness. “Tell me what you need. Just...” Samuel’s voice wavers, just for a second. “Bess, please just let me help you.” She doesn’t know what she needs. Bess just knows she doesn’t want to feel this, like she’s drowning. But Samuel’s there, with his steady gaze and uneven smiles and guitar calloused fingers on her skin. His eyes rove over her face like he’s searching for something. She wonders if he can see her panic before Bess surges forward, catching his very faint breath of surprise with her mouth. Samuel freezes. (She wishes she had the excuse of being drunk. Bess banishes the thought as quickly as it comes.) A beat of perfect silence rings through the apartment. Samuel’s hand slides up to her neck, over her thrumming heart, in a touch so light it’s almost reverent—fresh heat burns in Bess’ eyes. He kisses her just once, like he could break her if he’s not careful, which—maybe he can. Or maybe she’s already broken. Then it’s over, before Bess can even take another breath. Samuel pulls away very gently. She’s slow to open her eyes, more reluctant to face him than she could ever admit aloud. The only word Bess can really land on to describe his face is pained. Guilt rears up in her chest. He thumbs at more tears that she hadn’t even realized had fallen. Bess barely recognizes her own voice. “I’m so—” Samuel silences her with a shake of his head. “Don’t be. It’s okay. You’re okay, right? With—” He falters. She feels unsteady. “With that?” Bess thinks of what he’d said to her tonight, before everything fell apart. You make the bad days okay. She just nods. One corner of his mouth lifts in that way it does when Samuel wants to reassure her. Bess lets it work. “Want me to take you home?” he asks gently. Bess shakes her head, almost surprised at herself. She can’t remember the last time she didn’t want to be alone, so fiercely it could have choked her. Samuel nods towards the head of the bed. “Sleep?” Bess stares at his pillows like they’re alien. Words stick in her throat, raw as they finally come out. “I don’t know if I can.” His understanding is more than she can bear. Samuel reaches for the sleeves of Bess’ jacket. When it slides away and he gets up to leave it on his chair, a question leaps from her mouth. “What about you?” His smile tilts higher on one side as he shrugs out of his button down. “Got a foam mattress in the closet.” “You don’t—” Bess can’t articulate it, suddenly. Their fight comes rushing back. You’re too messed up to let anyone care about you. “Can you...” She doesn’t trust herself to speak anymore so Bess just reaches for his hand. The air feels loaded with something unspoken, but Samuel just follows as Bess leans back onto the bed, curling into herself; he folds around her, tucking himself so tightly into all her spaces that her shoulder blade leaves the mattress to lean on his chest instead. The apartment narrows (she loves his space so much but it’s too big now, like she could lose herself in the emptiness) into the strength of his body, the weight of his arm over hers. Samuel’s breath is warm on her neck. He doesn’t move to take his hand back. “Okay?” he murmurs. Not, are you okay, but is this okay? She nods into the pillow. Bess can make out the familiar shapes of Samuel’s production set up; the memory of Electric Lady stings. The ceiling offers no comfort. “He,” she starts, and finds a lump in her throat. I haven’t seen him since we recorded. “You don’t have to explain, Bess.” Samuel tightens his grip. “You don’t have to say anything.” Yet more tears slide past her nose—will she ever stop crying—and Bess is grateful he can’t see her. Though that may just be his grace, pretending he doesn’t know. The ever restless city sounds just far enough away through the open windows. She exhales shakily. Samuel doesn’t say anything else. He hooks his chin over her shoulder. Exhaustion seeps in her bones but Bess’ mind won’t let her rest, even when his breath goes deep and even. She tries to close her eyes but her father’s face: listless, livid, practically unrecognizable— is seared in her mind. She lays awake for a long time. It doesn’t feel real—tonight, this moment, herself—and then Samuel’s lips press into the only bare skin he can reach. (The dark behind her eyes is safe, now. Just for a second.) Bess can feel his gaze on her face but she has no idea what to say, or do. He shifts against her like an instinct. She’s struck with the sudden, overwhelming fear that Samuel’s about to pull away, to leave, and her free hand is already reaching back for his arm—a plea Bess can’t voice, something in her that’s too fragile to bring into the light. He presses, almost impossibly, closer. Bess can close her eyes, finally. She doesn’t sleep more than she passes in and out of almost-dreams (the apartment women, Louie dressed as Hamilton, Ethan’s grandfather); she returns to herself once to Samuel’s fingers trailing gently up her arm, from her wrist to her elbow and back. The steady rhythm of it is like a blanket wrapping around her. Pale dawn is creeping in the next time she opens her eyes. Bess’ head feels foggy from lack of real rest. She rolled all the way onto her side at some point and Samuel had followed. “Want anything?” His voice is soft, a little hoarse. “Water? Food?” Bess shakes her head. “Did you sleep at all?” She shakes her head again. Samuel leaves a featherlight kiss at the very top of her spine, a wordless empathy. She couldn’t stop the shiver if she tried. Bess almost wishes that they’ll never have to look at each other again, if only so she doesn’t have to face however things may have changed—if only she could just be safe, for once. Are things different? Or is Bess the one that’s changed, now? She rolls over to face him before she can decide. Samuel’s eyes are very soft. He reaches out and brushes some fallen hair back away from Bess’ face. His callouses graze her cheek. Bess knows she should say something. Anything, really. But she has no idea where to begin or how this is supposed to end and Samuel must see the fear on her face, because one corner of his mouth lifts. “It’s okay, Bess.” She feels small, somehow. “Is it?” His expression is careful, guarded even. “It doesn’t have to mean anything, if you don’t want it to.” Do you want it to? She doesn’t have enough courage for the question. Not now, anyway. Maybe not ever (or maybe Bess is just a coward and he’s been telling her something all this time that she’s too afraid to hear). “I don’t—” she starts, then stops. She tries again. “Should it?” I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know what to do. Samuel smiles. He looks almost sad. “I don’t think you want me.” He says it with such certainty, like he’s already resigned himself to the truth. A dull, familiar frustration rises in the pit of her stomach, like smoke from an ember. It’s a feeling only Samuel can ignite.

“How do you know that?” His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Because if you wanted me, you could’ve had me the second you walked up on that stage at Saint C’s alone.”

Something in Bess comes undone. But Samuel doesn’t let her reel back. He holds her face so she has to look at him when he says again, “It’s okay, Bess. It doesn’t change anything.” “How can it not change anything?” she demands, horrified to hear her own voice break. Samuel leans a little closer, his face serious. “Because I care about you more than I care about my—” Bess sees a flicker of the boy who’d awkwardly asked, are we good? only a few hours ago— “About us being anything more than together in the music. You’re so good, Bess— Yes,” he insists when she shakes her head, rejection after rejection echoing. “You are. I’ll believe it for you if you can’t, but you are.” She refuses to cry anymore. Bess blinks until she can see Samuel clearly again. He strokes her cheek a little like he’s unaware he’s doing it, like he’d never stop unless she asked him to. “I know you have a lot of shit in your life, okay? I know it’s hard and I know you think you have to do it all on your own.” Her breath hitches. Damn it. Bess wraps her hand around Samuel’s wrist as though it could just anchor her enough. He ducks his chin, looking at her through his pale eyelashes. “I just wanna be here for you, if you’ll let me.” She nods, maybe a little desperately, and that’s apparently all Samuel needs. He pulls her towards him with both arms now and presses his mouth to her forehead. Bess lets him. She lets him trace the edge of her spine, over and over like he could wear a line far enough down to sink beneath her skin. She lets him tuck her into him and curl his hand along the back of her neck, where she’ll never stop feeling at her most vulnerable for a reason Bess still doesn’t understand. But finally, finally... She falls asleep.

#little voice #bess king #brittany o'grady #colton ryan #mine: fic #bess/sam #otp: you make the bad days okay #otp: you've been there #otp: your soul is all over your face #otp: take a minute #this was SO PAINFUL TO WRITE BUT HERE YOU GO FRIENDS

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demiwonder-a · 3 years

Text

take me back to the night we met // koncassie

WHO: Cassie Sandsmark & Conner Kent. @kxnel. With plenty of mentions of Erik Lehnsherr.

WORD COUNT: --- words. (i’ll count later no one look at me.)

LOCATION: Undisclosed location.

GENERAL NOTES: Kon’s lil roadtrip has been interrupted by Cassie. She shows up after finally packing up her things and deciding enough has been enough. Tears and break ups ensue. (my own tears actually)

WARNINGS: Toxic relationship behavior, mentions of past death/murder.

KON: The trip had begun to drag at this point. What once seemed like a valiant crusade to take down a coward who draped himself in nationalism, xenophobia, and hatred had turned into a series of personal squabbles. Deaths that were only vaguely and flimsily justified under the pretense of gathering information.

At this point Kon was tired, he wanted to go home but with each new memory of a heart slowing to a crawl and then weakly sputtering out he felt less and less like he really had a home at all.

It was a mistake to come here. That, Kon knew.

He had stolen a moment away from the group to try and clear his head, a cigarette that did nothing for him hanging limply from his lips as he let it burn down to tender skin of his lips before he spit it out and let another take its place.

The sound of rumbling disturbed his bout of self-loathing and his eyes drew up toward the noise only to widen in shock.

“Cassie. What are- where-how?” He tightened his jaw, glancing back toward where the group was making camp for the night before turning back to his girlfriend. “You shouldn’t be here, Cassie. It’s not safe for you.”

CASSIE: There was only so much bending one could do before the inevitable cracks started to splinter out. The foundation could only withstand so much with cracks in it before its falling apart. Red flags only looked like flags when you wore rose colored glasses. She could only look away so many times before she was forced to stare at the ruins of her favorite mess. Kon couldn’t see the smile she was faking, all because he wasn’t looking either. The shaky ground they stood upon finally had given way. The free fall that followed Cassie was almost welcome, at least she was feeling something again other than the steady ache.

It scared her how welcomed the devastation felt.

A decision had been made. Bags had been packed and she avoided Jon all together. If he had any inkling of what was happening she knew he’d tell his brother in a heartbeat. The wind blew through her hair as all the windows in her car were down, sunglasses resting on the bridge of her nose and the unknown on the horizon.

It didn’t take long to find him, sunglasses pushed to the top of her head as night had started to fall. She parked the car and stepped out, taking in the shocked expression of Conner’s face with a sigh. “You still share your location with me. What are you doing, Conner? What are you doing with your life?” She asked, because she truly didn’t know at this point. “I can handle myself. I may not be able to punch a hole through a wall anymore but I still am trained.”

It sounded so tired. She was so tired. There was a resignation to everything about her that she couldn’t hide anymore. “When did it come to this? It never used to feel like me against you. I’m not your enemy.”

KON: His brows drew together as he studied her, the bob of his throat the only indication that her words had gotten through to him at all. He had no idea what he was doing. Trying to do something when it didn’t seem like anyone was doing much of anything, maybe. Trying to find a way to help her become her again? Trying to run, far from New York and its problems and its stresses and its stifling smog and even more stifling aura of hatred that seemed to grow each and every day. It felt impossible to explain and, maybe it was. Maybe there were just no words left to be said.

But he had to try.

“That’s not what I meant.” He tried, and it wasn’t. She had always been larger than life to him. Her dedication, her passion, her unyielding sense of who she was… they had been things he loved about her, they still were, even if they seemed to be drained from her now. It pained him to think that she thought she wasn’t anything without her powers, but it also made him *angry. Were they all defined by their usefulness to her? Was he?

The two men waiting for him were forgotten as he tried to step closer, his hands reaching out for her before dropping uselessly at his sides. “And I’m not yours, Cassie.”

It seemed fruitless to try and speak now, not when the canyon between them had shifted and grown to the point where everything seemed just a little distorted by the distance, an echo of an echo in a chasm. “Why are you so intent on making me the bad guy? Why don’t you trust me?”

CASSIE: The silence stretched and stretched like a rubber band, snapping back almost violently with Kon's words. Her heart had been broken so many times at this point, it felt like she felt nothing any longer because it was no longer breaking. How many times could you put back together something in pieces only for it to be an unrecognizable mess of what it once was? Her heart had broken with each growing divide between them. It broke with the way she longed to take to the sky once more. There was only so many times she could be punched into the ground before she stayed down.

"Why are you giving me so many reasons to not trust you? Why do you keep lying to me? Why do you keep making me feel like I'm insane for being angry at where we're at? What are you even doing here?! What is it that drove you here? Clearly you're doing something you shouldn't be if you're acting like this. It's not safe? Then what is it that's so unsafe about what you're doing?" She demanded to know.

Cassie's anger always burned bright and fast, a brilliant light like star only to die out. Her shoulders slumped down and she rubbed at her face tiredly. "What have we become, Conner?" Cassie asked quietly.

KON: Sometimes she could be so infuriating, so condescending. Did she think that he was genuinely too stupid to make decisions for himself or did she think that he was just a walking time-bomb like everyone else did. It certainly seemed like she wavered between the two rationalizations rather than just listening to him. He had tried to get her to come to his meetings in the alien district, begged her to come to a picket with him. He had tried so many times to reach out, to be there for her and now it all seemed for naught.

It seemed like just about everything was for naught, in the end.

“It’s not- look, Cassie I’m scared that you’ll see Erik and fly off the goddamn handle and he’ll kill you because he is not a man you want to fuck around with.”

And what was so wrong with that? Sure, Erik was a bit testy, and yes, Kon disagreed with his Machiavellian approach to most everything but Batman wasn’t someone to fuck around with either and traumatic brain injury was no more merciful than a painless death. Hell, how many people had Diana killed? How many sentient lives had been snuffed out by Clark’s heat vision? None of their hands were clean, not really, not in any way that mattered.

(Tim had explained the trolley problem to him once years ago. Kon had said that it was a stupid question because he could just lift the trolley off the tracks.)

“I am trying to help people, Cassie. I’m trying to help you! He could figure out how to get your powers back, Bruce brought Erik back to life I swear I’m not just running around the country for no reason.”

He sighed, his voice broken as his head shook. She wasn’t even listening to him, but what was surprising about that?

“I don’t know, Cassie. Why are you even here? To yell at me? To get in one last I told you so? To tell me that I-I’m what? Dangerous? Uncontrolled? To take me home like a good little boy?”

CASSIE: Everything seemed to halt. The world went all too quiet for a moment as Kon's lips kept moving, but Cassie didn't hear what he was saying. Erik. What did he mean Erik? Erik was...he was dead. He was dead because Scott killed him. He was dead because it was what was the right decision, a decision that seemed to have torn Scott to bits and pieces from the inside. A decision that wasn't taken lightly and Cassie had assured him she would never think he was a bad person for. He was dead, but now he wasn't it seemed, and that scared Cassie.

It scared Cassie far too much.

Cassie was brought back to the present and she shook her head quickly. "I don't want him coming near me. I don't want him trying to figure out what's wrong with me. I don't trust him, you shouldn't trust him either, Conner." Cassie said tightly, though she knew he wouldn't listen. He hadn't listened long ago when Cassie said she didn't trust him and she doubted he'd listen now.

And in that moment it's almost as if Cassie could hear the final nail being hammered into the coffin.

"No. I didn't come for that." Cassie said softly. "I can't do this anymore. I don't think we're—" And all the feelings of the multiple heartbreaks rose up like an impending wave and she could feel the water welling up in her eyes, "I don't think we're good for each other anymore. I can't do this. I can't do the lying and I can't watch you go down this path. I've tried...I've tried to tell you how I feel, but you're going somewhere I can't follow. I'll be out of the apartment before you get back."

KON: He barked out a laugh, his eyes a bit more manic than he would really feel comfortable under any other circumstance. He felt like, for a moment, he understood how Lex went insane. There was something about obsession that made you a little crazy and he had always, always been a little obsessed with Cassie.

But now, looking at her, it was a little hard to imagine why.

“You don’t even know him!” He said, his voice harsh. “You don’t know what he’s done for me, Cassie he isn’t all bad. He could help you! He’s trying, he was trying before-“ He huffed a breath. How much did she know? How much had she kept from him while pointing fingers and searching the nooks and crannies of his words to find incongruities and pick apart secrets.

At least his lies were for her, to protect her, to help her.

“Good for each other?” He repeated blankly, his mind reeling as it replayed the words over and over, “Cassie, you’re, what? You’re leaving me?” His voice was small, his shoulders drooping as his hands shook against his thighs.

“Cassie, wait, we can talk about this," He tried, the edge to his voice bordering on desperate as he walked toward her, "don’t leave, don’t- Cass, please don’t- don’t leave me.”

CASSIE: The 'I know enough' was on the tip of Cassie's tongue and threatened to fall between them. She knew she was at fault for the way things crumbled apart too. She was holding this secret firmly against her chest, stuck between a rock and a hard place. It had been weighing on her heavily. Though, she didn't know what else to do. The harsh truth of the situation was there was nothing left to do. They had gotten to a point of no return and it tore Cassie to pieces.

The way Kon curled in on himself and became so very small gripped at her heart tightly. It was her fault, she was going to break his heart and she had to live with that. She already had and knew it. She had long ago and was doing it all over again alongside her own heart. Her fingers were curling around something so delicate and crushing it. Though, her heart had been broken by him as well. He hurt her and she hurt him right back and this was for the best. Right?

The tears finally escaped, slipping down her cheeks as she took a step back in an effort to keep the distance between them. "Conner—" she breathed out with a weak noise, looking up at the dark sky as the rumbling of thunder sounded out. It wasn't her. So clearly Zeus had a sick sense of humor in vocalizing the hurt washing over her. "There's nothing more to talk about. I think we've said enough. I think this will be better in the long run. You can't tell me you haven't been miserable. You keep leaving and I just...I know. I get it. It's for the best." She swallowed hard around the lump in her throat and tried to open up the door to the driver's seat.

KON: He felt like weeping. A not insignificant part of him wanted to climb into the car with her and leave this stupid journey behind, to grab onto her hand and not let go no matter what, but as she stepped backwards unsteadily away from him all he could do was lean onto a nearby tree and try not to wince as it creaked and groaned as its bark gave way underneath his fingertips.

His heart thundered in his chest and he wondered if she cared even a little bit that he would, once again, be left alone. He glanced up, his lips twisting into a sardonic grimace as the rain pelted his face. How fitting a soundtrack the rain would make for his heartbreak. His life was a cosmic joke, he became more sure of it every day.

“I’m not. I love you- I” he buried his face into the crease of his arm, his shoulder hunching as he fought back the tears threatening to overtake him. If she wanted to go he couldn’t stop her. He wouldn’t continue to make a fool of himself for someone who clearly wanted to be anywhere but here, with him.

“Fine! Go then! I don’t need,” He took a shuddering breath, “I don’t need anyone.” He said softly, the tree falling with a thundering crash as he pulled his hand away.

CASSIE: There was a part of Cassie that didn't want to go. A big part of her. If she listened to that part then she'd stay. She'd stay a thousand times over. She'd let Kon kiss her fingers and she would try to forget about the permanent ache in her heart that resided there. She loved Kon, there wasn't a person in the galaxy, in any universe she'd love as much as she did the man standing before her. And sometimes that love meant walking away even though you wanted anything but that.

That's what she was telling herself at least as her heart screamed at her and the tears dripped down her cheeks with the rain.

She watched him and her feet tried to take her forward, to press her hands to his face and beg him to understand, but instead she stayed rooted to the spot as Kon seemed to fall just as loudly as the tree he had leaned again. It felt like there was some sort of sick metaphor in there that Cassie didn't want to look at too hard.

'I wish things were different," almost came.

'I'll always love you," threatened to fall from her lips.

'I don't want to go,' was trapped in the back of her throat.

"Okay," was merely whispered instead. Cassie knew she couldn't remedy this. It sat broken in pieces at her feet and the breath left her in a quiet exhale as her blonde stuck to her face with the downpour of rain. "I'm sorry, Conner. I love—" a moment of hesitation as she stepped back toward the door. "I do love you. I'm sorry. This is for the best. Please...just, be safe. Please." Slipping into the car, shutting the door behind her, her fingers curled tightly around the steering wheel for a moment before reaching down to start the car.

Cassie couldn't help herself. Her eyes briefly flickered up to the rearview mirror and watched Conner's hunched form get smaller and smaller. She wanted to ask the silence of the car if she'd be alright. She had a feeling the answer would be a mere 'I don't know' as she drove into the night.

#int: discord #discord: conner kent #int: conner kent #conner kent: 026 #death mention tw #murder mention tw

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whumping-out-of-timee · 3 years

Text

Rematch

Cw: Broken bones, Cursing, Knife injury, Sadistic whumper, Demons, Hopelessness, Blood, Character consuming blood, Implied threat of cannibalism, Falling from heights, Vengeful whumper

Previous: Welcome to hell

Red Masterlist here

*****

Niko was asleep, he hadn't strayed far from where Reyo had left him food and water. Scared that he might never find it again in the reflective glass. It all looked the same, the sky above tinted red in its inverse image.

Reyo appeared in a mess of white noise, startling Niko awake.

Crap, he's here

Niko's gaze settled on the small blade Reyo held in his hand. His thoughts raced as he jumped to his feet, ready to flee.

Reyo looked disinterested in that, his eye only a small slit of orange. The annoyance surfacing in his voice.

"Oh please. Sit down, or I'll give you a reason to run."

Niko sat at those words, defeated. What else could he do?

There's no where to run anyway

"You know.. I wish you'd talk more. It would make things more fun"

"I- I'm sorry-" Niko started to respond.

But, Reyo interrupted him, unbothered.

"Today I want a rematch, I've given you time to heal. If you can kill me, then I'll set you free. But, we both know what you did was cowardly. I suspect you'll be paying for it instead." At that, the corners of his mouth turned up slightly.

"Ok, I- never meant-"

Reyo glared a warning, "nevermind, shut up. There's nothing interesting you have to say."

Niko fell silent, confused.

I hate him. I want to kill him. I have to kill him.

"I hate you." Niko grumbled, not learning from last time.

"Awe, that's more like it!" He threw out his hand, the dagger flying through the air. It whizzed over Niko's head, clanging somewhere very distant behind him.

"Fetch, angel. I'll give you a head start. I'm sure you don't need it though, right?" He taunted, sarcastically.

Reyo raised his hand to the sky, his eyes had a predatory shine as he stared down at Niko.

Niko quickly arose, no time to worry about whatever Reyo was doing. Breaking from his gaze as he turned around.

Spotting the knife, he broke out sprinting towards it, coming to a dazed stop as the ground shook. Large patches of glass raised, reaching towards the sky. Creating an intricate matrix. He caught sight of the weapon, as the glass beneath it became slightly raised.

Great, at least I know where it is. But, I'll never see him coming in that mess. It's a losing battle

His disheartened thoughts were interrupted by a spiteful voice. "What are you waiting for? I'm not going to wait much longer. You'll be sorry if you don't play along."

Niko sprinted off towards the knife again, not paying attention to the fading laughter. He climbed up onto the platform as he came to it, turning his momentum upward with his wings. They were still foreign to him, but he managed.

The knife was cold in his hands. He turned around to see the place Reyo had been standing, he had vanished. Panicking, he turned around in every direction, waving the knife threateningly. But, there was no trace of Reyo anywhere.

Can Reyo fly? I can't remember. I can't fly well. But, I can't be on the ground if he can. The only chance is to stab him before he gets a solid hold on me. I need a plan, or it's hopeless. I have to stay calm until he comes for me.

Amused laughter caused him to nearly panic again. It distorted in every direction, resonating through the strange landscape.

I can't tell if he's close. I have to stay calm, get to higher ground

Niko curled his toes over the edge of the platform, preparing himself to fly. Flying was extremely tiring, but he didn't know what else to do. He looked up towards the structure above, a slight 20 degree incline through the air. It was very far away, a massive dead space between.

It looks too steep. And it's too far, I don't have the endurance, but I have to try. He has the upper hand down here.

Niko spread his wings in a strong downward motion as he jumped from the edge. Shaking under the immediate stress of holding his body stiff. His muscles were aching in his back, making it obvious to him, that he wasn't meant to fly. He managed to hold himself up in the air by his wings. Unsure how to move his webbed wings upward, without dragging him down. Instead he strained, holding himself in a glide for a few seconds.

I'm not going to make it

He tucked his wings closer to him, spiraling down to gain speed. Then he flared his wings, trying powered flight again, this time angling his wingtips differently. Acceleration caused him to soar upwards into the sky. Tense muscles shaking under the increased wind resistance. He made it to the platform, trying to swoop upwards gracefully before impact. Instead he crash-landed, holding the knife at arms length to protect himself form it.

Niko quickly clamored to his feet in the silence, looking over the edge of the platform. He saw nothing. Heard nothing.

That's a bad sign, what's that insane bastard up to? Surely he saw me in plain slight on my way up here

He went to turn away from the edge again, but something slammed into him hard from the side. He stabbed blindly and felt the blade meet resistance multiple times before his arm was grabbed. His heart skipping a beat with hope, before the pain of impact reached his senses.

Did I really- will he die from that?

His hope betrayed him when he caught sight of Reyo. The upper part of his left arm was bloody. There was no trace of a smile in his expression.

I stabbed him in his blind spot- figures. He's not going to be happy. Fuck, I'm going to die. There's no way I can kill him

His arm was twisted in an unnatural way, snapping as Reyo swung him around hard, letting go of him just in time to kick him off the edge.

Niko could barely move enough to generate the lift to break his fall. He fell slowly in a spiraling mess. Impact traveling up through his legs, making everything so much worse. The knife had gone flying elsewhere, he heard the crack of glass under it. But he couldn't focus on that. His hip and side burned, arm was sickening to look at. He leaned against the glass, struggling to breathe.

Reyo was there, behind him, and reflected in the glass before him. Both watching him between their two orange eyes. That smirk had returned to his face, despite his unmoving arm, constrained by the red snaking over it. Head slightly tilted as he took in the sight. Clearly savoring his revenge.

"What's the matter, hard to kill me in a fair fight? Want me to turn around, so you can stab me in the back again?!" He broke out in chilling laughter, breaking from the normal range, as he took a step towards Niko. He raised the retrieved knife to his mouth, licking his own blood off it.

That's sick. And, he's truly laughing at me now. This is his revenge, I have no purpose now. He's going to kill me. It's all over, no one will even know what happened to me

Niko was too hurt to move as Reyo closed in on him, trapping him against the glass wall. He rested the blade across Niko's throat, the bloodlust in his eyes was icy cold.

"Are you at least going to beg for your life little angel?"

No, I wont give him this, it's all I have left

Niko thought, as he stayed silent, only whining slightly in pain.

"I'll find something creative, I've never really liked the taste of blood. But, you know what I do like?" He paused as Niko started sobbing. "Well, maybe one day you'll find out." The second part of his statement seeming to snap out of his sadistic spell.

"That will be a sad day for you," he added. As he stepped back away from Niko, taking the threatening blade with him. Arm wounds closing before Niko's blurred vision as Reyo stared at him with an unrecognizable emotion. Unshifting eyes dangerously hiding his true emotions.

If I think he's capable of feeling pity, I'm stupid. He's a coldblooded monster

Thoughts affirmed by the next statement. "I'm going to make you suffer endlessly here. Even when you beg me to kill you, it won't be enough."

At that, he disappeared into nothing. The walls shifting back into a flat plane. There was nothing for Niko to lean against anymore. He fell to the ground, crying out as his body made contact with it.

All I see is red. Forever in every direction. Suffering forever, with nowhere to escape. Not even deserving of pity.

All alone forever. Living where I'll die

*****

Next: The origin

Taglist:

@abitefullofeverything

#whump #demon whump #nonhuman whumpee #oc whump #whump series #broken bones tw #blood tw #cursing tw

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righteoussoldier · 4 years

Text

HURT

INFORMATION: Character: Alastor Moody Faceclaim: Joe Manganiello World: Harry Potter Verse: Marauders Era Trigger Warnings: Smut, Death, War Author’s Notes: A song prompt/oneshot written for an old RP.

___________________________________________________

I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel I focus on the pain, the only thing that’s real The needle tears a hole, the old familiar sting

Flashes of light rushed past Moody’s head as his agile body twisted to deflect the blast. The rush around him, the commotion of others entirely overwhelming. Throwing up defensive spells and flinging out counter curses were second nature to him now, and not just because of his work in the ministry. Ever since he and Albus had started the Order of the Pheonix, the world became a hell of a lot more gruesome.

Working the Order’s missions took him deeper into the rebellion than he’d ever thought he’d go. When the red tape is lifted and all bets were off, you saw the ugly side of evil front and center. Images of pain and turmoil, of injured women and children, of Death Eater’s wretched actions burned into your brain so profoundly and your own actions to protect the muggles and civilians so horrible, there was no way to ever cleanse your soul. No hope for retribution.

When the firefight was done, the enemy having retreated from a lone Auror who dared face off against them- there was nothing left but the smoke and ashes. The landscape before him utterly barren, except for one shape. Laying haphazard across the ground, casting shadows against the light of the moon. With a rush, Alastor sunk to his knees beside the body, taking a moment to steel himself away before rolling it over….

Try to kill it all away, but I remember everything What have I become, my sweetest friend Everyone I know goes away, in the end

Lifeless eyes met his own, the white haze that arrived only when death had turned a body cold clouded what was once such a brilliant blue. A sob choked out of him, pain filling his chest and blinding him to his surroundings. To anything other than the young man who lay dead beside him. Moody had failed his mission, failed to protect the innocent muggle-born wizard who had been captured.

Blood streaked his pale face, the skin brutalized to a level that made him almost unrecognizable. He’d been tasked to find him, to save him….and instead, he’d failed. The Death Eater’s doing more to his body than what was required of standard Rebellion Questioning. More than spells had been used, his fingernails missing, cuts and bruises distorting his features, ugly words etched into him marring skin…The choking intensified until it became a scream, echoing through the night, deafening to his own ears.

Clinging the boy’s body to himself so tightly, Alastor could no longer feel a thing. So numb to his own pain, he didn’t hear the crack that rang out against the void around him. He didn’t see Kingsley take the boy from his arms and disappear, didn’t feel Minerva’s dainty figure as she wrapped him in a soft embrace. Not until the world shifted in a blur and his eyes opened to his safe house. The one separate from the Order’s Head Quarters, the one few knew about at all…

And you could have it all, my empire of dirt I will let you down, I will make you hurt I wear this crown of thorns upon my liar’s chair

When the fog thick in his mind lifted, and he realized who had brought him home, his heart threatened to break all over again. He couldn’t let her see him like this, he tried to walk away, to run and hide like the coward he had become. A man didn’t break in front of another, especially not in front of her. Pain tore through him, cut deep into his soul as he stumbled backward, only for Minerva to follow him, to hold him in place. Trapping him on the spot, stuck between how he felt and how he should act.

“There are no walls here, Alastor.” Her voice was grave, heavy with the weight of the war, of what they’d seen. Closing his eyes, he tried to will it all away, to change the course of events that brought them to this moment. “How did you find me?” He finally asked. His voice so unlike his own. Ruined, not broken. “I will always find you.” The words a promise, a vow…and he didn’t doubt them, but that scared him even more…

“I can’t do this anymore”

And by this, he meant so much more than the fight against the Dark Lord. He couldn’t do this, with her, he couldn’t love her. He could lose her. The way she looked at him, with warriors eyes along with the gravity of their situation weighing so hard on him, he feared he may fall and never get back up again. “I know” she replied, and the Auror knew that she understood all of it. Understood why he’d never committed himself to her in the way a couple should. Because Minerva felt the same, and that’s why they worked. “I will not love you either, Alastor.” Her reply to his unspoken thoughts solidified their link further…the truth was, they were both lying- it was too late.

Full of broken thoughts, I cannot repair Beneath the stains of time, the feelings disappear You are someone else, I am still right here

Without another word, like she knew what he needed like she always did, her hands tugged his face down to her level. Soft lips pressed against him in a hard surge, as if she was giving him permission to let go, to release the pain and take it out of her willing body. Alastor wasted no time, he clicked his fingers and her robes had vanished, leaving behind the supply body of his greatest love. His own, too… and suddenly, primal need took over. His primary instinct was to bury himself in what she was offering him…and god help him, he would.

When their bodies met once more, it was with intense force. His large hands slid down her sides and locked on her thighs, picking her up and cradling that petite form against his chest. Minerva’s legs wrapped around his torso, heels digging into his lower back as he surged forward, not stopping until her back hit the wall and hard. His cock was already hard, immediately awoken by her courage and it was the work of a moment for him to find home; deep inside her.

Her screams replaced the sound that still rang in his ears, a different kind of white noise as his hips thrust against her own. Fucking her with a kind of raw desire that no woman had ever been able to elicit from him before. Fingers locked tight in his hair as she begged him to move harder, faster, deeper…and he so willingly obliged. Her sex tight around him as he moved.

If I could start again, a million miles away I would keep myself, I would find a way

When they orgasmed, it was together. The kind that rocked the ship, that made them blind to the world afterward. Their skin slick from the exertion, breathing ragged as he gazed at her, still deep inside. The connection was what he needed the most, she was what grounded him to this earth, what kept him alive on the harshest of nights. He needed her in the way fire needed oxygen to stabilize and gain ground.

“Stay…” she whispered, almost pleading as she bit her lower lip. Her hair was a mess, cheeks flushed pink from their efforts and in that moment, he loved her even more. He was still hard inside her and with legs still wrapped around him, Alastor moved from the wall leaving behind a crack on its surface…not stopping until legs hit the bed and he collapsed on top of it, on top of her, before he began to move once more. Hips rocking between her own, taking the wild beauty with long and slow strokes. A deeper desire to pour his h e a r t into her, rather than the pain of his mind.

And as she moaned, the sound breathed life into his chest. Nails raking down his back, leaving deep red marks that bled into his soul. The stain of who they were something he hoped would never be removed. Lips locked onto her own, and his thick arms moved either side of her head, caging her against him, closing her off to the world, to anything other than the way their bodies moved as one…

If only he could say it, just once. If only he could tell her what she meant to him, how she made him feel…if only he could find a way.

#Alastor Moody #Alastor Moody; Harry Potter Marauders Era Verse #mumu rp #indie rp #independent rp #oneshot #drabble #Oneshot; Alastor Moody #Minerva McGonagall

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siribear · 4 years

Text

the bolted lock slides free, and the security door swings open. there’s no further message, no additional comment. kellogg leaves them in a tense silence. he’s here. he knows they’re here. worse yet, he’s been watching them.

for all she knows, it’s a trap. she could walk through that door and be blown apart. or she could walk through that door and kill her husband’s murderer.

‘only one way to go,’ deacon says, softly. ‘i’ll take point from here.’

whisper can’t speak. can’t trust her voice. so she focuses on breathing, tightens her grip on deliverer, and falls into line behind deacon. in the next room, she swipes another two pulse grenades sitting on a desk, and waits for deacon to disarm a tension trigger on another security door. maccready reaches up and fully disarms the electrical trap in the ceiling, just in case.

in the next room, they search through lockers tucked away in an alcove. whisper fidgets, watching maccready search through pockets of army fatigues. a handful of fusion cells is all he can find, but it allows her to reload her laser rifle. she knows they need to be more careful now. knows they have to take their time. but every step brings her closer to revenge, to shaun. she can’t stop.

peering around a corner, they spot a lone turret standing guard in front a large set of metal doors. two shots leave it a smoking heap of scrap metal.

‘i almost didn’t recognize you.’ she skips a step at the sudden sound of his voice, and it’s maccready that keeps her steady. kellogg’s huff of laughter is grating. ‘honestly didn’t think you’d make it this far. thought the commonwealth would eat you alive long before you made it to my door.’

whisper puts one foot in front of the other. the line of computers marking the room as the command center pass by in a blur. the concrete fort transforms after another security door, blown off its hinges. threadbare carpet muffles their steps down another hallway with torn, red wallpaper hanging like cobwebs from the ceiling. another pair of synths attempts to stop them, failing miserably. to their left, a long wall of windows reinforced with wire lattice separates them from another room, larger room. the lights are off, obscuring their view, though she can make out the silhouettes of more computers.

‘good ole american military,’ deacon mocks in a commercial-ready voice. ‘destroying the world since 2077.’ it bristles, but she ignores it, stepping around a pillar of broken pipes and concrete in the center of the hall.

the way forward, illuminated by a glowing red exit sign, is blocked by another locked security door. kellogg doesn’t open this one for them, so they turn back down another hall. it leads them down to a barracks with skeletons still resting in their beds.

‘you’re pissed off. i get it. i do,’ kellogg says to her. he hasn’t spoken a word to her companions. ‘but whatever you hope to accomplish here? it’s not gonna happen. you can still turn around, live your life out however you please. i won’t even bother you.’

whisper shoots out an overhead laser turret, pretending its kellogg’s head.

another hallway breaks off into the mess hall, and a skeleton hanging half out of a window startles her. she hisses, reeling backward into maccready, and for the moment the tension drains from her. instead of going down another short staircase, she ducks into another maintenance tunnel, searching for any way to shut kellogg up. a bundle of wires to cut the microphone. something. instead, she finds a toolbox and a password for the armory - which works just as well.

again, kellogg laughs, and it’s ominous in their next red-lit hall. they follow humming pipes and buzzing wires down the tunnel. ‘you’re in way over your head,’ he warns, and she wonders if he’s only counting himself.

they find the armory. whisper keys in the password on the nearby terminal and the metal door swings open, revealing a bounty of supplies, years untouched. she and maccready pocket rad-x, radaway, and stimpaks while deacon unlocks a second door. there’s a load of .10mm ammo, another bundle of rifle ammo that deacon and maccready split, and -

‘that’s a f-freaking fat man, isn’t it?’

whisper flips on her pipboy light and - ‘yeah. that is.’

‘we’ll have someone come back for it,’ deacon tells her, hand on her shoulder. ‘after we get out of here.’

she nods and flips off the light, shrouding them again in near darkness. backtracking, they find themselves in a waiting area just outside an office. a dusty american flag stands vigil next to the open door. inside, they blink against the harsh light and the strangeness that is the contrast between the rotted wooden walls and the pristine desks and bed. everything that he would have had in diamond city, moved here.

with her hand on the next door, kellogg speaks to her. he sighs, and she feels it in her soul. ‘you’ve come this far. let’s talk, just you and me. your friends stay behind.’

she turns to see deacon with a frown set heavy on his face. maccready’s vehemently shaking his head. ‘no way.’

‘my synths are standing down. it’s now or never.’

‘i have to. i’m not turning back,’ she says. ‘just stay close.’

lights overhead flicker on, one by one, until the entire room is bathed in light. kellogg steps out of the shadows, flanked by two synths. he holds his hands up, though in one he holds a magnum, finger parallel to the trigger. perfectly civil, for a mercenary.

whisper steps forward, deliverer drawn, and it hardly breaks his casual smile. like he’s catching up with an old friend.

‘and there she is. the most resilient woman in the commonwealth.’ they’re almost face-to-face. he drops his hands, she lowers hers. ‘let’s hear it.’

she can hear the synth stepping in close behind her. ‘kellogg,’ she begins, with an evenness that surprises her. ‘where is my baby?’

he shakes his head, his smile turning up into a grimace. ‘i’m only a puppet, just like you.’ she frowns, but he continues. ‘shaun’s a good kid. though, he’s not a... baby, anymore. and he’s not here. he’s with the people pulling our strings.’

‘take me to him,’ she says, with barely contained rage. ‘right now.’

kellogg throws his head back in a laugh. ‘like i could, even if i wanted to. nobody can reach your son now. he’s safe at home. in the institute.’

she raises deliverer again, tired of it all. kellogg doesn’t even flinch. ‘so tell me how to get there and i’ll find him myself.’

he rolls his eyes with a sigh. ‘you don’t get it, do you? you don’t find the institute. the institute finds you. just like they found your family the first time.’

‘enough.’

‘i agree. we both know how this has to end.’ he rolls his shoulder. it’s him or her. only one of them is walking out of this alive. ‘are you ready?’

she smiles, sickeningly sweet. ‘in a hundred years, when i finally die, i only hope i go to hell so i can kill you all over again, you piece of shit.’

‘now!’

in half a second, the room erupts in chaos. in front of her, kellogg pulls out a stealth boy and presses a switch, his body flickering out of sight. whisper rushes forward, ducking under laser fire, and slams into kellogg before he can get away. behind her, a pulse grenade explodes where she once stood, and metal flies overhead as it takes out one of the synths and damages another.

an invisible kellogg throws her across the room, and she hits one of the computers, glass shattering against her back. she scrambles for cover with a wheeze and scans the room. deacon punches a synth in the face, knocking it off balance long enough to take it out with a quick shot. maccready catches her eye before quickly ducking under his own cover as a shot goes sailing over his head.

‘by the stairs!’

peeking around her cover, she eyes the stairs. she hears the shot before she sees it, just before it lodges itself in the wood next to her head. but - there. a shimmer in the light, the banister distorted. whisper fires twice, one hitting the wood and the other - the other hits home, red flowing from a fresh wound.

she edges closer, trusting deacon and maccready to cover her long enough for her to reach him. one of them hits him again, though it bounces off his metal arm piece, but it breaks the stealth boy long enough for her to tackle kellogg to the ground. she digs her knee into the wound she made in his thigh, grabs the hand still holding his magnum and fires directly into his wrist. it blows apart, red and ugly, the magnum falling next to them. she picks it up, batting away his other hand, and bashes it into his head. his hand wavers, slowly creeping toward her throat, but she hits him again.

and again.

his skull cracks under the butt of the gun, but it isn’t enough. she tosses it aside and punches him. she meets more resistance than bone, the flesh of her knuckles shredding against a piece of metal braced against the side of his skull.

‘you fucker.’ she punches him again, his face gone blurry and unrecognizable. ‘give me my son. give. him. back.’ each word is another punch, more blood and bone, another heaving breath. but she doesn’t wake up. the nightmare doesn’t end.

a pair of arms snake under hers, heaving her upward and off of kellogg’s corpse. she kicks it before she’s dragged too far away. ‘he’s dead, boss. he’s dead - you got him,’ maccready says, trying at soothing. ‘jesus. you really got him.’

whisper doesn’t move even though he lets her go, just stays on her knees, leaned over, and it’s then she realizes she’s crying. wordlessly, she watches deacon lean over kellogg’s body, digging through his jacket and his pockets.

‘hey,’ he says, gently. ‘it’s another password. probably for that computer over there. maybe it’s got some information we can use.’ he kneels in front of her, dropping the holotape with the password in her shaking, bloody hands.

deacon looks over her shoulder to maccready, but she doesn’t register anything else. maccready helps her to her feet, leading her to the one terminal still in one piece. she loads the holotape herself when he can’t seem to figure it out, keying in the options to access the computer. first, she opens the security doors, not looking up at the sound of them swinging open. she blinks, keying in to the access logs.

the boy, shaun, successfully delivered back to the institute. payment received.

she backs away from the terminal, smearing the rest of the keys red. seeing it in print makes it worse. makes it real. her son is gone, lost to the institute, and the one person that could have told her anything lies dead across the room, his blood on her hands.

god, the blood. she brings her hands up to inspect them. coated red. gore under her nails. what would nate think of her now?

‘oh my god,’ she says, dully.

‘let’s, uh, let’s get you out of here.’ maccready takes her by the shoulders, leading her carefully out of the room. deacon joins them from the foot of the stairs, one hand hovering just near her arm. afraid to touch her. like she’s made of glass.

an elevator takes them up to the roof where deacon disarms the row of turrets from a terminal. the sun shines high in the sky, oblivious to what’s happening below. a large cloud - or what she thinks is a cloud - passes in front of the sun, casting the roof in shadow.

people of the commonwealth -

whisper looks up to see the largest air ship she’s ever seen. it spans longer than the fort itself, the metal clad ship held aloft by a number of thrusters lined along the bottom. a pair of vertibirds fly alongside it before taking off in separate directions. the air ship turns to follow one.

do not interfere. our intentions are peaceful. we are the brotherhood of steel. the loudspeaker clicks off with a static-y echo.

the three of them watch it pass over the fort, beyond the line of trees, heading across the commonwealth.

‘would you look at that?’ deacon says in awe. and then, more grave, ‘damn.’

maccready picks his jaw off the ground. ‘what’s the goddamn brotherhood of steel doing here?’

if the brotherhood of steel is in the commonwealth in full force - whisper sighs. it doesn’t bode well for anyone.

#oc: alice ward #siri drabbles #series: we will all go together when we go #a break? we don't know her

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flyswhumpcenter · 5 years

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Bad Things Happen Bingo! The event where you send me requests according to this marvelous card! (Red cross is the completed prompt, character headshots are prompts I’ve already filled. Green deltas are for requested prompts.)

There is no better way to study a character than to stick them in a situation where they're all alone. No outside disturbance, that way! Hell yeah! I've wanted to write one more of these "character has to survive" oneshots for a little while so I jumped on that occasion. Felix is a pretty fun character to try and a get a hold of. I suppose I've always liked edgy-ass guys. Let's justify every instance of out-of-characterness in this oneshot with blood loss!

It’s longer than I expected it to be, tbh.

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Get Out Alive

Summary: He can't afford to die here.

Fandom: Fire Emblem: Three Houses (Post-Timeskip)

Wordcount: 1.8K words

Event hosted by @badthingshappenbingo

AO3 version available here.

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A swooping motion of a fierce-looking, sharp-bladed axe.

A slight moment of inattention, given to another occurrence on the battlefield, misplaced worry.

A few droplets of crimson, shards of fabric, drops of sweat flow in the air along with the branches of the trees.

A move on the other side, of a sword, gets even more poured on the stomped grass.

A body collapses on the ground, another falls on its knee, a hand touching the stained soil.

And soon it crashes into a flow.

With heavy footsteps, the survivor rises to his feet, swaying. His fingers fumble with the edges of his soaked clothing, tips tinted in red, as he tries to examine the wound. It’s a deep slash, red all over from where his eyes can pry at it, and the stench would have overwhelmed him if he wasn’t so used to defeating enemies and watching their bodies empty themselves from their blood.

Then a wild thought as the world starts spinning: what if he stayed and defeated more enemies? He can’t leave the battlefield like a coward, can he? That’s not how he does it, he isn’t a fucking loser who’s afraid of dying, isn’t he? Death is nothing compared to the thrill of battle!

A familiar, firm voice calls out to him.

Felix, retreat!

The professor… No. Their leader. Their strategist, their commander on the battlefield. He has to obey their order, doesn’t he? Fuck this shit… Fuck this shit to Hell and back, he wants to continue fighting and do something that isn’t laying around doing jack shit, goddammit, don’t let him down like this!

Another voice, even more familiar, serious and severe, yet obviously concerned. Urgh.

Felix, you damn idiot, retreat before you get yourself killed!

It’s Ingrid’s, who is flying on her mount right over his head, a blurry image before she goes to spear an opponent about to slash his throat with the scooping motion of a rapier. Backed against a wall that doesn’t exist, he sheathes his dripping sword away, arm still pressed against the wound, and decides he’d be better off not getting harassed either.

His feet feel heavy, as if the light armour he wears got thicker and more constrictive since he’s put it on. Lethargy courses through his four limbs, one arm dropping by his side, weight pinching forward constantly. His balance is almost non-existent: he swings from one side to the other like an irregular pendulum, senses numbed and will to fight about to give up and in on him.

He resorts to using a corpse’s lance as a crutch, almost tripping on nothing as he kneels to get it. Disgraceful. Disgusting. That’s like showing the most weakness you can in one motion, in one decision. A fierce, proud swordsman like him shouldn’t have to rely on such cheap techniques to even make it out of the field without meeting his end. At best, he’s pathetic.

Despite the nausea taking a toll on him, he doesn’t taste bile coming up in the back of his throat.

Instead, he tastes iron. Bitter, filtered, liquid iron.

He’s become the picture of vulnerability and, as if knowing that wasn’t enough, everything in him constantly reminds him of that fact. Every noise seems so far away, the voices of his comrades like the sound of the lance he’s stolen, as if his ears were filled with fabric. His view is swimming more and more as he advances, hardly able to put a foot before the other without tripping, to the point he can soon only see blurry spots of colours and hear distorted sounds.

Dammit, this isn’t good… If his sight fails on him even further, he’s no better than dead in the eyes of anyone on this battlefield. He can’t waste precious time and resources on this, he’s got to get out of this mess on his own, and that’s only now that he realizes he’s afraid of death. Afraid of the eternal void, of the darkness of the everlasting slumber, and he doesn’t want it. Not now, not here. He still has things to do, things to partake in, and he can’t afford to meet his demise here.

He can’t afford to bleed out when he’s lost who-knows-how much of it already.

Speaking feels like it’d be a waste of energy, so he resolves to mentally motivating himself to the nearest healer. He has to find Mercedes, who wasn’t too far from him at the beginning, but it’s getting hard to distinguish anything in the sea of blur and vague. There’s no way to tell who is an ally and who is an enemy anymore and the screams roaring around him are nothing but a vast, undetermined, messy potpourri of noise. Talk about an environment to find your footing in.

A foot forward, then the other, then the lance… and he trips miserably on the ground, coughing against the grass, smelling the iron of fallen weapon and bodily fluids. It’s disgusting and repulsive, more than it has any right to be, and he gets nauseous to the point of almost fainting. Yet, fighting the world that keeps spinning to the point of being unrecognizable and the fluids that want to exit from his mouth and wounds, he gets up and continues, for once relieved that no fight is happening around him.

He won’t end up like Glenn, not today, not here, and not in those circumstances! That much he swears on his life!

(That’s ironic…)

His thoughts are on repeat. Don’t die. Don’t fall. Don’t falter. Don’t get distracted. Don’t engage a fight.

Don’t perish. Don’t trip. Don’t fail. Don’t get your attention somewhere else. Don’t start fighting someone.

Don’t lose your life. Don’t lose your footing. Don’t lose your composure. Don’t lose your focus. Don’t lose your reason because your honour got the best of you.

Don’t die, Felix. You can’t afford it, none of you can afford it.

The lance breaks between his fingers, tired of supporting his unbalanced weight to itself. His legs are about to give in, but his vision is dampening with black and he can’t find another corpse to steal from. Even in his darkest times, fate gives up in him and tells him to find somewhere else to go, to see if the green isn’t less red in that imaginary destination. The only land he’s getting promised here is the realm of the dead and he doesn’t want to be there.

He’s glad to be alive, thank you, and dying isn’t pleasing him.

Shivers wreck his frame from head to toes. He feels cold, so cold under the fur of his armour, so cold under the blazing heat of the sun that made him sweat barely minutes ago. Time is torturing him, making him think he’s going to die a moment, giving him back some vigour the next. He feels sick, but it’s no sickness that’s affecting him.

His legs end up giving in in the middle of the field. He tries to drag himself along the grass to make it to safety, to a healer, to something dammit; but his arms are too weak from supporting the rest against a glorified, broken stick, and can’t be expected to lift his weight once again. A glass canon he’s always been, a glass canon he’ll die as. That’s it.

This is the bitter end and it feels as unsatisfying as it could possibly have.

His eyes shut close and don’t open even when he begs them to. Vague echoes dance in his mind to taunt him –the sound of the living being alive and enjoying life— as he attempts one last time to rise to his knees. His bones have transformed into lead, everything is either too far or too soon. It sure is his end, (not the end, his end, that’s painfully obvious), and it’s an end he doesn’t want to see.

It’s dying in disgrace, dishonour and loneliness, surrounded by the enemy, not unlike what his brother must have gone through during the Tragedy. Fitting, but displeasing to say the least.

With nothing to see, touch or feel with, he’s stuck waiting for the finale, lying on his back, a lethargic end on the wound that’s going to cost him so, so much. Talk about a miserable defeat, unfit of his mastery. It could have been avoided too, if he hadn’t seen Sylvain almost getting wounded himself… In the end, you really are supposed to stand on your own and be independent, don’t you?

Yeah… That’s funny. Life’s funny. All he has left is to mentally laugh about how pathetic he must look like at the moment. It makes you like or hate it, and then plays around with you until you’re either tired of it or addicted to the feeling of being alive. It’s living for the sake of living until you die and realize how much you have left to do. If he dies today, he won’t ever get to see his house prosper after the death of both heirs. He won’t get to win against the professor he’s sworn to vanquish in a spar someday. He won’t get to see if Sylvain will calm down, if the boar prince (excuse him, Dimitri) will ever come back from the mental war, if his kingdom will win the war.

It’s funny that he cares about all of this so much now. Earlier, he was just busy trying to survive and retreat. It’s amusing in all the wrong meanings of the term.

Death is funny too if you twist it one way or the other, isn’t it?

An echo of a voice comes in his vague direction.

Felix!!

It feels like Annette’s voice, but he isn’t sure. It could be Mercedes or even Ingrid, considering how far he’s gone. Footsteps accompany it, until it seems like he’s getting held. It’s not like he can even see who it is to be sure about the identity of the person lifting him up from the ground.

Oh my Goddess, he’s bleeding out…!

The voice frets over herself, reminding his body to feel pain when it’s forgotten how to have anything going through it other than numbness and powerlessness. It’s a strangely welcome slight change, even if he grits his teeth and almost screams in a broken screech.

H-hang on, Felix, I’ll bring you to safety! Don’t die on me okay?!

He tries nodding. Must be the least reassuring sight ever, but fretting won’t be of use to anyone, so he just does it anyway. The warmth of this person is soothing, why not try to do something in exchange?

Funny that hope comes back when despair is settled.

#fire emblem #fire emblem three houses #felix hugo fraldarius #cw blood #bleeding #injury #bad things happen bingo #bthb 2

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brerediddy · 6 years

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more than survive - chapter 5

Jeremy attempted to get through the rest of the weekend without a mental breakdown. He was pretty proud of himself, overall, because he’d managed to only have five panic attacks. It wasn’t ideal, but it was okay due to the fact that his world was crashing down around him. He had finally encountered a villain who was smarter and stronger than his worst dreams. Not only could he not feasibly defeat him in a single battle but now he had to work with him, for god’s sake. He had no choice: not when Michael was on the line. Jeremy had researched everything he could on the SQUIP but couldn’t find anything other than a news article about his destruction in the city. He sighed and shoved the mouse aside. He couldn’t keep thinking about this. He’d spent all of Saturday worrying and pacing.

Jeremy opened up Skype just out of curiosity. As the application opened, he stared at the green “online ” symbol next to Michael’s name. He wondered if this is how Gatsby felt. He desperately wanted to see him, to talk to him, to ensure that he was okay. Just as he was about to make his move, his monitor lit up as a ringtone began to play.

Incoming Call From: Michael

The other boy worried on his lower lip and accepted the call, pushing his hair off of his forehead. He hoped he looked at least semi-okay.

“Hey,” Michael greeted, a relaxed smile on his face. “I was bored and I saw you were online.”

Jeremy fought back a grin and immediately felt more at ease. “What's up?”

The boy shrugged. “Hanging out. How’s your weekend been?”

“It’s okay,” he lied. He didn't want Michael to press more because then he would actually break down. To elaborate, Jeremy added, “I mean, it's been pretty lazy. I feel unproductive.”

“Hey, that's alright. Being lazy is good sometimes,” Michael intoned. He was playing with something out of view of the camera but Jeremy had a suspicion that it was his Rubik's Cube. He always needed to have something in his hands, moving and twisting. “But I know what you mean. Whenever I’m too lazy, I get frustrated. Usually, though, I just play a level or two of Donkey Kong and I feel better.”

Jeremy nodded in agreement. He scratched at the back of his neck, unsure of what else to say. A weight was heavy on his chest but he couldn't tell Michael. Not like this. And he couldn't exactly say, ’Hey, you know that new SQUIP guy? Well, he knows your name because, by the way, I’m Spider-Man—and he threatened to hurt you if I don't follow his orders. See you at school!’ All he could do for the time being was wait for the SQUIP to contact him. He would complete the task and keep his best friend safe. And said best friend wouldn't have to know. Easy, right? Then why did he feel so nauseous?

“Jeremy? Hello?” Michael’s voice pierced his anxious resolve.

“Sorry. Um, bad connection, I think,” he spoke. “Were you saying something?”

“I asked when you started working out.”

Jeremy furrowed his brows in confusion. “I haven't? Michael, you know that I would never willingly exercise.”

“Where'd those arms come from, then?” Michael asked, staring unashamedly at Jeremy’s body. “And your chest, man.”

“U-Um,” he stammered. He had picked up a lot of strength with his web-slinging and cardio from his various battles, but he didn't think it was anything noticeable. “Actually, come to think of it, I have worked out with Rich a few times. He invited me and I didn't want to be rude.” Jeremy couldn't look Michael in the eye. Although the attention was a bit unexpected, he couldn't help but enjoy that Michael had noticed.

“Ah,” he nodded in response. “I got you. But, hey, you're kind of...attractive, I guess ? Is that weird to say?”

Jeremy swallowed heavily. “No, it's not weird. Thanks for thinking I look decent.”

“Better than decent,” Michael hummed. After a split-second, he seemed panicked and stopped messing around with his Rubik's Cube for the first time during the conversation. “N-Not that you didn't look fine— good, before, either.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Um. Yeah. I’m going to stop talking now.”

Jeremy felt heat rise to his cheeks and he shrugged. “Thanks,” he said. His mind vaguely flashed back to when Michael had called Spider-Man hot. Maybe the suit wasn’t the only factor. Maybe Jeremy had a shot? “Anyway. What have you been up to this weekend?”

The other boy shrugged as well, mirroring Jeremy and going back to his Rubik’s cube with impressive focus. “I’ve just been laying around, really. Where were you yesterday? You, like, hardly texted me.”

He considered the fact that he’d spent the previous day as a literal ball of anxiety and wondered how much he should tell Michael. He had already decided not to let him in on the threat because, honestly, did Michael really need that stress in his life right now? Jeremy didn’t think so. Although he couldn’t explain the cause of his panic, Michael always helped to calm him down and Jeremy needed to feel calm. He shook his head and finally responded, “I was pretty anxious. It just wasn’t a great day.”

Michael nodded in understanding and lifted his eyes to search Jeremy’s face. He said, “What were you anxious about?”

“Just, like, life in general. I think,” Jeremy lied. Although he supposed that it wasn’t exactly a lie.

The other boy hummed and Jeremy heard a noise which must have been Michael setting the cube down on his desk. “Have you considered talking to anyone about it?”

“I talk to you,” he responded steadily. He knew that it wasn’t what the other boy meant, but that didn’t stop him from meeting his best friend’s brown eyes a bit defiantly.

“Jeremy,” Michael spoke, slightly drawing out the vowels. “You know that I love to listen. I do. I’ll listen to you speak forever...but I’m also not a therapist. I can’t help you if your anxiety is getting bad again.”

“You help me more than you think you do,” he responded.

Michael tried to ignore the small swell in his chest as he set his jaw. “I’m not telling you that you have to go. I’m just saying that it’s an option you have, if it keeps bothering you.”

“Thanks, Michael,” Jeremy acknowledged offhandedly, hoping to drop the subject. He let out a long breath and said with a bit of a kinder tone, “I’ll let you know if it gets bad enough for that. I think it’s just temporary. There’s just...a lot in my life, right now. That’s all.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.” Jeremy rubbed at his temples. He let out a breath before saying, “Hey, whatever happened with that vinyl you were trying to get ahold of?”

Michael knew that the other boy was changing the point of conversation; he wasn’t stupid. But if Jeremy didn’t want to talk about his anxiety, then he didn’t have to. Michael wouldn’t force him. He just didn’t want his best friend to reach his breaking point like he had a few years prior. He couldn’t see Jeremy in that state again—jumpy and shaking and staying in bed for days at a time. He couldn’t watch him go through that. Regardless, the boy wasn’t comfortable talking about whatever was troubling him. Michael had to respect that. He reached for his Rubik’s cube again and began to spin it aimlessly. “I couldn’t get in contact with the seller. I feel like I probably lost the bid.”

Jeremy placed his elbow on his desktop and rested his head upon the palm on his upturned hand. “That’s too bad. Except now I have something to get you for your birthday.”

Michael smiled softly and responded, “Well now that you’ve told me, it won’t be a surprise.”

“You and I both know that you’re going to forget about this conversation long before July.”

“Touché.” Michael ran a hand through his hair, pushing the strands that had fallen into his eyes back to their rightful place.

Jeremy couldn’t help but watch the movement and admire how effortlessly cute his best friend was. Once he realized that he must have been gazing for far too long for it to be considered normal, he swallowed his feelings quickly. That was a problem for Future Jeremy.

The next morning, Jeremy thought that he had awoke to his usual alarm and slowly rolled over to turn off the harsh ringing. When he did, he could see that he was actually receiving a phone call and it was only...five o’clock in the morning? What the fuck? He didn't have to be up for school for another two hours and the number calling him was unrecognizable. As soon as his sleepy brain caught up, his stomach dropped. It had to be the SQUIP. He swallowed nervously, propping himself up on his elbow. Taking a deep breath, the boy answered the phone.

“Jeremy, good morning,” the familiar tone registered. He still sounded cocky and Jeremy still wanted to punch him.

“What do you want?” He tried to keep the anxiety from his voice, but he figured that his facade was not very convincing.

“Meet me at the eleventh street lot,” the SQUIP requested cooly.

“But th-that’s closed down. And locked up.” Jeremy hated his stutter. It came out at the most inconvenient times. He ran a hand through his hair and spoke, “I have school. I’m seventeen.”

“You can go to school in the afternoon. I’ll only need you for a few hours.” The SQUIP hummed an odd distortion of the Jeopardy theme. “So what do you say? Eleventh street lot in half an hour. Oh, and don’t bother with the costume. It’s just a waste of time.”

“Do I have a choice?” Jeremy sat up in bed, blinking a few times to make sense of his surroundings in the dark.

“No. Well, yes, technically. But we all know what the consequences are if you make the wrong one, don't we?” And with that, the phone line went dead.

Jeremy threw his phone down a bit harshly onto his pillow. He hated this. He hated everything about this. He supposed the only good thing about the situation was that, in spending time with his enemy, he was bound to learn more. Maybe he could figure out a way to defeat him. The boy groaned as he stood up and then, on second thought, turned back to grab his phone. He needed to keep Michael informed so that his best friend would stop looking at him with worry and instead go back to looking at him with fondness.

He typed a quick text saying that he wasn't feeling well and he wouldn't need a ride to school. He added that if he felt better in the afternoon, he would walk and meet him for lunch. As he set down his phone, he took a deep breath to steel himself and began to get ready for the (long) day ahead.

Jeremy arrived at the location exactly twenty-seven minutes later. It was still dark but the beginning of dawn could be made out along the horizon. He tried to hide a small shiver at the cool breeze of the morning air. The SQUIP was already there, leaning against the padlocked gate and staring at his hands. He looked the same as he had during their last encounter, except that he now wore a blue scarf that swayed in the slight wind.

“Punctual,” he drawled, not looking up from his nails. Jeremy noted that they were painted black. The SQUIP spoke, “I like that. It’s a good quality to have.”

“What are we doing here?” The teenager crossed his arms over his chest defensively, burying his hands in the sleeves of his sweatshirt. “It’s locked,like I said.”

“Watch and learn, kid,” the man said as he finally met Jeremy��s eyes. As expected, his eyes were brightly glowing blue. He held out a hand to hover over the lock and seemed to focus his energy, biting his lip ever-so-slightly. A small source of gray light appeared and suddenly, the lock fell onto the ground; broken.

“H-How’d you do that?”

The SQUIP gave a grin that looked more like a sneer and said, “Like I said, you’d be amazed at what you could do if you just put your mind to it.”

“You sound like an annoying infomercial.” Jeremy felt his phone vibrate in his pocket but he ignored it. He didn’t want to move his eyes away from the person in front of him.

“Aren’t you going to get that? It could be Michael,” he taunted.

“I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

“How romantic,” the SQUIP remarked flatly. He pushed through the gate and into the lot. Greenery pushed through cracks in the cement and a half-deconstructed brick wall split the space into two.

“Why did you choose this? Isn’t it, y’know, pretty public?”

“No one comes here. No one even comes down this street. I’ve been monitoring it for a while. It’s wide open but actually private enough to work.”

“Speaking of work…” Jeremy began, but trailed off. He didn’t know what he wanted to ask. He didn’t know where to begin or what was expected of him.

“Ah, yes. I’m glad you asked,” the SQUIP nodded. “For today, I just want to observe. I’ll ask you to do things that will showcase your powers and you’ll obey. Got it?”

Jeremy could feel his heart in his throat but he agreed anyway. He had no choice, right? He couldn’t piss this guy off, it was way too risky. Just think of Michael. He had to do it - for him.

“Shoot a web at that wall and swing up to the top.” Jeremy did as he was asked and he was met with a sound of approval from the man. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

When Jeremy arrived at school that afternoon, he felt sore and tired and disgusted with himself. He'd voluntarily shown his arch-enemy the full range of his powers. That was probably a bad call on his part. He pulled off his sweatshirt and shoved it into his locker, slamming the door shut when he was done. Jeremy stared at the metal hinges for a moment, feeling like he was missing something. He let out a long groan when he realized that he’d forgotten a pencil and pulled it back open. His muscles ached from exerting his powers for such an extended period of time. He had also been running on a seriously small amount of sleep, which he figured wasn't a good combination. Caught up in his own thoughts, the boy didn't notice Michael’s presence next to him until his best friend cleared his throat.

“Michael!” Jeremy started, trying to keep himself from jumping in shock. “When did you get here?”

“Uh, a few minutes ago. I saw you going to your locker so I followed. You okay?”

“Me? I'm fine. Tired. But fine.” Jeremy nodded once to himself and then again to Michael. “What about you? How was class?” He rooted through his textbooks to find his pencil and ignored the ache in his bicep.

“Fine. Jake got our entire English class out of a pop quiz today,” he responded. He played with the strings of his hoodie for a second, not entirely looking at the other boy. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah, much better. I just needed to sleep a little bit, that’s all.” Jeremy emerged from his locker victoriously, closing the metal door and holding his pencil with pride. “Found it.”

Michael gave him a smile and said, “Congratulations, Sherlock. Hey, by the way, did you get my text earlier?”

“Shit, sorry. No. I haven’t checked my phone.” The boy reached into his pocket and fished out the cell phone. He turned it on and saw the message:

5:31 AM From: michael mell straight from hell

hope u feel better soon bc i got a new game and we should give it a shot after school

Jeremy looked up from his phone excitedly. “What’s the game? We should totally play. Is it zombies? Or, uh, robots? Those are your forté but maybe it’s like, aliens or something. That would be cool,” he rambled. Finally, he felt the slightest bit back to normal. BSM (Before Spider-Man) normal. Here he was, in the middle of the school corridor, eagerly discussing video games with his best friend. Nothing else mattered except the thought of spending the evening drinking slushies, eating cheese puffs, and playing a game.

“Aliens, actually. Something different!” Michael exclaimed. “It’s supposed to be like Space Invaders but modernized, I guess. It seems super cool.”

“Do you want to grab snacks after school and then head to your place?”

“Absolutely.” Michael slung an arm around Jeremy’s shoulders casually, turning down the hallway to head to their next class together.

#meremy hell #boyf riends #bmc #be more chill #bmc spiderman au #my writing #my post

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redzeverin · 7 years

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Angsty angsty angsty angsty~

Read left-right/right-left will still make sense lol

~Featuring papa Satano, the Witchu, and some weird dude I came up with on the spot.

Kinda based on the lil fic below for @quiethist because her angst/fluff thirst is real xDDD

Angsty angsty angsty angsty~

Tsubaki’s eyes scanned the area from his spot in the sky, his field of view being obstructed by clouds and clouds of smoke arising. The being disappeared again, masking its magic along with it-- a troublesome ability to have mastered in the face of the Demon Lord. Nevertheless, he could track it; The moment even the tiniest bit of magic is released, his senses tells him where. He hadn’t remembered a time he was fighting at his peak--- maybe because this time he was fighting for someone. And that someone was fighting for his people too.

He senses the presence behind him, blocks the orbs of energy, unleashes his own and comes face to face with the dead-fish eyes of the man- glowing with the twisted hue of purple. Tsubaki conjures his katana just in time to block a sweep of the opponent’s large sword, emitting a large gust of wind the moment their magic clashed. It was different now than he had remembered though, much weaker than he had expected him to be, but that was probably the cons of being on offense too much. Tsubaki brings up his sword, knocking the man back. There was a snarl from him, the purple aura going feisty and untamed, almost as if the sane control was on the brink of breaking.

“In the end… not you…” The man uttered, voice low into a growl. Tsubaki’s eyes narrowed a fraction in question as a the large sword started glowing ominously. He raised it, eyes in anger, and then swung straight at the demon lord.

The energy was unusually menacing, a power that clashed almost too brutal against his, but Tsubaki stood his ground. He harnessed his own magic, propped his katana in front of him, and took the brunt of the blow by his blade. The sudden rush of sorcery so malignant gave him goosebumps, as if the force were to devour him--- a predator that leaves no room to run- and Tsubaki knew he couldn’t afford to be defeated in a place like this.

And then all of a sudden, the blast was deflected, knocking him from his feet for a couple of seconds before he looks around. The shockwave flew to his far left, landing in a large explosion of land and dust and probably creating another crater, and as he scanned the clearing infront of him, there was nobody there- much to his dismay. He looked back at his opponent, wondering if there was something else affecting the man’s abilities but there was nothing but a smug look on his face. There was a full minute of him wracking his brain for an explanation- he had not won had he? Was the man out of his mind? Ready for a suicide blow? Was there something that Tsubaki himself missed? It was no use- he couldn’t think of anything but wiping the stupid smile off his face and ending this disaster he brought upon his castle and-

Tsubaki froze. The chilling realization dawned on him as he looked back. The cloud of smoke stood stark against the blue skies and green forestry- highlighting, much to his dread, the area that it was evaporating on.

The refugee camp.

All of a sudden, a whip of air flies past him, and through the panic in his eyes, he sees the burst purple energy hurling towards the same area- and then another- and another- and that’s when the fear claws onto him. Tsubaki screams, slashes his katana with fury and cleaves a large gust of magic at the man, stopping the relentless attack, and without a moment’s hesitation, leaves for the scene.

Shit shit shit shit…! Tsubaki dashed towards the area with all the magic he’s putting on himself. The man was still pursuing him but he could care less. Tsubaki’s reckless abandon on whatever attacks he was doing right now was justified- he just wanted that man gone. He didn’t care if he was basically shooting mountain loads of energy at him- didn’t care if he had to blast the man in midair thrice just to kill him over and over and over again. He just needed to be there undisturbed.

He finally entered the maximum limit of Shiro- supposedly- but he could sense no trace of magic whatsoever. It was as if there was a sudden cut from the line of magic- an unsettling thought that echoed in his mind as he searches around the crater. He could feel cold sweat seeping in as he assessed the area—it was basically ripped- torn by the large merciless blades embedded on the ground. The tents around the field were burnt, supplies were ashes, the smell of burnt flesh lingered in the air-- everything was unrecognizable. Everyone too. He kept calling for her, running around the vicinity eyes scanning with panic and prayer.

“Kira!” Tsubaki calls again, his voice growing more desperate. There were still no signs of magic- not hers, not Shiro’s. He was getting cold chills, his knees growing weaker with each step he was taking around the ruins of the small camp, “Kira please…”

He couldn’t look down… couldn’t look at the mess of bodies in ashes and see whoever he feared to see. He just couldn’t. He won’t accept it- not even when there were tears threatening to spill from his eyes. Not even when his throat was in a knot, not even when his stomach was churning. His hands were shaking even when they were clenched in fists.

How foolish of him. How pathetic of him. The taunts grew louder in his mind, bringing his hands to his hair as he breaths heavily. He failed. He failed her. He failed everyone. His mind was threatening to break- scream- rage- he didn’t know but the frustration was there and it ate at him too much for his existence.

“Tsu-“

His head shot up, eyes wide, breath caught in his throat as he sharpened his hearing. He wasn’t on the brink of insanity- not just yet- and he knows he’s hearing it right. Her voice.

“KIRA!” He shouts at the top of his lungs, his voice wavering but strong.

And there it was, a sudden flicker of magic he was all too fond of. He whips around, sees a distortion of space- a rip in a barrier- and then a white glow. Shiro’s faint energy dissipates with it, returning to the Tsubaki’s vessel as the barricade breaks and reveals Kira and other people behind it. All the energy of life forms fill the clearing, overwhelming Tsubaki’s senses as he stares at them.

Kira’s look on him was relieved, and Tsubaki felt his heart tighten too much- It should be me who should be relieved damnit! And he sprints towards them, not caring at the tears falling from his eyes as he takes her into his arms, holding her tight and basking at the magic and warmth of the girl. Sobs wrecked his body, trembling even as she wrapped her arms around his back and rubbed soothing circles on it. Tsubaki’s knees gave up on him, dragging Kira down as they collapsed on the ground.

“I thought…” Tsubaki breaths against her shoulder, “I thought you’re gone… I thought—I really thought-“ He was a mess of blood, sweat and tears now, showing too much to her and to the people, “I was scared—it was… it was so…”

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry it made you feel that way… Just that… We thought he would keep launching attacks if he knew we were still alive…” Kira says, “It was a first time for me… masking life presence on a large scale… so I’m sorry about Shiro,” She tightens her hold on him, feeling his shaking die down a little.

“And I’m sorry…about your people…”

Tsubaki shakes his head, his hair trickling past her cheeks, which, much to her surprise, still remained soft despite the whole ordeal. The demon lord squeezes her tighter and with a muffled voice, “You did everything you could… You did it… and I’m- I’m so happy about that nonetheless…”

Kira nods against him, takes one final glance at the ruins that they have gotten themselves out of, and buries her face against his clothes once more, “And I’m glad… you’re safe too…”

That’s my line… Tsubaki almost chuckled. It was painful, but he was relieved beyond life and death to have her in his arms, telling him the words he should be telling her instead.

#servamp #FINAL SERVAMP QUEST #Satano #BOOM #baby is there too lol #Tsubaki #who is coming #Witchu and Satano #quiethist #reimei draws #reimei writes #my work #my art #angst #angst everywhere

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gywair · 5 years

Text

This week I saw a video on GB Studio from MortMort. It’s a program for making GameBoy games that work inside an emulator. I like to try out new tools just in general but this engine really inspired me. I spent all my nights this week making a short game about fish called ZUG. Play it here on itch.io.

What makes the engine so interesting is how it restricts you. The emulator can only render three colors (#017821, #86c06c, and #e0f8cf) and a fourth is used as a transparency layer (#65ff00). This meant creating a limited palette in Aseprite (and MS Paint) to create the sprites. Within that confine, each sprite could only be 16×16 pixels per frame. You could have up to 25 frames but always within the 16×16 square. This means making the most of each tile that you have.

Additionally, there were limits on how complicated the background could be. A neat thing the compiler does is translate the backgrounds into smaller chunks to conserve memory. However, this means that unless you are making good use of repeating tiles, you have to make everything as simple as you can.

Even the number of ‘Actors’ or objects placed in a scene had to be limited to nine per scene. In Zug, there are animated bubbles around the area. To get this effect, I had to make a single animation then repeat it in a line a number of times (three at most). Then I offset the animations between the frames (that 25 frame limit from earlier). This eventually made a neat bubble effect and kept me under the memory requirement.

Even the music was difficult because of the memory limitation. GB Studio can only process .MOD files for sound. These are four channel files that play the music while being emulated. This is amazing cause that means the sounds don’t have to be recorded (and take up more space) on the cartridge. It’s terrible because, like in Zug, it means there can be some distortion. I think there must be an issue with too many sounds in an active channel at the same time. This is one of the problems areas that I didn’t get smoothed out. The song is completely unrecognizable in game. It plays great in the engine but it builds and runs wrong.

A very neat feature of GB Studio is that the programming is contained in automated script blocks. For someone like me that wants to lead a class on making games, this is perfect. No matter the skill level, I could sit down with someone and walk them through an exercise and expect standard(-ish*) results. There is an expansive library of existing scripts. If/Else statements, scene changes, and animations are prepackaged. It also has a quest handler, a counting system, and a save/load feature. I got a little ways towards understanding this. At a certain point, I needed to move on though. I think they are still working on documenting and expanding these. I’ll circle back after some more updates.

*when a human is involved it can get iffy.

Beyond technical limitations, I had a lot of fun just making sprites. I’ve been messing with Unity 3D meshes, so it was nice to get back to basics. The sprite handling for GB Studio is really nice. There isn’t any guesswork in how the sheet will generate. This means that from an art standpoint, you can rapidly prototype animations without a lot of down time. In GameMaker, you have to edit the sprite, create an object, and place it in the scene before you can really know how it will work out. Then again, in GM you can also ad-hoc change the size of your sprite and aren’t limited to 16×16 so it’s a give and takes.

I came up with the fish theme cause I wanted a game that started with a ‘Z’. Zug was the first word that came to mind. While searching it online (to make sure it wasn’t anything nasty) it turned out that it was a real world. It’s an area in Switzerland and a word from fishing vocabulary (or at least says Google). I really liked the idea of an underwater theme. I know the creatures shown aren’t exactly Swiss in origin but they aren’t exactly zoologically accurate either.

Zug as a word has some connotations of pulling or being lead in a direction. It had to do with the right to pull in fishing nets. This gave me the idea for the core game thesis. It made me think about life, the influences we have, and the constant time is toward an end. It’s not perfect by any means but for a one week game, I think it’s not the worst concept for a thesis.

If I could do it again, I would use net imagery. Having patterns that slowly move in on you as you travel the game. I would probably make it where there are constant fishing nets around and you have to avoid them. Additionally, I would research a lot more about Lake Zug and make a proper effort of having area specific fish in the game.

Another pain point, when you compiles, the engine will tell you if something is wrong. However, what is wrong is not well documented. Usually, it either runs with game-breaking errors or it doesn’t at all. This means saving often and remembering what changes you made for easy backing up.

A super cool thing–you can build to a ROM file. That means, in theory, you could put this on a GameBoy cartridge and play it on the original hardware. I preferred the web format for ease of use/sharing but this is really fun.

In conclusion, I really like the possibilities that GB Studio offers. I got frustrated with it at one point and tried to recreate the game in GameMaker. It took way more time to get the coding to work as intended. I think with a few more updates, GBS will be a great engine. It is already an amazing adventure game making. For now, I’ll head back to Unity. That system has a lot more upfront learning but there were some things that it handles much easier (different file types and such).

Thanks for reading–here is the stuff I used to make Zug:

The Good Stuff by m0d Public Domain License https://modarchive.org/module.php?33325

MortMort

youtube

GB Studio: https://www.gbstudio.dev/

Documentation page: https://www.gbstudio.dev/docs/

My GB studio project: https://mortmort.itch.io/acgb

GB Studio Discord: https://discord.gg/CuFVqXk

Puns https://www.fishkeepingworld.com/fish-puns/

ZUG This week I saw a video on GB Studio from MortMort. It's a program for making GameBoy games that work inside an emulator.

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idk-mlb-is-reals-cute44 · 4 years

Text

Miraculous Secret Santa Gift Part 6

For @clockworkgalaxies

~••~

The castle was a ghost town.

Even worse were the fields.

It was midday, bright outside. The castle grounds would on a normal day be full of activity.

It was empty. And despite the cheery sunshine, it was terribly solemn.

They raced to the forest.

“Wait up!” Alya ran to join them. “I’m helping.”

Ladybug gave Alya a grateful smile.

They ran through the trees, trying to find the place they’d stumbled on while ingredient-hunting.

The crashed into the clearing, startling the king—or whom Marinette assumed was the king, although from the back he was unrecognizable in his purple suit.

He whirled around.

Yep—definitely the king.

“You’re too late!” he declared, laughing. “I even ran past you, you knew where I was going. But you had to save your friends. And now it’s too late.”

Something cracked and popped. There was screaming. A terrible, terrible smell.

Marinette. The voice was crying now. Don’t give up. Help. Help! Marinette.

Ladybug didn’t have any intention of giving up.

“Whats that?” Chat asked, “That sound?”

Gabriel, or rather, Hawkmoth, laughed and said, “See for yourself.”

He swept away the branches to reveal his wife, and—

Somehow he’d manage to clear the forest, a big chuck of it. A field larger that the whole castle lay behind his dead wife, a field large enough to hold hundreds of Mayura’s terrible monsters.

But instead, crowding the field, was something worse than the monster.

Thousands (upon thousands!) of the possessed civilians stood there, screaming, wailing. Their usually unbothered, emotionless faces were filled with anguish.

“I call them my akumas,” King Gabriel said, twisted glee evident in his tone, “They’re helping me.”

Ladybug felt tears well up in her eyes. There were so many more people there than had been in the room. Scanning their faces, she gasped upon finding the familiar faces of all of her friends, every guard, almost all the nobles she’d seen at the dining table.

It seemed not all of them had gotten away when they ran.

There were also people from the village. Merchants, bakers, the blacksmith.

Her parents.

“What are you doing to them?!” she demanded, fighting back sobs.

She would not give the king the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

He laughed. But didn’t answer.

Ladybug turned on him, eyes blazing.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO THEM?!” she roared.

Hawkmoth’s cocky smile disappeared, but only for a second.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he asked.

She punched him right in the jaw.

He staggered back, eyes darkening.

“You’ll pay for that.”

Alya found her knives, one for each hand. Chat showed his claws. Luka started chanting something about eagles.

Hawkmoth got out his staff.

Bright purple energy crackled around his form.

Ladybug readied her yo-yo.

Hawkmoth aimed a swing at her, which she blocked with her forearm—barely.

And it hurt—the purple light shocked her like static.

“Nobody hurts my best friend!” Alya yelled, getting in close with her knives. She managed to get a good slash on his thigh, before he knocked her back.

Chat pulled out a staff of his own Ladybug hadn’t noticed—probably because it was extendable.

He blocked two blows and managed to hit the man in the shoulder, but it was barely a bump. It soon became readily obvious that Hawkmoth had been using a staff for quite a few years longer than Chat.

Ladybug circled around to his back, thinking. There were four of them and one of him—they should be winning.

Alya got back up, and launched herself at him with her knives while his staff was occupied with Chat.

Ladybug tried to tangle him up in her yo-yo. Then she gave up and hit him in the back of the knees.

(Luka was still there in the background, chanting.)

But no matter what they did, it was like they were toddlers kicking at a giant’s leg. He brushed off all their attacks with ease, parried their blows. It was like his super suit was stronger than theirs somehow.

Then Ladybug gasped.

The purple energy surrounding him.

It was the same energy filling the field—surrounding the people.

He was sapping power off of them, somehow. And probably using it for far more dangerous things as well. Otherwise, why would his wife—

Ladybug gasped.

The pieces clicked into place.

“This isn’t going to bring your wife back!” she yelled, although the pit of dread in her stomache showed that she wasn’t so sure.

That was a lot of people. A lot of people, being drained, being... who knows what.

Would it take that many to wake just one person up from the dead? Would he... kill them?

Ladybug shoved the terrible thought, and the rising panic, out of her head.

She had a fight to win.

The first step was to figure out how to get him away from his power source, make him beatable again.

Alya and Chat were tiring. But they had it handled for now. Marinette studied him.

“The pin!” she yelled, lunging for it, “His miraculous must be the pin!”

Hawkmoth sidestepped her, and for the first time worry showed on his face.

She must’ve guessed right.

“It’s no use!” he called, “As long as they’re near my Queen, she will continue to drain them. The process is already in motion! Taking me out of action won’t stop anything.”

Ladybug faltered. There was no way they could free all of those people in time. By the time they’d freed enough akumas to even make a small dent, who knows what Hawkmoth would have accomplished—he might finish long before then.

So she lunged for the pin again and hoped he was bluffing about it working even when he was detransformed. It was their only chance.

Alya and Chat helped her, tripping him up and snatching for the pin, slashing and kicking and hitting. But he was still untouchable—always one step ahead. Always on balance.

“What do we do?” Ladybug cried.

No one answered her. No one else knew either.

Hawkmoth began to not just evade, but thrive.

He knocked Alya a foot away, and sent Chat flying. He cornered Ladybug, backing her into a tree, his staff allowing no means of escape. He even hit her yo-yo down.

“How does it feel,” he asked, “To have failed so thoroughly? I wouldn’t know. I have the rest of the kingdom to rule. I have an heir. And soon, in exchange for all these inconsequential lives, I will have my queen back too.”

Ladybug looked defeated. She let him corner her. She looked like some one who had lost everything and knew it.

Key word: looked.

As soon as he was close enough, as soon as his guard was down, she lunged for his tie and ripped the pin off, grinning.

As Hawkmoth detransformed to King Gabriel right before her eyes, he laughed.

Laughed.

“I wasn’t lying, you know.” And the tortured screams continued.

Ladybug ran to the clearing’s edge. They were still there, encased in purple light, writhing in pain.

Now, the key word was no longer looked.

The tears fell this time. The only person she hadn’t wanted to see her cry was cackling behind her like a madman.

All those people. This was supposed to be her destiny and she failed them.

She fell to her knees. Chat and Alya did too, besides her.

“W-what’s the plan?” Alya asked besides her.

“The... there... there is no plan,” she chocked out.

What could they do?

What could they do to stop this?

...Now readers.

All hope is not lost.

While Ladybug, Chat, and Alya were staring desolately at the clearing, no clear next step before them, something else was happening in the background.

You may be thinking, “What about Luka?”

What about Luka indeed.

Whoosh. Whoosh.

Ladybug looked up, and thought her tears were making things look blurry and distorted. She was wrong.

Sixteen giant (giant!) eagles flew in circles above them, summoned by Luka’s spell.

Luka joined them, and smiled, no longer chanting.

Ladybug looked at him, and then at the eagles, and knew exactly what he was thinking.

Going around and breaking every akuma’s object would take ages. Time they couldn’t afford to loose.

But the king had said as long as the people were near his wife she would drain their energy.

And those eagles had claws that could carry at least two people each, and backs that could fit double that.

And there were sixteen of them.

Maybe, just maybe, they could do this.

Marinette nodded at Luka. He nodded back.

“Lucky charm!” she called, because she couldn’t whistle, and a flute landed in her hands.

Close enough.

She let out a shrill, piercing note, trusting (hoping) the eagles would know what to do. They did.

Swooping down, they landed as Chat, Alya, Ladybug, and Luka rushes from eagle to eagle, loading them up with as many people as they could carry.

By the time they were finished, the first of the eagles were coming back, ready to bring more people to safety.

It took two hours in totality.

Long enough that at the end Ladybug was a little panicked, hoping they hadn’t run out if time for the last of the akumas.

Short enough that it worked. Everyone got out. Everyone was safe.

“Are you ok?” Luka asked Adrien, staring at his mother’s casket.

“I will be,” Adrien said. And Ladybug believed him, again. Even though they were all crying a little, all a little messed up.

As they watched the last eagle fly away, off off into the distance, Ladybug dropped her transformation.

She grabbed Luka and kissed him, and did the same to Adrien.

Then she left her two boys to lock lips as she ran to Alya and tackled her with a hug.

“What a day,” Alya said, somehow managing to laugh, “We battles a monster and a super villain. Plus you got the boy...s! And they got each other!”

Marinette looked fondly towards them.

“Yeah. Yes we did.”

“I think the most challenging part of the day, though,” Alya joked, “Was meeting Chloe.”

Marinette laughed, and hugged Alya again.

What. A. Day.

“Thank got it’s over.”

Then she gasped.

The pin.

They searched everywhere. It was missing. So was Gabriel—he’d slipped off in all the commotion.

And no matter how hard they looked, they found no trace of him.

~••~

Marinette held one of Adrien’s hands, and Luka held the other.

It was raining. Appropriately.

Queen Emilie’s funeral was beautiful. And heartbreaking.

Everyone was crying. Adrien was most of all.

But he had Luka and Marinette there to steady him. He was going to be just fine.

When Chat Noir and Ladybug had gone to escort all the people home, they found no one had any memory of anything—the time past. The pain. Thank goodness.

They had filled them in on everything. Marinette was proud of them—their voices had only cracked a few times.

Transporting such a large crowd back to their homes had been an ordeal—mostly because they had to pass Emilie’s casket to get back.

No one was repossessed, though. It seemed once the link was broken, it was broken for good.

It hadn’t taken too long for things to go back to normal.

Or, normal enough.

Ladybug had been honest. She wanted her family and friends to be prepared. She told everyone—everyone—that Hawkmoth has gotten away. He wouldn’t catch them by suprise again.

And even though Ladybug felt a little bit like she had failed, the crowd had cheered for them.

Luka and Alya has chosen not to stick around, being as that they didn’t have a magic costume to make them unrecognizable.

They had met up back at the castle.

They had a lot of planning to do.

(But first, they napped.)

Marinette gave Alya a small smile from across the yard, in the rain.

Alya and Adrien had broken off their engagement, citing “stress and grief” as their reasoning. The truth was Adrien didn’t need a full time guard anymore—just an ally from a little bit more distance. Alya and Marinette were welcomed back into the kitchen. Although, ever since they had returned the kitchen saw an increase in visits from princes and wizards.

Marinette wrapped an arm around Adrien, fishing a mostly dry handkerchief from her pocket.

“Here,” she said. He took it and thanked her, his gaze never moving from his mother’s face.

Soon the ceremony was over. The guests shuffled back into the castle, dripping rainwater and tears onto the polished marble floors.

“Let’s go to your room,” Alya whispered, and Adrien shook his head.

“Too many pictures,” he said. Of her. “I don’t think I can deal with that today.”

“My room, then.” Luka said.

Luka’s room (not his lab, that is—he didn’t sleep in his lab) had a rarely used second room for entertaining guests.

They all collapsed on the coaches, shedding soggy overcoats.

Adrien sighed and smiled for the first time that evening.

Marinette smiled back and squeezed his hand.

They were going to be okay. They could deal with Gabriel, whenever he showed up. They had done it before. And Master Fu was already working on finding more miraculous wielders to aid them when the time came.

(Alya and Luka had even received their own miraculouses—Luka had been a suprise. He hadn’t heard the voices that first night in the dungeons. Master Fu said he hadn’t been ready for his destiny then. But he was now.)

And as Marinette looked at all of we friends, all a little sniffly and probably about to catch a cold from the rain, she knew they would have each other. And that would always be enough for her.

They could do this.

Her friends, after all, we’re truly miraculous. (Pun definitely intended.)

The end.

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